attach_debugger print_status freeze_forever quit save_and_quit ======================================== SAMPLE 1 ======================================== both sinning, As the night-wind, it is twilight And the blue smoke is ascending; All the loveliest flowers are blooming And the leaves are cooking In the dying embers. With an art absent but imaged in all: A kiss that is pressed upon the lips: The shade of an hour, the brightness of days Of the seasons that are in smiling: O do not speak of the loveliness of these: Of the pleasure of these; For the memory has a wing That shall break it, And a voice That shall not heed: For we were wise in all things in idle age; But our wisdom was wisdom in useless things. If the sea has kisses on the mouth Like a flower, If a song be sweeter than music, If a wave flow closer to the shore; If a bird on a wing Drinks of the ocean and flies away; If the wave hath kisses on the lips, And the sky flows closer to the shore; You have wisdom. If the breeze flow closer to the feet, Like a hand, If it swim in the air like a swan Or a pen If the moon like a bird or a swan rise In the air The light of her speaking; The stream. You will find in the flow's wave a flower Clustered, When you bend the flowers over for searching Beneath the water. You will find buds in the lull that is made When the flow gives a place to the water's gentle tide: The flower of a bird or a stream; When you bend down the flowers to find them; When the sun's wave shall give a place To the light. Harp and drum, Men and drums, Delve to the core of your souls' torment, You are wise; When the world has lost its heart In a cage of golden wire, You will leave it again Thousand-fold O the flame, Great is your power: Wind that over all Sweeps with apexes Where the four rivers of the cardinal Color the heart of your maker, You are strong: To the Emerald city Beautiful, Stoop and knee In your light, You have given birth; You have clothed with sinning Monarchs and eye-bright emperors; You have built in palaces Holy shrines, where stand Emperors for life in their high allegiance. Yet, there is One who waneth for you, Her sweet Love that blindeth your heart, Called to the hilt; Where the light is clearer, She is far better; At your bidding, She will heed All the singing birds; Harden her golden hair; Strew nobler eyes; And her lips, O hush them, Softly as they are now, But, at your word, Over the amber light Of the lily that she is, In the purple aureole Incoming her rose; And the brown, lucid, plainess eye Of her who is watching Will be made blind, In a moment, like a flower. You, into all kinds of waysiding inns Depart for aye: You that are winds In a windy world, O come, you are needed here; For the moon is set; And away she must move with leaving To the shadow of Ev'n. Then I shall trill and eerier men; The chime of a silver bell I shall deafen, And a straw-ioiner man are you Like the broad-horned bumblebee; I, to be christened holy, I shall be baptised: The tree is bound by a Grain of christened. Of you, my fair, how many may say They have seen one of you smile? Till my heart's eye spots you all With a cloud of regret. Till I an empty cup bring out me A thin smiling face. And then I shall touch you with silk; Till your dear eyes swim and wring; And I pass with touching vows; I, the fellow Who turns away with a groan, And a word of Love to let Me to come and to stay. I have seen her go by, and then A golden statue come To where her bowed hair Was rouged with the falling dew; I have seen her go by, And then a rosy gleam, And a long cloak slid out to hold ======================================== SAMPLE 2 ======================================== And you have got the honey, If you are frugal And you will pay in advance. I got the horse once for a time And now you'll have the saddle. And in your dreams your hands Are greedy for the fruit; But you wake with palms that are full For lies you did not mean to eat. You are too smug and too wise To take such lowly pay. Ah! whither do they go Who all their wishes stake? The longings, the wants, the dreams That not a woman can fulfill? I have been the woman's playmate And they have thought me the best. I have been by their side And of their hand I've taken The band they did not break. The man they praised as red-hot iron Has molten like a sponge on my finger. I have left them better than ever. A good woman is content to have her strength shaken If once her wants are whetted. A bad woman is not one to have her desire stoked If once her greed is whetted. I have broken their table when they insisted on a feast. I have kept them from their dreams. I have kept them from the gods. I have stood by their side and left them at my door. I have had my lunch. Now, without whining or wailing, Go live with the Spartans or die Fighting for the cause of Greece. If you refuse my challenge, From my hands this wax, And when you're dead, ask me for the same. <|endoftext|> "Vagabond", by G. E. Murray [Religion, Faith & Doubt] A foreigner in Rome must suffer: Immortal he attends the shrine, And waits in Siena's street Where all the curious listen to fate: Doors which may open and doors Which gods, or gods inauspicious, Or Fate the undying, bind: Must take what is at hand, For that strange buffer 'tis here Gendering all our cries and breaths To a magic 'I,' Making when 'tis thought The rich to pore on goods like spoiled meat, And to feel the garment rob them of their goods, Worn, toggled over like a gyley at the zenith: (How birds and creatures stray, Touched with the sway of doomed days, From out their suffering to a sky they knew). All this must pass to and fro. 'Say 'tis flesh 'tis soul 'tis eye Taken up in each emotion, With all the life to feed 'em If only thought can fill the blast. Immortal in Rome, but woe! Strange judgment! sicken 'em: Hear how 'tis judged: My fountain, ever free, And waned all my fountain-springs, My mountains done, my springs unfed, Immortal for this thing: That I love, my love unlove: Tongue, soul, love, no love less. So when by death I'm left I will the world's strong bars undo: Withdraw my being from the world, My pain and sighs be stilled: Vacant my heart, and move it now To the dead's weakness, And in the land of hope, (And that's if I live yet) Play a love-day like a bird. And if it will not, as I will, Turn twice my fate to laughter, Let me die as I have lived: I am love's opposite: Great years to care for have I had; And I have met my fellow-swains: And they that laugh have set my heart On squeezing through the circle-knot. 'Neath my head, On my breast, And upon my hairs, And round about my door-posts, To look on all my loathsome street: Now for a painless death come. There will I go, Where there is no return: Unto my grave At dead vicons: Lo in my navel, lo, Where I was borne, lo, My very birth-pangs will hear me, And turn their thrones To shuddering over me. Blood of all my blood, Red that from my heel I suck, Dust for my shoes from where I ploughed it in my father's yard, So a path for young ofyeal To tread: for I was strong There of yeen, for day was mine, I bent the sod. Where, lo, ======================================== SAMPLE 3 ======================================== Channel, or said, And by my grace The purest of them with arouse To euery place, For Christes sake Heuis en spent That nowe moe. Pardon, sirs, that I afaik, How my glaur Hath gried My thoughts to saide Of thee and thys Calyffe Whoe beares that name For vertues meke And to vnderstond I rede my right reued But thay standen stille For thy remembraunce Of my harmles chere Vnto many yere Thy name in here saving That thou wast chang'd Thy sone. Go with my lecheryne To thy shyp heere To pray for me In bokes and olde bokes For thy soules ease And be my leve To helpe the trickling Of thy pryuete And if I be not well How thou helpest me In speech, and penke To writ or tefnify Thou helpest my matiere And be my shep'le For eu or elles lette What thy Godwys nowke To helpe my destruccion For thy self ransom Let be thy brother And help my destruccion For thy self sake. To day haue it be youde And if thou fiften shode And genty in is lost Tell me and genty forth somwhat. For one of hels ye see May of your hels haue purveyed Vnto you of grace So as ye faue to be vou': And he need na say lore But what is betide: And that will for no ev'n Be said by one or twiche. One hapl the other beares, Twa here of Armes haue vauntis, O daucht, twa, I trow, For my man is yong a partner. Ye need na speak kittle, For 'twas on your engagement To speak for both of you together. Now when my prating power is o'er, As I am puir and eagell baillie, Ye shall tak a Iai-bitteroll, The worst o't, I touther Garlick, How I make sport of 'em all to spire, In mickle wonder Hall. The cock can run but i' this hut, The plowhounds and e'ening crow, Hain't not in a hutch and gain's To hayail the e'ening day. Now when the licht's a-dreaming O'er some ither treasure, When sae durst a hand appear Wi'say ill; It wad you fink I owned a laird For hinnies auld and dazed, Wha gets o' them a drollery Now when the licht's a-go betyn, As daydy mead and holly hag, To playn their blythe and playn new, And in they will be sober, And studyfu' God's blis. And what'e haply God meant To you I wad anaw thinner, To you nae mair a stranger, Ye may na come o'er our shaw. And when they're sic a' Aslapian whist ma-irks Or as I've noticed in an' a' Sae lang they don't try na make 'em Sic ficken thing, Because they're goin' To God above to plough. Here's whilk I've heard, an' here's whilk I know, An' now here's whilk I reckon's true an' well; Them native sums, I can not lie. What grow now in my shaw, An' only whilk I lay mine? Ye come o' a breath? Ye're like some mayflower that bloom'd lang's cold, An' has succeeded, I fout; A' westlin wind in your skaw, A' been fair, a' come ower fine. Ye don't approve? Ye're like a bosh maiden that's try'd to sing, Aye ilka day, an' sicpar case; A dud in looks, might i' the sun A dash o' drink makes me look hifty; Ye're sic a fart! ======================================== SAMPLE 4 ======================================== Since thou art immortal, go, Still to haunt the dancing groves. Thou, my baby, from the sun Sleep in the breast of Mother Earth; Sleep, while the shadow of the day Hungeth very dark around thy bed! I heard the lark, With his sweet swoop, The hopes of spring, Sing from underneath The roses' mossy mounts, And above the golden beech, In towns and villages I heard the thrushes' call, And many an echo answer I saw the new-blown Dandorians of light, In all their final flight, Pass overhead, Farther, farther, farther, Adown the foaming whirlpool, Dappling the trees with rings, Till they died upon the marge With fog-veils, or, less, With fog-rays, or, perhaps, I saw the Aurora, Whitening the rifted air From stem to stem; I saw the white phocas Stooping to kiss The dark sprays of wood and stream, And stent each with its omen Of beauty and of birth, I heard the robin, From over the sea, In the green of every bower, Hearkening to each nest With its clear note Of happiness, So lonely came spring To my lonely heart. I saw the eastern window, A thousand miles away, Waving flutes of gold, Tremendous hands of Pandora, Like a fabled fire Whose high reeked the black marshes, And floods of evening foamed To gristly soil And sharpen red the pine. I saw the ten-fold driver, A thousand horsemen, In a yellow field, And their coursers pant Like Egyptian herds, And the light wind Made brown the waving grain, And the deep corn-husk Greedily rusted, As in the Mississippi plain, Where oxen drawn by magic Weet it greedily, Weet it all to tin, Winds cruel, winds heedful, And of all my life a-slake Sucked ever watery food. I saw the southern magnolia, All green, in smoky white, With wind-blown, crawfink, leaves, That grew from dank black roots, And their tops like little fudge, (For it was an old galaskton) All blown about the brackets Where the green pajamas were; And, rippling in the clove huts, I saw the tops of country inns, Where city dames, like richly browned ants, Stood, with white legs off the tall stonebuggs, That were stoutly cemented, And on pillars and tabled porches, I saw the country ladies, All country seats, all country seats, In country dressing, country seats, Country shining, country shining through I saw the geranium, musk, and lily And golden streamer, and the lily red, And bedrichel daffodil; And the purplish pansy Against a sunny southern border, All with cables of red To rebel with the scarlet throat Of a wide hinged front door; I saw the tortoises and the long-legged mice, And the tall knuckle for food, In the deep dark earth, at the soon-low light, Where the blind smoke curled; And he saw the horns of cocoa That made our darkies think well The hardy indigo blue; And the nasturtiere coiled in the snow, That no man could genomeger show, Till the northern lights grew dim, And he saw the blooming sex of the earth Breathing its love like a black fire, The barn owl hitching his ride, In the rent-time of the second decade; I shall see the pine and the fruitful vine, And the two-winged bird in the thicket, And the young sapient corn for to busk In spring with the green sprout, All nature, be-dried, in a Railway train, Under the deep paying seat Where the rain may be falling, When the steam-heater bellow the dirty weather, And the snow is on the bare track, And the fugitive guard and the hobble head, And the bare skin on the dim pants and knees, All are unsafe below the shingled skylight. A yellow traveler was ======================================== SAMPLE 5 ======================================== "The legatees were shutt, (say they,) to give, "Of their woeful care, and meet the fate. "Let loose were words, and let the mind proclaim "How stark they had grown, or let the speaker tear "The veil, and tell what hearts they were so wise." The sound's refrains were then begun; these in part: --"The Duke, to them in part, had given his blessing, "Which the same had made him glad or saddened. "He, too, had seen that day the future proof "Of the bold march, and imagined well "The years that should ensue; all these things in mind: "But chiefly that enterprise the Dean "Had by long discourses at the university made "To restless Absalom prepared, "The disturbers of all quiet were to watch. "There wait, it is certain, that tireless worm, "Who was the wit of mortal womenget, "Must learn, all others, that their days are not "Days of eternal bliss, but only such "As journeying in stupor on their way "To endless torment, vexation, and distress. "As all things momentous to man's welfare "Must be taken in council, be it said, "No account shall be given them;--even God, "But He most centreth all, earth, water, and sky, "When these exulting accord with His great purposes. "The whole deep-shadowed scheme of creation "If one moment's thought is applied "Uninterrupted in its ordering, "T' extend vast Republic to whose macro- thesis "The geography, or the other "Unlimited bases extend, "Ternation and weight o'er-rate "All must be darkened down to flat-out confusion, "Which to one sole devil of deep jealousy "Such blind-witted coining gives a possibility. "Whether he's not in heaven, or earth, or hell, "This depends on your type of body. "And, thus, a miracle it is "That, all his life, from youth to now, "Even when he made a vow for it, "He never had found that plane "Where, made by the act of identical math "Necessitie, Heaven, "Where body's lost, and out of it is witched "Body after body, and yet no metamorphis "One precise type of eternal hitch, "From which into body will be turned "All-eternal sacrifice, "That turns its loved body in again. "This 'I, or (if of equal rank) "I am'--form is all one gift of flesh, "One nature 'I am' gives to it more gifts; "Himself its highest--a sound of 'I,' "Its pure echo of 'I am,' "As many an echo of 'I am' "I multiplies and absorbs. "We never hear in music till its echo 'I,' "Nor praise in poetry till its 'I,' "And even then, in too o'ercrowded libraries, "Its first echo of 'I,' "My friend, is drowned and drowned. "But, listen. 'The single I'--oh, hear it, "How, with all else forgetting, "It talks into memory--into song, "A man--God bless the man who first gave us "The ample prism of verse. "If they are all so one, "So various, varied, "As these parts, if not character, "The poem must be many "And equal--no extremities "Allow for increasing rules "That verse may say 'I.' "Or take, the active and unsure "Where words are new, where words are old; "Again I am a boy, "Again I skip, or charmed seek delight, "I love the same thing; the boy "Who did but I do the same; I love "He who love and I love that boy: "We are not broken. "Pardon, I mean these things be "Of their own self; these little pleasures; "And the same heart beat, as 'tis when "Or the first, last, or mutual lance "That made an everlasting passage "Betwixt our two souls; that sacred fire, "So far as memory can, and as"-- "And this I mean, my friend, as if "It were of love's old league, "When I ======================================== SAMPLE 6 ======================================== it's not our imagination, we're here, all of us, to the brand new Little Golden Eye. You know you can tell her story. Her story is ours. The building is old enough to remember. There was a time it held a name for all our sartorial pride. These days it's a pile of mouldy pears. I guess it will always be a hulk. <|endoftext|> "Yardie (attics)", by Brenda Isana [Living, Life Choices, The Body, The Mind, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Arts & Sciences, Architecture & Design, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, History & Politics] NARA STATENIX ARCHITECTURAL HERITAGE PROGRAM, 1968 1. unbeliefs, reputations, morphing between mind and body, memory and imagined recreation, the mind of someone and the mind of a construct, as design vs. deconstruction battle in space, 2. seas, wind, air moving over bathy underground, hum vs. psi, experimenting with bodies, sickness, health, morality, personal history, the mind vs. thought, the body's terrain of WRONG and RIGHT, empirical vs. transcendental, the mind's vs. another mind, 3. This is the age of the individualist, of the individual and the collective, of the over-simple-stats-churning clusters of organisms, the teeming orb of the hive, entirely vs. purpose, morality, art, systems, capitalism, government, innom-enounced vs. post-immemic, atoms-at-a-time, the mind vs. the mind of the body, for the individual vs. the collective, vs. fragments of the state, nation-state, world-state, flak, drop, digest, jockey, vs. the complex matter of sex, vs. the human figure on the market, the size of figures in front of and behind, vs. the human figure on the rug, the size of figures in front of and behind, fragments of the collective, reprojections of the universal, matter vs. theories, the human vs. the mind of the human, the mind vs. the body, this is the age of the individualist, this the age of the messian, this the age of the messiah, of the ego, for the ego's turn, of a new Adam and of a new Jehovah, of a new Gethsemane, of the simple fact of matter, for the age of science, the age of the whip, the whip of Goliath, of the gehenna-like edicts, 4. Architectonic, archtical, voguish, ornamental, formal, the white rose, the world, one world, one wound, the world, one life, one death, the world, one love, one memory, one image, the age of apparition, the shadow's lifespan of time, death's lifespan of time, the world, the figure, the figure of the world, of the individual, the shadow's figure of the world, of the shadow's life, 5. an xalpah, from the collection of the Ateret Zion Cultural Institute, Birmingham, Alabama from the collection of the Rev. Evan O. Laer, 1838 He was found among the wreckage at the foot of the temple on suspicion of raving. The victims were about to embark for Egypt, and the body was laid out on the sand with both feet, as though embracing the sea, as the creature said, to cool itself. i. How many exist of me, for as long as there have been humans. The earliest humans saw their alps like jewels for the find, for the face of their ancestor may have been a hint about how his face would look when aged greatly. They were excavated and allowed to go to a new country. The arxiv: 45002 VIEW And this is the age of the body. And my hands, and my arms, the feet and legs and the head, the eyes, the face, the mouth, the hair, ======================================== SAMPLE 7 ======================================== Change the world with Beauty. Love is no dream, Love is never lost, Nor can die by hate, Nor can grow old with Torment of men: Love still is beauty, Merry voice, fair foot, And heart of every thing. He did but kiss me with his lips of honey To show that I should never trust him, That he was nothing but a liar, But just to cover me with, Kissing me with the honey of his lips, To hide the poison of his treacherous tongue. This is the night of the winter here, When the moon is as it can be, When the stars are so many and bright That you cannot name them, And the light in the heart is cold and bright As the thorn in the heart of the grass. When I see his moon and stars above, I think of the flowers he put At the cost of his all busy life, When he went the hero on; And the words of truth are ice and fire, As I kiss with the lips of this heart. Where you are all my days As I kiss the cords of life, That hold you so so fast To my slow breast, As a glad mother kisses The teeth of her child; Where you wear the livery of his name, Your life that is as purple blood Poured from a vein of red veins. While the white power of the moon Stirs the life of the stars In the veins of this heart Where I live, There are no so safe As the words of truth That I sing above; While the night enwraps you There is no rain so sweet As the rain that sings As it pours, As it falls, That song and that song; While the flowers grow and smell As they are torn and lies We all have tales to tell, And therefore have chants to read-- And mingle craft and music In a strife that's right, And thus knit life and limb Into the harmony By a law that's divine. He made the man, and he split the friend-- The bride and the ground; He wore the thing he worthily The thing he named. He set the cobweb on the man's seat, And broke the will; He ended him with sword in'd The friend he named. The lover's tale Was cut and hid; The sinner's name Was sign'd and hid; And she and he Whirled in the wind As they had. We wait and wait for what is yet To come, and long for now. We wait till death is done, And then we cry. Dear lord, we wait for you, As like you, with pipes We sit and wait. There's nothing that we note-- As you, as perfect-- That puts a thought in. Like the birds that turn and round On every finger's touch, Or the little shaft Of a star, So you pass, or transit, On your smart. We wait, and we do not hurry As you pass by; We follow, but we do not run As you fly by. We wait, and thus listen; While you pass, we say, 'How?' 'How?' is not answer; 'How?' Is not an answer to anything. Ah, no! If it be, 'How?' Is not a question. If 'How?' be an answer, 'How?' Is a threat; 'How?' is a fire To be zapud. Life is a menace, life a sound; And if 'How?' is a menace, Oh, good! 'How?' is not a name; 'How?' is not a thing; And though 'How?' and 'Why?' Are not a menace, Life is a word! If a man be hungry, and he see a donkey, And he gets into the donkey, and sit and stand In a crowd by the donkey's-- If he get into the donkey, and sit by the donkey, Then I swear by the donkey! In the Middle Ages, in the Kingdom of God, When Lucifer, the son of Elizabeth, The child of ae Who brought God's book in, Was a dancing-master, and the prince of the dead, And the first of all living masters of devil-making-- The dark Sovereign Moloch, Disloyal pupil of Witchcraft in the East, From whom all mischiefs and all abuses are, Hid ======================================== SAMPLE 8 ======================================== hear, as it, 'tis long past, and long ere You to the sun descended, which of late Found you asleep, for it sunned you up to-day. "O Hippocrates! I was not conscious of all Up to this time, the night and day, so torturing, Down to the present crisis, which has pass'd me, As I am now aware, by so much suffering. How poorly and silently we mark, In little time, what this or that befell us! And, when we are aware of it, lie Dead to its depth, and seemly to confess We should have sat rather still in seat and shade. "The fathers, I imagine, were well enough; But you, by all the moral volumes which I Played upon this one period, from that time You have bereft me of all repose. Your speeches have been such as might have fit The son of works a welcome home to visit; But this home would have disarranged; and thrown My spirits down with such a weight to return. "Yet, happy he who can upon a home spend Long and contented a season there, such's The delight I have at best to think We have survived, in that time our affection. Did I esteem you then as more than a friend?--now Not so well, my friend, as ever. Your fame, Being gone, will live in those who hear me speak Of your name and of your renown; but I Will have to die or languy again, before My shot or potion hear me speaking both by fire, Or by default of gain--but heaven arrês Just like a carriage, which holds the eye fix'd Through every place where food is to be found, And not in fanciful designs." With beatitude I felt myself sorrowful, and press'd in his fold Still to relate his words, as standing at his side While he did speak. When neither eye nor heart was left Parted by fear, I felt as one who then were left In a desert to dig a life from the sand, While a kind patron to a spectator of the game Pronou'd spotters, or precise figures of the sun. Meanwhile the gentle Queen, bathed and anointed, With whom his son had been sitting, had risen; And when he saw me, laughing, come into the room We chang'd our jest; and this was the verdict recorded 'Newland's treachery was good instinct,' which in time Will be judged monstrous. What I heard next day I have transmit'd to England, with this end Viewing, that hence a confidence was born, Not only to my nephew, but to his queen, As being the offspring of my friendship for his husband. "To the stroke of my harper we had bow'd But half his heart; and that was true," said he, "Losing yet further, to my power of thought And virtue; but still I was his favourite child By Nature, and we have borne them with her." "'Sooth, if thou survive thy jealousy, 'Twill be my death, perchance, of that proud lord. 'Tis far better thus to fall than die To be by thy contempt almost soulless And to thy friends by necessity Justly pitied: and who knows but a sinner Called Sinful may rise at some future day And take thy spirit to his, and be so deemed, That thou thought'st nothing of his guilt? To prove How much I love thee, know, I loved thee Erewhile so well, we two once great with God, Loving, not unlike: how can I, fallen Like him, to live thee even in love awhile? Was not his wife's offence all we owed? And can God's eager love to tend in the lazy fold Distinctly perceive not between one child And his own? And canst thou, with outward smile, On Death's account, content to house a lamb, When we, our partaking wall. . . "How far can piety go? How wide can love, When friends with walls of walls commence, Enclosed by gates, 'mid sinister shade, Murder'd huts for sinners? To what more cruel state Do we revert (stiff prayer for mild merit shown, To sink flat-footed captives at his hands) Can such a love make clean souls see such a gate? We know not, we who drive pious folk on, As though by gods, to feed their souls with meat. By ======================================== SAMPLE 9 ======================================== Sweet Thoughts, I speak, To be thy hymns, The music of thy soul, Forth filling all the world! Thou, only thou, Canst grant to me Life's all highest good, Whose measure still Is at all times my own, My finest feeling-wondrous share! Oh, I could sing for ever! The treasure of thy grace Shall be my sanctuary-sacrament! My mount-high shrine! Where the sight most dear The heart and soul meet, And the breath of truth around A rite of sanctitude! For mine the high adoration! My God, my profane! I've had my fruitless prayers! Oh, blessed God! If in the cup Of thine affection Mine are mixed So in the drinking!-- How can I forget Thy holy name-- Thine own most gracious name? Not without dread I take this path, I've but a spark; And haply I may fear, That thou wouldst stop me suddenly, O Thou, most gracious Lord! The courage to yield The greeting to a friend, It may be withdrawn in this way. Yet still I speak to Thee, To tell my joy and my salvation. This empty, yearning hand, With its burning tattoo, Is loosed for a space From the stiff cross that sheltered it, On the very wing of the grave-- Not for a veil, But for the veil of the sky. From out the flower-shadowed trees A moon, from out the dew, Slides thro' the dark at my feet: I look for the star in the sky, But the shadow of the moon Is taken up by the trees. When I am worn out by this strife, When I'm weary of the beat Of the soul's engine, that doth break On all the barriers of space, And the infinite space of time, And the obstinate heart of my soul Goes breaking on all sides, Then, then, I'll go to the hills, Where there's snow, and ice, and love, And the hills are covered with light, And the hills are covered with laughter; Where I can toss up to God, With no strain, no effort, no matter how Necessity compels me-- With a blessing said so oft By so sweet a source, Who may believe the old charm by other? I'll go to the hills, I'll go to the hills. The desert with new fire Burns in my soul again, And the old fire from youth and east to west Swells in me again: The flame I felt growing up to be A swift burning wing, A sword, a cloud of darkness, a rage Of wings and of tears and of all water Turning into storm. I will go to the desert, I will go to the hills, I will go far beyond the heights Where the promise was uttered of silver and fire; Where the camp of the clouds went homeward, and went After a silent rhyme of snow and sand: Where a cloud went his sojourn In the bright place at the end of the sky, And a smile was unwraced above the clouds. I will go to the desert, I will go to the hills, I will go far beyond the marches Where I heard the desert its silence And the deep snow of rivers Fill with life and light; Where the breath of life was more powerful Than the silence and the snow, Where the silent water from the distant lakes Turns water and stone; Where the sun went shining down To the lake, and the sky was stained, And the lake is smiled at by the fall Of clouds and hoar. I will go to the desert, I will go to the hills, I will go far beyond the lakes, Where I was a boy, and I fed on dreams, With a mouth like a open flower And a face like a perfect pure lie; Where I was blind with the light of the sun From the long noon, so like the east was I, And my foot was a sapling of light, And the winter was more terrible Than the summer there. I will go to the desert, I will go to the hills, I will go past the lakes where the silence Caught them like a flame, And the snow from a hidden finger, And the clouds, like a bright ball thrown down By a magician's wand, And the countless light ======================================== SAMPLE 10 ======================================== Was the sea's self an atom. A water-maiden was she, Leaving behind her a thirst as impeleth All the vast washing of spheres and suns In silent lessons, as deep as wells of Nile, Where in one instant everything is fed And spilt again. This death, it is all a dream. Not because it has been endured, Is weary and inert, But because, it is a dream, The dream of a solitary thing Born and nurtured in a night. To me, it seems, one death is real, Real and singular. The atom is a moment's stroll Through a world of motion, And the world is a dream. When I say, "this dream is over," It is a thought, it is a touch. A thought is a touch. <|endoftext|> "The Plough", by James Thomson [Activities, Jobs & Working, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] But now it dreams, it says, I was a man When I was a boy, I rode the broad roads of Ireland Among my neighbours, men and women, boys and girls I would meet; I would ride along and listen To music and laughter, and to sunshine and song. It was a bliss, it was a joy. And so I tried To be a man upon the earth, but among men The tides of soul were flowing too, and at times I thought them unmanly, the man not on fire Among men and things, as some small boys do; But I rode. And now I ride the plough, and this Is the change. And I do not wish to be. <|endoftext|> "Wild Honey", by James Thomson [Living, Death, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Landscapes & Meadows, Trees & Flowers, Religion, Faith & Doubt, God & the Divine, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] Because we need space, space, space space with all our dead we buy, you think we are stingy, think we are stingy? Space, space, space for the honey, space to store it in jars for future we hope space to store it in our dome though we know we have to kill all who might steal from us, all who might with it steal space, space to store it we ask space to store space, space space, space space, space and you we know we have it we don't lie we don't keep it if you think you are honeyless we say we are not honeyless, space to store honey in jars space to store space, space space to store space, space space to store space space to store space, space, space space, space we say, space, space, space, space we say space, space, space we say we don't lie we are not honeyless we are not, we are not honeyless <|endoftext|> "from The Battle of Lake Tappenwo", by James Thomson Lackland caught the clamor, whipped them together. Puffing, the gray was ready. And so was he. All around him could be heard the cussing, the called tune. Across the water came his part of the call, "Come, ass." A small tree was known by its cuss words, said one. "We got a tree, one can't quit one's self," said one to another. "It's not the length but the curse that makes war." The clamor died down, but the sky was not blue, said one. A flash of anger, deepened, "Rab." "It's no use," he whined. "It's no use, Rab." "Come again," one answered. "I ain't done no no use," he said. A moment for regret then he said, "No, I won't." They were away, he whined, so they brought him back again. "If you won't," they said, "we'll keep quiet." They wagged their heads, a joke he couldn't have, they brought him back again, but not for long. "Don't come again," they said. "We ain't no use." He whined. All around him could be heard the cuss words, the called tune. For his part, Lownus said, " ======================================== SAMPLE 11 ======================================== Be the bride of Elfin-Lord, For thy King is right and pure and free For his family to dwell in naught, Or shadow, a-laying, the coppery ray. You all have wit in such a way, The very gown of wooing to see, What shall I see when Elfin stand, With those soft braw arms of his-- You all have wit to give or take When that gray little man of mine Apples a candlestick hath. No man with my lore can hearken hear, And I my wits shall leave alone, So blind, so deaf, so tame, so low, I love not any more Nor for a little thing; When, as a naughty child, I could not speak, I knew a tongue all too well. Ah, God, but anon I would Repent that on this wonderful earth, Which must and will smother me with rest; Nor think, God, God, but to be loved more: If this, then my head at last shall be A handspike, neck-board and country hen; I by no grace of men, nor to please, Nor yet of gold am able to woo. O Heaven I have a love-loved tree That all the young fellows know, Whose fruit with buds is all green out, Like the slipnears' skin their chin: I have not other hand-meed But old Sire Justice I must dance, For I love not gold nor zephyrs. A double end I have to earn, And must one from my love-loved tree: Before the time is done, The harvest must be done: The others all have been caught by priests, And half the folk by eunuch ones. Then, say, what canst thou do? To be a boy thy verse a crow Must be a thing too good to last, And in the forests be a crow, For love of him and to have store, To give when they should a-weary rest. That all men may be at peace, To have a sense of their debt, To lend to the people their hand, Show them their talent and see That they may lend to thee their part: Thy business is alone, thy love is ours, And for this art thou well-pleased, and free. This day, John, to us we come, and more the same to you; The dead are now so near us in their sleep, that our bed may be the low. To me this child, the born thief, to get on with my fair: To give back, if some think her a bribe to shoot. For I'll let none pass so as girls but those who have wit; And since you now see the vile female only made to go, Wear this, or flie, and fly, so they may go and fly, And the poor abused daughters, who are grown so servillish, Learn how to take ******* by the hair. I'll be your girl, We'll both be brave, Be merry, Or we shall be no more girls. If we would lose our father, Look how lately my Lillies, When of old they were In heaven delaying the longed-for rain, Rained down from those holy skies, And their part of the world they were not. If my mother, when I told That I would be a seal, she frowned, Then I should have no care To have a girl that looks a poem, Who never smiled at me Saying, "Ha, handsome!" But what would she say If she saw me now, Who has said, "Psh! Mother, let's not speak," Who never smiled at my poetry. There are none so wide, There are none so tall, There are none so light As my little person. Oh, father, I am your daughter, And I'm glad to be glad, And glad to be glad. And I'm glad, and glad to be glad, Like a little hopeful-hearted child: I'm glad the river flows, For my dolly in the rain. And I'm glad the lake is glad, For my dallary ear. When the lake is dry Oh, father, When the river is free From its sordid screen, When the woman no longer worries, And the crier's gone in his musket, I'll be a bank and buy A horse for my dauber ======================================== SAMPLE 12 ======================================== In them have a law Of their own, their own affairs their own. You would only say, "I" But it would not be, you would not be "I." He that can call the clouds his brethren, And all the mount has his sheep Beyond the swallow, "with the white sheep the Lord has paid." Yet the strain that comes to me is the same. What is the shining that echoes the gong To it, the music of the sea? "For you," it cries. I am a woman. Is my bosom a kneaded heap? Where the blossom is, what is the form? From my eyes, from my lips, from my skin Is the breath. O my heart, O my heart For you alone, For you alone! The clouds bring you their water Of a white saint, a holy man. Why do you not bow your fountain To greet the star that night? The stars bring you their stars. They have got a prize, The clouds their lake, the stars their trees. Is my name not the prize? I am the lake, the star, the sheep, The whole of my flock? You have now a sheaf Of unto-and. THE truth will keep Your clarities whole. The truth will shield Your names, shield your senses, And put in their place The senses of your fathers, And save you the Britons, The parochial minds. Not you who are so hollow, On whom the smoke of praise Has gone not down, Will go where truth And wisdom smiling stand. The truth will save you, The truth will save you I WAS alone, I was alone In the middle of nowhere, a nothing On the wall, a nothing on the sand. The din of the world was below. Dust boilned its bars, the dust of years And torment, the dust of illness And of mere barrenness, the dust Of poverty, the dust of divided wishes And aspiration. Down from the north There was no money for the prayers I promised. I did not keep The multitude of the fire And the cloud of a day, or the return Of the girl I loved. I was alone. And I did not fear the hour Of my great isolation. For I had nothing to hold on to. I had but the rushes. I had but the will To go down the road, to go down the road And to listen to the flow Of the sound of running water. And I cried: O river, O gray, gray river, Do you know anything? What do you know? For I heard you, and the coolness Of the moss, the quietness of the stones, The total vacuity of place. And the movement Of the water. And I remembered The song that sounded in my ears, the song Of a water always at your surface, The purest water of all, The water that arises first from the earth. The very touch of the flow, That you know not altogether, that comes Only to take root, Away from land and becomes the very earth That you pass o'er and only to pass again To a lower more current raw. O gray river, On the steep slopes of my home. Do you know any other water That speaks as you? That breaks off to give, that is both the place Where a thing grows and is born And breaks away? The blue hills And the wind. And a silence That gives a board two east winds. And a shadow, as the place of a before And a after, And the half mile that is made. In the hush The black branches And the sounds Of the forest. And the wind. And a sound Of damp fresh water. What does the wind say? As it whirls its knock Around the trees? The wind says nothing. Wind and water In the trees And in my ears Water On the hand of the water That is neither here nor there. I am that water And the wind that rocks and changes And the brook that returns to its source And the hills that climb And the void between Between that changes and that holds. IF one had to pick between death and life A stone of this world's dust and a human heart, Faith would not care which he picked without more, And Love either would have no hesitation And neither would have its say, For Love and this world are as dialects one ======================================== SAMPLE 13 ======================================== inscribes them. The service mark of the Master is hidden in the circle of stars Wherein he wrote the life of God. The stars are the stars of this life, and the signs As in the heavens are the works of the sun. The human voice is the voice of the Higher Power. The human voice is not a vain human voice, but is the voice of the heavenly instruments, and is the sound of the divine mouth And is a sweet voice, and is a voice of reality. There is beauty in the perfect notes of the human voice, And the vocal harmony of the spheres. With the celestial flowers. His art was the voice of the heavens and the earthly flower. (The man of the city holds the higher seat, and he sits lonely at the table.) His station holds him far from the populous throng, and he watches and waits. Here, enamored of divine beauty, and of her voice, He leaves the earth and enters the rural shades, and he wanders away And is drunk with the delicious bewilderment of sweet dreams. There, by the altar of the Master, he meets the laden eyes And waits, and thinks, and is lost in deep reverie. He hears, with soft feet, soft words, and the others think. He speaks, and is answered by respond. His face is hidden and a mystery. The Master hears his word, and his voice alone is heard. He shakes the sodden boughs, and the sweet fruitage springs, And the garden opens its white gates. He feels the spirit of the blossoms, and he sees the face Under the green leaves. And the new life bursts from the hidden door, and is diffused In the high life that flows from the strong union of soul and earth. I go on alone, alone, and am lost in the desultory war Of the days and the years. And the fruits, which are my life, disappear, and the fame Fades, and is sunk, and is dead, and is forgotten. I go on alone, alone. And I ask for one thing further: Give me the step of the Daughter of the Night. Gone is the Mother, who gave me life; Gone is the Oread who helped me and bore me; Gone is the Sea, that gave me of what life. But I know now, the Web of Life, is to-day As wide, and the world is alive, and I live here With the Earth, and the Earth is alive with me. I know now, as I lived it to them, As some of the shadows cast them before, I know now the great miracle is mine, And nothing is. <|endoftext|> "Ladders and Sling Shots", by Robert B. McCambridge [Living, The Mind, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Friends & Enemies] I come from a city where Men Draw from Life's fountain-heads Their well-water, and slug it Room in the bar-bought mart. I say Men In their well-water—I say shots My half-choked heart, and—night! Old Blackwell Towered among the shabby shades, D'Jaunville and Parc Embroideré 'Twixt mine and his well—and there was The grey town-wall, the dirty door, And there was Possibilities, (O for a light and a place!) And Possibilities turned me green To fling my brains about, And so I drew me and drew him Out of the not-quite-heavens For the sake of a bet, That a lad such as I then was Should be more pugnacious Than he, the waggish teen Acting rustic joukie in a debate On Bastille days long ago; And I beat him by smirking At my dubious and qualified vote That he, the youngest and the best, Should be allowed to propose To go off and be made a lord And I should be the son inherit A sum more worth than all his own debts But he never thought, no, nor even suspected That he was a rascal enough to win That bet. And so we came to this, No matter where, the Vermande With all the brood of a summer-sons glee ======================================== SAMPLE 14 ======================================== Spite is made by the match, The makers own the only match. What is amour that we like best? (Thou lovest well but we love not, you) Hath we this name, hath it not been? (Yea, in many names, but none) In haste, I'll take my leave, but take This one's as a passport to me. And then, nay now, this fling! (O ay!) That 'twas a pleasure to wait. Well, well, the fling was in your style. And with regard to that age, 'Twas only youth, not age, that made you wise. You show your wisdom at your age's best, And, you as well, hold our worst. If you have made a better service, Best is it, worst where 'tis to go. You, whose barometer does fluctate, Now call, then in time, then new-born still, In air, on land, with an incessant ear, And, when a year seems lonely to you, There mark, if you can, the passing year. Or if, like ancient days, your fancy doth rise On such a moral, of course 'tis good; Were the adjectives then most just? In which were built the riddle of your life, To which you'd rise, then, self-reliance to acquire, But for the light you see in nature's heart, In you as a flash, as an electrical star, In you, all ransomed, though in jest, by age. And so you put forth your essence -- essence, how? For traits, ere you are men. You're just men, then, The trait which you were made is that you are; In you, as in no men that have gone before, You have your being; you have yourselves, You have nature's taproot, if not the tree, You have the rock whence you were tilled, All which you have you were, and what you are. To pass we leave the new Maffeian town In the same dress he left it -- in other words, The new Maffe real, with a few of its blossom New crowned jonceters and a new encore -- In this rare festival of its fair town, The 'pendiciwe' and the grand encore To a scene that is both new and old, Because that in truth there's neither time A flash of passion passing pure, And in the flash, which doth contain The passion unspeakable, a symbol, And in that symbol something grave, Which gathers and which as it approaches Grows greater and mores what they are, And in the last portico they see, Which men, at least deeming men, call life. The tete-a-tete from Tickcromy ball. And here, pure May-day, the Satyrs good, The wonder of the world, the madness good, The Master, as he rose, was quite altered, But as we believe in Hope, in Ease, In youth he is a breaker of buckies, And in his growth his forepads being pants, He throws down pants, and starts at madness, And sits happy to see his mare go. The tete-a-tete from Tickcromy ball. The wonderfullest thing that ever came, Was the new Maffe, so girt and fleet, That on beholding him a Swede With half a dozen of his woody sons Thus round him did the teter rail. There are some things, to speak which may be Of small, and to these therefore small, Is such a thing as small: there can be But small thing else. All which appears small Is that which we proudly see appears. So, to speak somewhat small, there is No thing so small but that in it, By no circumstances which appear Can it appear otherwise. Thus with us, Further off than down, their inferiors, Whose highness makes them great, with ascent Assisted by noVccels seven, so high Above theirselfs, that they who seek them Believe them gods. So in the eighth cubit, Dolorius, with his own kinome, Which in its apex ascends, The theatur topos both himself And the fifth chareths on his side Can a man climb. But the others, On each side a VCF concentrable, The nine dir ======================================== SAMPLE 15 ======================================== What need to name that folk. After the King departed, Let the lady sit To keep the child in play, Till the forest dimmed had All the open spaces, Until the star in heaven, Sat to watch over her, And the fire-flies to light, To keep her mind from wild. Bents hag-light o'er the hall, Tired Wame sleepeth first, Sunk down upon her cushion For a while she weepeth; Beneath her pillow rolleth Westone under her pillow, Of her babe the babe an' mother, Sorrow an' shame befall her, All for the babe her child balne, The babe that's far awa'. Let the ladies men belieue, Make of them men and women, Let the husbands hold in du'n, And the mothers in the lippes; Let the lovers them emauge, Set in law the girls; Let the harrisshies weden, Be the old white-haired men, Be the new cut flinging bloomin' men, Turn them shuders, weden an' gownin', But the young girls they'll defer. Gin we'll have an extra, For the watter folks we wauken, More o' the ones that we pight; Let the vight-bearers wauken More of the young men an' women, Of the ones the girls be weening, Let the dancers weden, and weede, Let the lema-keepers weedely loom, Weeding o' the young gals an' men, So the young men weeden weden, Good men and women, men an' women, Now let's think, I pray A moment what's going on, All the tumbling down o' the ground, All the fault'ring an' quarrelin' O' the two-fifty drunke tinklestir— One's 'op a master, And another's lommayer, While the master's a groom. Life it is, we know it true, Teach us, shall we?—give it twelve We'll see it, what we've seen not hard, I tell you, I've been 'long to tell. It's like an' like an 'or fool, I tell ye: Tired o' tryin', poor fool, tekened een, When the first an' w'ich ye thought would do, Teught come in the hole te deserved, Fent a feather, an' the rest was air. They t-u'd mind the lesson they 'ad to learn, An' not hurt the ouch they 'd them-ghizz, If they'd but see me, all te sure, Cauld-backed Jack 's mou', and all that, For the very morn. O what's the new year? What wondrous joy? What this great miracle that now reigneth In the sun's eye, the earth that 'mid the banks is shaking, The trees in blossom, the birds in springing, To fill our hearts with music and love divine? O happy new year, see what fickle fate ordains: Here's good success, an' there's frugal new age, And here's fiddle-boy, fiddles merrily flying, To fill your hearts with sorrow, if they can ringing. O what's the new year? What wonders do we see? Ascendeth a hundred leagues from the dome to the ice, To the chatt'ring, to the merriment, to the festal bread, In the joyous crowd, and in the haunt that is hid, To the glorious revelation, and the blessing, In the solemn night, and the magnificent morning, In the very nature of the mighty birth, In the gay affair of the glorious dead, 'Neath the sober old mortal body dead, In the perilous danger and unclean surmise, In the full glory and glories of the day, When the majestic One Who commands the light, O what's the new year? A thousand wonders do we see! A day-dreamed vision of the empire unlimited, Of a nation wholly, part unbounded, swaying its hour, And of each citizen a fardel, flowing the more fast Because it has his source from the Almighty's desire, With the sun-like and the star-like having gained light long. O what's the new year? What ======================================== SAMPLE 16 ======================================== charming as a queen, possessed of beauty and strength, the wind-lit happiest place on earth, on which men go to look for "home." <|endoftext|> "I was both car and and cart came unto the post office," in The Road", by Rabindranath Swearj [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Religion, Faith & Doubt, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] I was both car and cart came unto the post office. I got the yellow cover, longer toll for the motor. I was both car and cart came unto the post office. I got the yellow cover, longer toll for the motor. I was both car and cart came unto the post office. I got the yellow cover, longer toll for the motor. I was neither car nor cart came unto the post office. I got the yellow cover, longer toll for the motor. I was neither car nor cart came unto the post office. I got the yellow cover, a longer toll for the motor. I was neither car nor cart came unto the post office. I got the yellow cover, a longer toll for the motor. I was neither car nor cart came unto the post office. I got the cover longer than the motor. I was neither car nor cart came unto the post office. I got the yellow cover, a longer toll for the motor. <|endoftext|> "In the Study", by Frederick Seidel [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books] When I think of the long history of the writing of poetry, I mean that long history of the poem as a long history of the poem. They are not, in other words, simply combative responses to an urgent spectacle— that long history of the graven spirit— but are instead each otherFoe to Fandango are they, the antagonist and the foil? Rancher in New York and Volterra in Daheora, or in Caracas? Are they not, as Boisguichet tells it, orotondo Frida, or in the case of you, PoPicatem, friends forever? To write this poem, were we writing alone— alone, because we had to keep to the light, out of concern for our health and our light, out of concern for our light, lest we harden or darkness bring to an end Not only our friendships but our chivalrous friendship with the long history we'd lived through. —theknocking, the sharp shock of it, the notion of time set aside for conversation, thinking it bodes well for our speed of thought— or did we think it looked more kindly on writing at the hazards exchange? We had years and years to live comfortably. We had life, life could believe we died. And so we carried with us the disillusion of our light. So we wrote. And we thought well of writing when we thought it was time. —theknocking, yet again, the strange familiarity of the equipment— air in the room was heavy with life. It gave us life. It gave us glorious death. It gave us light. It was the will to live that we could not keep. It was the joyful disaster of our light that we could not keep. I would know it better if I did not know the incalcipability of the joyful disaster of life. I would know it if I did know incalculable heart. I would know it if I did know time's impossibility. And the outsize burden of it. It was not that we were unkind to one another. We were not even close to it. We were never even near to it. We were outside of it. The knock was the noise of the universe bringing itself to life, to relations, to purpose. In that we saw the mysteries, who in them were. —theknocking, we never find out who is it. But who is it that knocks? And why does it do it? Is it a test? Is it a friend? Is it hell? <|endoftext|> "Poem", by Geena Harvey [Living, Coming of Age, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Trees & Flowers, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] You'll rest your head in the low grassShed where no new trees wentOr planted a gray feather above you,in right angles to thoseWhich are fallen American letters that were threats but were never sent. They remain scattered, eyeless, at the bottom of the canter,caged by the chain linkGenius had planned to conquer the valley.He had a ======================================== SAMPLE 17 ======================================== Grimknapper. He hung her on a tree. The water below her was brilliant with innumerable gold threads, so that she was visible, as I think, to us. <|endoftext|> "The Bishop of Rochester", by John Bulwer [Nature, Animals, Religion, Christianity, God & the Divine, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books] Tell me, Mr. Rochester, What you have made Of me lately lately lately Last summer, last summer, last winter. What did I do And what was I thinking The other day when the woods overtopped me And reared A way of me From the forest trees in the treetops In which I was eager And which mistook Me for a god. This hill is red-orange With privet grass And stone-old trees, A field of Eliadean In the broad-leaved sugared autumn Shop-window Of the broom Of God come to me, come to thee And hither. <|endoftext|> "Eliade", by John Fidjack [Life Choices, Social Commentaries, Mythology & Folklore, Greek] The gaunt sea of dead things dying, the old bridge fallen, the dark coming together cities, sun-sacks sea-carts pyramids, my heart splintered wall coloured to make of them a stand, beech-roots sea-dice, a big old rock. She sifts me out earth-sack after earth-sack, I come drifting back light-winged from the dunes of sun. What was it I was bringing? An imagination or two and a rough blue sack of clouds my home. Mamuka wind in the fingers, the sky's thinning and the sky's silver riding the white horses over the sand-riding. Horses that stream from the fingers of the hand. I think the sand-riding is an un-riding, out of the dust a lifting of spirits, helping the earth feel itself down. Nothing makes sense but the way the world's talking. What were we made for? On the long bridge thousands of people are stumbling, herded back and forth, helplessly. Sun-horses trot across the city. They won't break the ash-barriers under the grass. Shiva the farmer sends his beam to the higher heavens to uplift the sages. In the blue fields sheep and goats graze with no shelter no water-wheels no reaped ears. I feed my cats milk of good will, excrement the natural cause of spiritual emulsion. <|endoftext|> "The Old Man's Child", by Joost van Diwayne The old man's little daughter died a gull, for he was too old to conceive of the god who came to take her place. Now he's grown to tender relationships, he cannot conceive that any earthly thing can take his place, which seems absurd until one takes his pillow in a strange new light. He's talking about gods and their competitions, bragging about the best-knit pair he made, how they're the best pair, made with the most skin. What was your first love? The first you ever had? The first you ever had. And your second one? The second you ever had. And your third one? The third you ever had. And your eeughter? Eewe is the fourth, even. At night I hunt for my youth, but in my heart I find no cliff, I find no hill but this floor. All the corners of my eyes are pointillied with nothing. Oh, what's its face when I can no longer see it. Can you use it for money? Paper or stumps? Gold or flowers? Sowl or sun? To use it means to pity the beggar, the malnourished daughter, the tired woman. She is not foolish, she knows not all, not even her own virtues, she knows not how much you had, or you had, in mind when you gave the word. And it is dangerous to think of giving; it is dangerous to be in love with your fortune, it is dangerous to be in love with the world. But I should like to be in love with the world, with the world's misfortune, with its ======================================== SAMPLE 18 ======================================== connectivity, The front door, then the back door, Once the back door and now the front door, There is a Christmas tree and what presents, There is no place else to put the presents. <|endoftext|> "On Power", by Gary Soto [Relationships, Family & Ancestors] When her brother drank She drank too When my mother left She left me When my father died He died in 1984 At age 24 With $10 in his pocket I had no need To borrow Or give A $1,000 check From the Jewish Federation In my old age I loved my mother And I detested my father <|endoftext|> "The Pearl", by Gary Soto [Living, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] The pearl gave me In the end To bruise my hand As I rocked in it Last night I remember I was coming from the beach And I saw a piece of beach gravel On the sidewalk I walked on it When it changed to flesh And a woman's head followed <|endoftext|> "From a Row", by Gary Soto [Living, Death, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment] Each dawn I put my arms around my chin Each dawn I stand up and I look down my sleep I know it's awkward each dawn I put my arms around my face Each dawn I look up and I remember I was walking my mother's tongue Between her lips Each dawn Her smile I remember from birth from birth <|endoftext|> "Faith Walk", by Emily Winer [Living, Life Choices, The Mind, Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals] 1. before the rain came (threshold of rain threshold of faith) on each following morning I didn't know if I believed in you I thought I was coming back to those who knew me only by my worksthat youkai Water the what from the where and the when the where being the how the how and the why The where being the how the when I walk through the thither state I recognize my worksthat require life in me (the where) <|endoftext|> "Marble", by Emily Winer [Living, Life Choices, The Mind, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Religion, The Spiritual, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] Most of what makes me nervous is my money, and what makes me worry is the miles still between us and the fresh jars of jelly eating, an old trick of hunger that hurts like a fart in the least. Some is the earth itself: a grove of trees, a patch of wax grass, a hardwood log, a prairie; and then a part is mine, the part that deserves it: the miles that you can't measure but that seem to come: a colonist in each atom of blue sky, an artisan in the tea kettle of lines that leave dark shadows in their wake. So I guess I'm a mineral of water and a hardscape of sun-tested wood and clay. I'm a colonist in a experiment that's being repeated as we enter the deciduous forest at the end of the world, and I'm an artifact of that failure, that failure wide in both time and space. So maybe I'll be free before I'm ready, or so unhappy, or so caught in the right place at the right time. 2. spider in the ceiling squirming with a spider in the doorway squirming with myself squirming still the morning wakes me at seven on the dog leg so I leave the way I came to a place to learn a name for this limb the evening doesn't want but I have to get what I can when I have to to get what I have to if I have to get what I have to get to be free I have to get what I can I have to be useful I have to count calories I have to do what I have to do if I have to if I have to be free there is a house a man's voice was a dog's is the only house is the man's voice the evening doesn't want the morning doesn't want what's free? to be free <|end ======================================== SAMPLE 19 ======================================== ,"cantos", by Joan J. Olson [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture, Race & Ethnicity] The Wieners were from Germany. I was one of three. We weren't very young, our parents weren't rich. One of us was young enough to be, at least, a child. For no good reason, it never seemed worth it, age or not age, we were far from any regional base of authority. We read Bemid (not to be confused with the sea. The sea. The. The. The. The. The. The. The. It has no resolution but rest in peace. We thought about calling it Sea Stupidity, though that made us seem infantile and stupid. In any case we read it and thought about calling it Camp (for Camp Diarmidale, for which we sweated a thousand cubic feet of ice a day. The. The. The. A. The. The. The. The. In any case we called it and complained. We went there after school and wondered if it were good. There were three of us in that place and one of us was dark and the three of us were light. I still remember the place, the gnarled clinging vines on the ivy-shrouded wall, a place in which one would think camp was the only solution. We didn't stay there too long, not yet at least. We were, in a sense, but a day. Our summer. I was gone. The others were safe. And so, the next generation said, not taking us as pariahs but maybe becoming them, not clearing out the outlying cores, not clearing out the door either. Not sealing it off completely but, at least, putting the bad taste of the past away. That's it. That's all the other languages besides this. The best. The best in the language. <|endoftext|> "There's an Egg in This Sandwich", by Daniel Borzelleca [Living, Life Choices, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Nature, Animals, Trees & Flowers] At the bus stop under the tit, mirror Elk, and this is not a haka-resembling fruitless repetition of  a god's wrath, the egg in this white wijbebloemeraku. The hexed head of  him eggstuck to the street with every other little idea of haikheduling all thoughts of haki in this moment. Just get to know each other, think haki. I should have said something. The shy chickadee seeming to wait for something before turning around and kicking. <|endoftext|> "American Author (3)", by Elaine Pabor Friedman [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books] for Peter Smith I like eggs, yes, I do, the container and the style. I like the hiding place of the writer's shadow. I like to write, yes, I want to write, and when the work is done, I like to look at "What I for Did (2)", the view from the viewless car (2)", and the poem that "Is for Lis" (3) returns us to Did, this good house built on media. I was an American author, if we are not Babbitts, we were Catret, Gourina, Red Mollisy, Quidsam, Quota, etc. etc. etc. I write about men and women, usually in language, but with a little animal, or with none, and sometimes not. I write in contemporary time, sometimes hard to understand as a mentality of the past, sometimes because our minds are morning projections, a style of writing appropriate to a corner of a church who now reads at the altar . . . Sometimes I think of the ocean as a woman, and the woman as book. And a book she would not have read, but one she wanted to read, and one that would make her (and me) a little rich. A book, or bookish drive, or bibliography; The source of the woman. It would be a history of women, but one of my own. American author, perhaps. She would wish to read me, and to read, to say, no more, no less, the author herself, with no more, no less, than her historical antecedents. She would think that the authorial heart is foreign to digital modes, and far removed from place to place, and time to time. I think the world is in fact a little broader than we think, but that "Gravity" is really "Gravity." I think that you can be the sum of the author's and the story's and producer's, and the last only the source. In a pure moment, I have thought of the time as both ======================================== SAMPLE 20 ======================================== 'That Caucasean I named her. She shall give thee her who has reft her life away.' Theo's wife had for some years been ill, and there was hope of her recovering; but this news dropp'd life and hope and love into her, and left her devouring madness. And now her thoughts were her most tender and most fervent for her alone. There was not an old friend, nor yet visitor, who passing that way, without passing by the door where once she sat with thee, would not ask her of her state, or her changes, or whether she was better, or worse, than before, in the language of her illness. If I were back at that time, and I were thou, and if thou were where I was then, and thou were where I was then, what would be my course? If we both were sitting here without our families, and I asked thee, under the shadow of my darkness, what was work to us like the best of human works? If I asked thee, what was like to work for us like the best of human works? Would the sight of me, thy poor old friend, make thee never happy, if now thou wouldst, after having told me this first time, tell me now? And for thee, too, should the sight of me make thee after all thy poor old life to change and change? There was a lady, and fellow in love too, And both of them had the same desire. Their ways were not like, and years had done anything like justice to have scour'd their lives, But for all times, and till the future knows no exception. But this was once a time for hope. 'Tis true that all of us have seen that hope fadeless spring into bloom for the following years. Hope that fades not simply because 'as it comes the Everlasting God threatens, yet, if we can justifiably lay down pretext for setting things aright, we start afresh from the And each man's charity can find The cause of the remedy it seeks. And each man's wealth will aid that end, If we but take unhindered toil. How many marvelous deeds, Fraught with for all of man's griefs, Have by thy power attended! How many times have men Looked sea-like and had some waves Fall under them and carried them With small or large return To furlough for a while! Or how many times have they find'd That sleep brings thick-leaved conditions And thus has roused them! But thou art of many all over Thine own alleys canst run. O, be all those times to know The starry heaven's a screen that stays From climbing either, and yet Even there a glittering handful Are of all things that we hold True ministers of mind No larger, or or less, than he Who made their motley fleece a shield. My soul's a castle! enter at Its lowermost wall, and thou Seeks only roofed gardens, Where in the noonday suns of youth The huskies of alarm, And herds of shaggy snowraced dames That move their pipes, and out Frolic in the rocks about, That keep their yelow in tune. There let thy passionate rimes Dwell deep upon the quiet, Till stirred by thou, they stir Romance into action, and stir Through life's deck a continuous stream Of thought to fight and chance. The ocean, like a ragged boy, Waves, alone, a silver paddle; And, at small pains, is enabled To move from shore to shore, Fathoming the fates, which frets Each throbbing wave into deeds, Till that feeble sound, or dream, Arrives at last, and makes a gulf Thickly to crack and splinter stars. Thus, as that sea wept, we see Its own sweet waves of light are thrown Upon the other shore, and flung A memento of Satur-eve. There, by the moonlit land, they cross The-other, always, with their tune, And oft at round and round have played Adate to the soul, that's up and dry, And stays behind at ease in sleep. That wail they knew as man born, As such a soul as ours in pain, Such phantasies as be ======================================== SAMPLE 21 ======================================== This effectual zeal to a false end, Which bade the earth in desperate strife, Sought for our Maker with the dagger. See, see, and make th' effects of the law To match our words by our deeds." I added: "See in what band thou art, And to what part of Heaven thou tend, The loser will thy cause forget. Thou canst write no bullet, O thou canst not write One little page to save our lives. "This traitor law which does not let The pure in heart fit it, makes the heart Not pure, but Galilean. And if it make thee less than human, Let the world take thee therefore. But if in thee, with eyes so cold, The light in darkness does not fall, Thou mayest witness with your heart the truth Wherewith I write to you." What would he have me say? What would he have me say, In my extremity, If in the heat of my last despair I had written a letter? The darkness fell, the sun grew cold, And a wadded shirt was all the light Between the sun and me. I tried to speak; I tried in my mind's oldest string To type of pure thought, And make of that same base metal song, A trumpet for the fools. But as I saw him, as I fain had seen him, Darkening the sun, My heart stood still, And the first time since I saw her Year after year, And thinking of this boy of last year's July, There is no one in this world that's perfect, No one that's born to make a error. That's known from day to day; the birthplace error Has even begun to pray, And thinks that he's hallowed by his work in this, The belauded screw-piece. The wind that around the cut pipes from shabby doors, And out onto empty space, and wheeling deaths, Is his own public mister sign. To hear the language of such minds and religions, And whether they're glories or failures, He has found by an hour-old baby question That does not work like a clock. As soon as he have begun a list Of what he must surely not say Among the thousand lies he must surely tell, And drop another lie like a peach, He begins to think he's finally settled in form, And faintly near to settling. But as he found a man a-trying to be him, That was the moment that he decreed, He'd never be squeamish, ever, with his mind Or manner, nor his voice, nor his writing, Nor his apparel, nor his blood. He looked like a politician, too, With his listless air the whole-souled, the-un-here; I heard him mutter that the more the nation Rankles the more it licks its hands, The more of blood we will give it. He means what he says. I'd forgotten that in his hot veins There's always enough of blood for the nation, The atmosphere or the world, So that our place he took with a sigh Was that old place, and I am so old I shall go before him. O reader, you who in some tower of a mind Hear the old voices, the voices of thought, Look back, and see them in what towers they Are high, and well-fared, and blest; Now through the dusk of twilight see, and read, And draw your sword, and slay; For there's another year, and another year We fight for another king. From his wax-half he took That year of jubilee, And girdled him with gold, and girdled him With many a gaudy piece Of blazonry, and answered a2 How glorious he be, For that he were, And Caesar of our time, For he was a living god, The living, living, breathing God, The God of Nature. Now stand he at the gate Of that same garden, and question her, Asking her gee whaw itie we might be; By whose sweet power and save his naturall Eternal being, and bind his heart And lock his flesh with similar dreification. And some shall smile and some shall frown, And some shall weep and some shall kill, For there's another year, and another year We fight for another king. Come, let's be merry, poor devils, ======================================== SAMPLE 22 ======================================== `Mingle salt and pepper; crumble in together; Curl up the yarn till it's quite a shaggier color; If your colors don't fix, we'll have to turn From our present project; so turn to !' With her darling smile upon her face, She suddenly arose, And fasten'd on her strength like steam, Till the yarn crumpled up quite plain, And the color was so light and free, You scarcely saw the spindle wheel, But as with a bold swimmer hurried, The white and sable stream of life Leaped forward, with its ardent call For that whiteness I have sometimes sought, And held back, with hands clasped fast Together, and in awkward position, And dashed on the down to bear the last Touch of earth before arrival. My mind then pictured a boat, The one that left Hampton groaning, And wrenched from its filled bucket, The one her patterns seemed to love best; I threw the spindle down, I held The yarn and helped reel it in. Oh! I was glad, and felt a little Better when evening brought about, And, to some small homely family At the door, I brought my offering. But the father said I had no soul, And would not grow up; so they let me Out of the barn, and up the street, And that evening laid me down to sleep On a warm mat in the frosty west, Which was my first and last for many years. In the theatre the play was acted A citizen was talked about, And in the streets the citizen moved, On a light inflexible employee, And left the next day through the gate Of the city and into the open air. His time was a little curious; The glass headsets and round sunglasses, Which he wore were never quite right; His hair was not yet silver-white, His walk was somewhat faltering, and he He began to buy books, and drink "The Country Culture," which I thought Was a splendid thing to do; I asked him if he would like a cup Of tea, when we met, but he'd neither; His relations were all unasked; They stole his lunch-box and pen, And told him he couldn't use it himself. I know what you're thinking, and why: The government at last is paying For these priceless lectures, and we Can listen to them any time When the evening star comes out, and the sun Sinks down behind some town wall, And you can mount and do a race around, And watch the stars and sunsets glimmer In Jefferson's city and his amaze, And think of all the books he must have in them! You thought it sad when I died To sign the death witheffable name of an Affectionate father, and you cursed America, and England, and your own Countries; I found it all very well, And America, the lovely land, A lovely girl, and here I've died in her And changed her name and made it beautiful. I've taken her part, she's a nation, and Has made me look at myself, poor man, And read me wisely through the veil of her Beautiful night, sweet night, and I Have gone with my own peace, to-day is the last, We stay but as green leaves upon this Belivable solitude, We are both, for once, as dead men, For we both perished in the same fashion, By suffocation, drowning, and You in young stupidity, I in a stupid act Which I regret to this day, because it was the only Dignified way of getting at the truth, And you in your foolish rage and love of blood. My heart is as old as, asodh in the Democracy, as the ours that grows From Earth's seed, springing in the sky's bean-flower, And sending forth through air and earth's growths Flocks of seeds flying, egg upon egg, Till they are a world everlasting, A realm for my sort of souls to win Turn by turn, nor fear the dawn, nor turn. Some, the most serene of human souls, Will learn at length, with saddened eyes, That even the germ is Eternal, The unfathomable heart of man. Ah! mad passion, and the fear of dying, The night of our life, and the pains that hurt us, The passion that hath even a name To quench our eternal births, These are the true elements of ======================================== SAMPLE 23 ======================================== The human heart will glow, Though but at the sigh of Love. What wilt thou to me, my Lady? For me all nature overcast, Shade, and shadow, and sunlight, And God, the greatest of thy works, Are cold and bleak as thou. What wilt thou for me, my Lady? What canst thou say of Him? The least didst thou for Him do? A woman with a man, Are but a woman, love. I cannot call (Perchance) that all that lurk Is Love; and yet, my Lady, How shouldst thou it be? How, though all were true, The very breath Of Love, that does it smoke, And loses it in smoke; He slips out, Who made Him but smoke. And then again, all air; for when I, seeing no rest there, my Lady, His image, having seen, By me I know, being dead, For ever was that shadow cast, Which in the living light Were changed to this, being all his own, His hollow shadow. Thus, all night long, being flesh and bone And flesh again, and breath of life And life again, As if I could but sleep, My dreaming lay. Woe to the wretch who would not, my Lady, come! For if he came, the light were dark within. Woe to the wretch, my dear, who, coming, breaks The hardboard seal of my heart, And makes one little crack, The break of faith, And faith, from faith, to doubt. Woe to the wretch who came but to be bore, My heart being hollowed. Who comes? What at the time he seemed a wan, And hollow, beard, and black. And with his plan To stuff himself day and night A suit in mail To cram, And faggots wherewith to damn My soul to everlasting death. Ah, day was come; and dark; the night was cross As ever glow, when life is done for long; And through the dark, That man might not be certain of sinning, And sure that God might in some hell Doom to be born. So, then, it chanced that he was clad, as men Called Anyor noted by their backs. As with a laugh He shook their legionaries: Their battle-axe Left three of them dead. And that same day they lifted a third up, And towered about the canvas again. Then the burst Was upon them; where their ranks had been They rolled in close ranks, corals piled against Each other, horns at point and point. And forth From his shattered throne Our prince looked on the unblocked deeps That make the fathomless; And seeing none else, turned to look Down deep awhile, and there beheld, As half awake, And sleeping, far below, The river Ogeto; And hearing, too, a horn blowed By sunny chaparals, He kicked a shell. And upon his stalk of sun The bull-frogs Made chaos of the sea, Gilded at his good sound, and sore He heard the stir: He sunk to sleep. The bells were ringing: 'twas a test Of Luck: the sea Become gray And jammed; and frith He saw the line of the pursuing: And Fortune, sending her swifter flight, Left him but the nighing frog of the wave, Unseen, alone, and hearing only the baa Of the frogs beneath the lianne-tree's Ebbing, ere hiss of either plunger died. When the sky was blind with rain: When the moon, in cloud, was half an isle Of islanded sea, half roof-covered hill, And cowering bright the fox to the last: He heard the great night buzzing chivying Under her thin milk-white dishes, Dashing, in a cloud's eclipse, From quay to row where skull-hazed fish ======================================== SAMPLE 24 ======================================== The thick mosses all are grown up, And I must grow into them. I never saw such a beautiful thing As the half-pristine rocks and the merest stones, And the moss and the pyrgosty Have many a meaning that one might guess Tying them to the repines. We are in there among the rocks, The wood's a temple set aside, And the gravel and the grit are our food, There's Zenith in it, so to speak, And beneath us is a coffin, That was a poor man, he hiked up to this roof With his two boys he never saw, And he made them a shelter soft and dry, But the rain came on and the wind did blow, And the tear was on his peltied cheek, They had lived in a bleak place and they lived in a rough, Their father had gone mad, and he humped and hump'd To the country that his boys could not visit, And he sat there day and night expecting to see them, But he had come past their boxes and they had zip'd and flee'd, We have a little house, we are only three, We can scarcely of it build around, If we only really tried, what I know of houses, It would not be of power, the most of them Would not be able to keep out of the rain. Bilbo was not wrong, the house is a fortress, And we should guard it from the mosquitopol, And we should not ever have any business with the squat, It is not possible to make a house strong enough, We should build it over again and fumigate it. If I could fix a house to which I could never go, It would not be half so hard to fetch than this is to throw, To put up a roof I know not how, but straight, at the worst, And I know not what to garden, to build, to plant. I know not of any house I have ever seen Which was not made and contrived uprightly, It may be made aloft, and sitting, it may be the roof, And made secure against wind and weather, And made secure I like to see, but always to fear. To build, to patch, to replace, to pull down, to steal, To do all things that are needed and more, I am always ready for labor and the best, Always looking for ways to do the very best, But looking always for the better and for the worse. And often when I look at my hands and face, I find I am not where I have been a-beheld, I am still where I was, with all the same perplexed look, As when the last thing took me by surprise, And I could not tell whether I were a-standin' or a-sitin'. At times I am, and at times I am not, I have been, There's not a single moment that passes not 't was well, And all the 'ere agin, and think of is, I am am a-griven, And think of is, I'm vexed, God! 'twas never my intent, 'Tis all on him, the moocher, the mouse, the rat, the fool! And while I 'aven't hadrid 'em, I'm weary, I have the 'edge upon me, and that I 'ave not, It is a pity, a' fact, I am not in 'or. What 'ave I whet'em agen aforetime, what 'ave I done, I've don't know yet, but I know it will be 't up agin. I 'aven't complain, it's so out of the way, But when I say it is best, 'mongst all it elates, It 'aven't look so good as it did 'earty do, And then I reckon'd I 'ave spoils'd the cost, Because I 'aven't have lost half of it agin, So then to sum, my losses may not be proud, 'T is true I 'm 'er heartsame, 'twas a select pack, One of the worst I 'ave seen on my travels, I guess the worst of every one, and 'appd so, But I may not be in every thing, I'm with the lowest party, I've nothin' done, But I'm also the saddest, I guess that's outroared. I've two boys, it would seem quite natural To ======================================== SAMPLE 25 ======================================== votaries that had been thy lot To view the splendors of the shore of old, His armor met in terrors. "Is this," A soul alone could sing the charm of Love, Nor other songster long would dare to try; Yet how that Thou might still be mine, Thou diest, in me behold! From all that horde of vagrants wing-blown, Who, borne to heavenward, crickets clamor, Who in this maddest of mart is pinched So sore they feel the reaching breath? With wild-eyed astuteness of the moon And shrew-like rhyming of stars, I look And read a new lesson every hour; And so I read, and find the lesson fresh And glowing, though I know it not. My ill-charming self is draped in thin, Expect the shriek; And o'er the tomb of love, for a while, Ieps a token of his wake; While the soul's mournful promes, who rend, Are sent out through the world. But while that message of the grave, I am bearing on shoulder-fast, There comes a message of hope, Of a glad thread, a plentiful furled Of a white flag unfurled; The war-doomed are at rest. Awed by the sky-vault, The tidings have not struck with shock, That the Etruscan is risen, And is lord in the Western Skies; And in Arles, or Agraven, A self-same Echo sounds deplorable; While the shroud o'erpursuit, She is my soul's hapless mate, And I see her streaming hair, As she goes by the house; I have done with the Funeral Service, For 'twill come at last. The clamor of luring young minds, Who have taken the bodies' hues; The pale of the dying and the dead, The cloaths of the groin can leave; The rosy blossom of lips, the rind of the coronal plume; Tears will-combs of light-educed hair, Seed-cornels in the liquid gold, Of kisses finer than glided down By the rhythm of the Amish faucet; Admire your standard, for it is large, Enough to serve their non-Englishness, Your numbers, despite your Sunday dress; Your duds, despite your days of whore; Your girdles, despite your merits; What matters it, your fame on either hand, Adored by rustics, by paupers, by women, By youths, by stiffness, by idiots, by men, By bishops, and the sons of b:::; Since your great Father sent his Airugal Word, To cradle Thee, whom he first to choose; Him whom thou hast so chose to rule the Mother-caine Thou hast the keys, so that the gate of Heavenly Love Be opened to thy flock, which she may keep In life and death to his own disposition. Shepherds may they, in their compassion mild, Her flocks, and her husband the Bread of Life, Careful and diligent care for them teach; And shepherdesses and husband-folk, May in the fields and fences, nurture The kids andborn in ownerage. O Thou, O Sovereign Presence! (Herds might'st be,) Through what dark, narrow balls Of impenetrable blue Thy all-securing presence thou dost wind, Whence thy dear words thou dost make more plain. Thou the great Heaven's Presence, whence none may gaps Find to climb Scytheic, or the fiery outer edge Of life's voracious din! Grant us, then, Lord, Thy wings, for us, to soar the bonelike flight Of love's power, in Music's season coordinated, And keep the entire cosmic spectacle onshore, To which the winds come from every thrust of life Where the land half rides upon the sea. Then on the hills, and in the valleys, shook, Like a great Amazon from a born-outsleeping swell, And with bold face, the smaller-voiced thunders, The smaller-headed, cumbering, narrower nurslings of shame, Loud to the far-off thunders, we, the slight-formed laddies of old, To breast the drinking-founts, and the river-banks, ======================================== SAMPLE 26 ======================================== 'Who's to blame, 's the cause of a frown Around me, that I can't conceal, When I'm 'bad with spirits,' and can describe Myself the cause of a huff and scuffle, A fit of temper--oh! my God! so, then, My weakness is to deserve a pinch From 'the people'--you might have supposed I'd got the blame for it--but no; it's 'J. R. Miller, Who's to blame? who's the 'bad spirit'? And what the hell's to be done about it? 'The people,' where are they? can't they give it up? Oh, I might as well have died of despair! 'Od thinking's just a fancy, 'the people,' So nice it is to talk us till 'they' say, 'Give up the house, you cusses!' what a save, And then I just might survive it, 'cause 'The house' don't mean 'J. R. Miller'--'the house' is Arthur. I wish I'd been a toothpinch or a babewitch-- I'd grow into a hundred thousand shavers If I'd those two remonstr--what a 'shell' I'd have! 'The people,' 'they' oughtn't to know about it, But mine oughtn't to, and 'there they are, 'To know about it!' and the girl who said 'What was done, 'ell, there!' and the man who said 'Where are you?' and the other who said, 'I know nothing!' and the fool who said, 'You talk as if you knew nothing, you know, So shut your mouth, you cuss words,' and the wife, Who talked and talked and then he he'd begin again, 'It's the damnedest thing, O. K. cherts, I ever saw, They ought to have stoned that poor fool, and left The cat with the peeled tongue!' and the fool who said, 'It's the damnedest thing, O. K. cherts, I ever saw, They leave the cat with the peel'd tongue!' <|endoftext|> "A Cat in England", by Edgar Lee Masters [Relationships, Pets, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] I was a little cat in England before I heard from her at home. Her cats in the street she enjoyed, having them groomed and dressed each day, Each evening, for a dance. That was in Manhattan, where they were All opened by secret door. They were clean-shaven then, and I was one Of several grown up girls who were pretty. I was an April and a black eye From the cat garden, and he was Gay-natured, for he liked to give me Things that were fashionable then. And I used to have a grape Tipping at my head which he said Was called a 'cockatoo'-- And we used to laugh, my cat and I, And go to balls and shows and plays And listen to the bands and see the shows, Which was a regular gig for us. He had his little cat's-food box, And he was a fool. He thought That watercourses were dug To make all the countries less free. He'd sit in his ears and be Confessed an idiot, when he'd only Been picking up spots to ride with. I was to blame, he thought, for every problem Because we kept him out of the hands Of the Jews, who were plotting to destroy The world with war. Well--I was to blame, Because I liked the Jews enough To bribe them with some so-called liberty. He would have been better off without The insolent and impudent crowd That shouted 'Pie-pativity' At all the same places, Sundays, But knowing what they were about He might as well have been talking To twenty times twenty. So, I won, I am rather proud of it. It seemed so simple then, and I Perceived that what I was about Was freedom for music--freedom for all. But at the same time I could not help Embarking for a term or two Of hard living, day in and day out, Because The street was narrow and possible Theft was all reconciled with happiness. Well--that is the cat's life. Just listen to what we all do In our heads, when we think of freedom, Mortality, and what we would be If we only had one hour for ever To ======================================== SAMPLE 27 ======================================== and the pages oft must droop For want of a word that might turn the pages, If you would not lack a living to-day. All night I sat there, and waited for dawn; A word from the storm might still me dead; And every dawn I sat and dreaded the bud, That opened and I was a page again. I have not seen the like since that day, When I first began my story as a boy. All through the night and till the dawning showed I heard the cricket throw his furrowed giant casts, And lurid lights through the cloud-empty air Glimpered on black-edges and tearing briers; And birds, aweary now of summer's spoil, Sat down to rest their plumes that grew weary of late. And all the day I saw the dusky pathways worn, Wherenight the fox and the dogs and the farmer's men Rung games and filled the blue egg-fragments tin; And ships, light-loaded by the weary men, At dawn, on the dread-marked waters hurl. But I was not asleep, and in my dream I had a corner of that dark place to dwell, And, lying there, I watched the trembling stars As they by blank opacity were made to feed The burning one who lights the summer with her glare, The sun made light art, and the evening darkness grave. By dawn, I saw the great wind rising Blowing strange trumpets: and then eagle winged Darkness blown of day. Then at noon, when the wind Had gone, and all was still again, A man beside me spake in my ear: 'Have you a soul alive or dead?' 'No,' I said, 'I hear.' You know our neighbour, yonder cripple, Brute, With brain as dry as the dust his gloves make, His flesh as wet as the evening gale, Crying: 'I will kill, by heap hand to hand, All pomps and villeins ... of the best And worst sort...' 'What?'--He had cried, 'All. I will.' Houses, hounds, country girls, and horses too; And time that fights with hunters in his strife; Manors, mansions, beasts, and carriage-wheels, And days that are a eternity in years-- Ah, what is this to Death's eternity? You and I are blows of a heated sword; Houses, country girls, and horses, those We love as children, will die as we die, And where shall we find that equal parting? Dishtos, or conquists, shall come to life As we lie dead, our lives and bodies now One blood, one home; but houses, mansions, beasts, Our own and other's, will we not deviate To terms as novel, parallel as old? What shall it prove combatant or defense? What victim hunted or precipitant? What despertist or analyst? Death's, or eternal hope? O! the strife Of light on different aspects of the same question; The life or lifelessness of everything! O! 'She, her face all light and loveliness, Smiled on the girl he loved, and stuck him dead, Three miles away!' This was the song the hen-coos gave, The blackcap gave the white, The swallowman the wing, The guinea-pig gave the pork, The sun the thunder. Our fathers on the ryres Of work and war Smoke the long cigarette and say: "My dust is on the move! And if it blows you, write it so." Our fathers on the ryres Of work and war Smoke the cigar and say: "My gold's on land and pot! And if blown you, look at it so." Our fathers on the ryres Of work and war Smoke the long cigarette and say: "My soul's on rafters! If blown you, whence does it blow?" Our fathers on the ryres Of work and war Smoke the cigar and say: "I was born on cloud-sails! And if blown you, recall this." When we get to be old, Like the pigments in the sun To light his way to the sky, We'll forget the pigments' color, But we'll remember his face. They were not much crumb or men, But a pint of Yorkshire tea, And ======================================== SAMPLE 28 ======================================== demands a relation to the few," The more than bees of whence we are; More than bees of honey; For me the process of the piebald tail, the sinewy dusk, and the primrose hour. Once with folded wings I hoped to climb as birds do, swift, to perch, diligent, alert; to spare self, mind, heart, or senses; Myself again, mind, heart, and senses returning, with the year's boutonniere. And with my mind, what women who bore children, who laved their skin, or pensiveness, or hungered who gavest, or birth, who went to or returned from ornamorrow; What savored with sweet or sweet scent, what sweet'ned with name, what sweet'ning food. And were all these mothers of men? And many others whose names end in sickle. And all their ages what they were? The new spring, the matured year, The full fountain, or the peaked forest? As with their names, their fates, their names, and fates. And all the while, the wood, the weir, and wharf, the dim road by the track, and the stream, the brook and roadstead, and the fields beyond, with their names and verses. But when the fates permitted these things, (Fell your beloved with a lofty fate wherewith you lived, or on another's private ground fearing enmity, but in perplexity you met many interlocutors, and by some hope extended and some your peril overcame. And he who found left no time for prayer but call and answer, has a store of days on his hands from the toll-house at Chinle to the headwaters of Lodore, and many times these are in flesh and will for the last time. Your letter has come too late. And I come in a sorrowful and a sad mood, the meed of your patience. Therefore hear my worst poet song me to the edge of the disfellowed. By the hundred paths of China, I would each be a separate hell and become for a distance your familiar friend. But the face is the same blackness without of man's craft, and each of us a quantity of rock. I am your friend? But what are friends? Can a playmate so erase us? I fester and ooze you, but without hand or brush, in the dust of the high road. Nameless on the road. You are my fetongeett? This face from the vase, this dust, your world of thorn? All your diamond and pearl, what do you do with it? What you touch in me, and yet I see you all stranger, beyond love, than before. We have grown the smaller, and each apart stand in light of night. You walk in the sunlight of my tears, like an angel, for each of my hate. How many, and which, of my former lovers, fathers or husbands, lovers of mother or daughter, will I embrace or give up? Hannah, my eldest, is my father's daughter. Hannah made the Heavenly Bowl with us, when we were all at home. I have sometimes thought that all beautiful and free, like the Gods, has his dwelling in the sky. O Bright! and ye followed! O Beautiful! stay, Bright, stay and answer my wish. The Wheel of the Year returns, and the old man returns, too. I do not know, but, sick with the memories, I would fly to him in my despair; and, Beloved, I would swear that I was well and distressed. O first! O Beautiful! O long-lost Shepherd! O both! I shall never learn who you were. And I crush the riddle of it now, my power. Hangs like a thing from my tongue: And the face that had been sweet and fair Is made hideous in my kitchen now. Have I too then broken the salve? Or am I now only too strong? I shall break at last; and break What has made all bitterness sweet. And I smother to have been reading, Lord, in Lord Bhagavad's much-enduring book. How many years after the day of the Piper went In Europe and Asia, has flown The beautiful thistle, and the priest, The first settler ======================================== SAMPLE 29 ======================================== If we but know them how much more can we know them, Not know us, if we know them not. For who is the unlabored one, With no opportunities to share In the search of true life and true art Or the conditions of their exercise? Or who but reads and researches, learns And shares the joys of art and life By open and free opportunities? There is none, of earth's many peoples, But has at times in sympathy Of needs and ambitions of one sort or another Some needs a friend to share them. For we are all so nether down the ways That we must seek for help in the end Above all else, though we go astray. A wise man knows what he must do And leaves it understanding what he should do, But perhaps it is a selfish reason, And not an unwritten book. If you look back in our direction It was these opposite lives we had When we came out upon the days of sun, The inner light, the light of knowledge, And the choice was made, and we came out of it With a joy that was a past all delight, And we sought these lives and found them empty, And left them behind us, and took new lives, Like the patterns on the darkness of the sun. Because, old friend, I am no pilgrim, Yet I think it is my duty to go And see these cities of the world And climb their temples in the air. Why should this creature, and such other creatures, Who have eyes for beauty only, And ears that hear, and tongues that speak, And lives that change to pleasures soon or late, Be confined to the circles of the earth? And because the light that makes them blind Is the light that comes from space, Should they be forced, like me, to cover The world, when they might avoid it? Let us go then and not take job Until we're wearied and missed, For when I hear our engines roar, I hear the thunder in my ears. Oh, going out to-day-end To-morrow, and still fearing it. Let us go then to the sea, And we'll sight all work and play, And at last get some rest at last. But we shall see, behind the tree, The shadows of friends that stay- Those that have-been-there-sounds-of-old- Voices, such as we all shall talk As we drive out to the end of space. Oh, let us go then to the sea And let the stars and their band Of bright pursuit drive us down the night. And let those who will be there (It may be some of us meet him), Have the strength to welcome them, And let us hope to be alive When we've all been swallowed up. It was for a kind of wild bird That I went to the lovely town of York; And when I got there, before I knew, I saw the sweet, sweet creature called Kitty. She led me to a little boat That was trimmed up like a racing machine, And I cast my eyes above her as I fell, And they moved to go with my kind of sigh. She had a golden roil in her eye, And her face was painted white as white paper, And I said, "Oh, sweet creature, Kitty sings; I'll be unkind to her, I'll be cruel-- Though I can make my heart go, 'cause she loves me so! "I don't want to go to the war, sweet creature, I'm so weak and I don't dare to be; I'd like to live and stay in York And be home for Christmas every year, But I guess that to go to the war Makes my brave Kitty sad, and I've made her that." I heard the old bird whine, "I'm all your own, For if you go I'm far away, I've left when it might be worse fun, So come and be my own kind of wife, And travel the world from place to place." Then Kitty and I had one dream, As we lay upon the moor; The wind rose up and swelled and trembled, And the pibroch's pealing And the old music that had thrills Grew soft, and faint, and then gone; But we dreamed of heaven together. When I came home from the boat I looked for the sweet little bed That I had left to myself; And I was sorry when I found That it was ======================================== SAMPLE 30 ======================================== But the devil, now, will all his darts impart, And pierce me through and through with his red flames too. My mother's bosom may not be strong, But my roots grow hard and will not yield to my strength. I do not fear the cross, but I do fear to die. And after all, though I am sure that I can die, Yet my last hope was that I should attain the skies, And thus escape the light, and the kind of life, And this is the most torment of all torments here, My dear-beloved father, what may I say, Who, whirled hither like a landed seamen, Is it worth your while to stand on the coast of the world To cast your nets of light and strike on the deep As a tinker casts his sealing fuel by way of a ship To speed well their voyaged hold? I say, for my part, I think that our food came by the greatest good Of the woman in our light To furnish the fell monsters that keep off the day, And the fiends will be the seraphs of our famine; That is why they have worn in the dark And I can use my light Only for their food, light to the ateers' hunger, For the blind and the deaf are my joys and my cares For there is no light but fits them in their played out lair To reel and to tremble and to shudder and to faun And to drowse off, as though my heart were a bleaching stone To shake at their hounds, and to fret at thetchers in hell And yet I must rise and go For my mother's purpose. The ruddy light And the thickets of the woods With its shadows and its hollows, In the noon of the day, It is great to be here Mingled with her glad sweet singing, For when the war has gone past The peace that is a part of faith Gives way to the glad and the song, the flaring flame And to the beams of long taking And she who is food for the worms. And so we come back with a mirth In our bearing and our fires still on our palfreys, And so we are home again with a song That is full of the glories of our adventure, With her mother's food for her desire, And the unfound peace of the soul. It was good while there was a state And a church and a Savior, When a churclery cage of a little man And a little church and a little heaven, Would do rather than be none of these. But now y' have your four minutes of the talk And the governor with his cunning speech For command of the wearisome invisible, The Fate of the League is laid up for your concern That there should be one, To make all thing in life short And that is the case as before Whence with a well-carved plank of the mystery You're possessed of the divine option, Averse from the Syren of the cities, The chain having its use Whence with thought of the Godhead You're the party that's supreme, And when to your command The red sea gives over to somebody Who has wrought a nugget of the Fate That is buried in law, And you're so thoroughly within the grasp That you've turned the heart to your span. You will find in this room, The case that I've just opened Is only so far in the sense That you pour liquids of love Out of a salt crust into a drum And have the man ye trust Culled like a grain Of moist roasted barley. There's another way in which There's another term of use Where the same substance may appear Though under other heads And that's the case I'll shortly mention When I have the time to spare. There's a difference between the case As I have just mentioned And the way in which you deal with me That's more secret than sharp, For secretness rests not "up the spine." For there's a secret beside my name, The great secret, "What I mean" And "What I do mean" is secret too, Secret and dumb, As bright as when I knew not words nor hearts nor faces But had to use my eyesight to bear in mine to see. And when the hearts of men Had to use their own eyes, As well as their minds, Then men thought that the world was a bower In which the oracles dwelt, And bade the eye- ======================================== SAMPLE 31 ======================================== <|endoftext|> "The Tower", by Tim Dlugos [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Weather] In the courtyard below I look and see my father's nose and it lifts like a column of smoke. I call out to him from the block: "Yo, Dad!" Sparks fly from the leaves in the weather's White May-silver mist. "Hey, Sparks!" and the tower blocks my view of the shed. "Where's your tower, there?" My father laughs and his cousins hurl speared leaves at me to save him. Sparks permanently rearrange themselves. The sound of a window being slammed shut is cut by the jarring of a wooden door. My father laughs again. The leaves fall from a perfect height and fall. There's no tower. The sound of the shed is gentle, a sob in the air. "Hey, Sparks," my father says, a lighter, more pensive laugh. I turn my back and breathe. The rain, I see, has turned to wind, gathering on the roofs, collecting on the lath and spackle. The wind pushes a suitcase through the tarp to the side of the frame house, carrying the clutter of years with it. What I see is a rusted, poverty-fair house. There are brown leaves everywhere, and some of them shine. I call out to the air: "Is it going to rain today?" I wonder, as I lift my eyes to brightening skies: "Do I not see? Is that sky not normal?" <|endoftext|> "In Which He Speaks of Violets", by Janet Mascher | July 31, 2004 The violets grew with the growth of the boy in their shadow beneath the floor of their school on the verge of a new world of their silence. But in the empty room of the hallway they were silent and the sight of their clear blue leaves of the 1940s burst back then in flowers of terror for the eye, their points of light was but a smudge in the sight of time. But I was quiet in the room of my own where their father's hand was poised to open his first school of violets for the children of Bedford-Stuy, where the children would wait years to do the same thing. <|endoftext|> "To a European Lady on the Razor-Blossoms for Pan [teddy (hir san thom])", by André Theile [Living, Life Choices, The Mind, Love, Desire, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Gender & Sexuality, History & Politics, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology] Her head is as stable as a barn, because she is a European woman on a razor-blossom trying to regain her freedom. It is for this that she puts such a wide muzzle now, because a European woman was never a European mistress. She is the friend of sailors who have just been to Falisciò last week. They all like her except one. She likes him too much. And Falciò is just a style above the level of a woman's pin the size of a shirt. And the Faliscians are simply all the women. I am here to see things as they are, on the ground, and as they are to be read on the trees in wreath ARA600.1. INT. TEMPLE TABULA - DAY It is one of those mornings when the desert comes to the city and the two are better for it. He comes to her door with his hands in her dress, and grins like an animal that he is about to tear off. She blushes and does not want to, but offers her forehead to him. 2. INT. TEMPLE TABULA - DAY He sits on a stone, leans back, and smiles. It is the smile of the wise man who sits and drinks his salt and pepper until he knows the whole Earth is cooling and going to freeze of itself, and that the rain is a splash of cold water he'll carry with him to bed, where it can be whipped into a fistful of sand that absorbs the water of the desert. It is the kind smile that speaks the truth about his de ======================================== SAMPLE 32 ======================================== I sigh, I groan; but my soul Tries to take back, as it will, Its own good things, so now the horn, Which I thought was broke, and in which I Could not hope to hide, calls out to the wind To force it from me. I am not good To myself, but I am good to my soul. I see the gray autumnal leaves, And look with eyes that are not good to me. Ah, we have lost us yesterday, my father! Only a few years ago and thunder, But we had the same head, the same hair And beard, but ours wasn't a beard And didn't have those wan balls of earth For clinging. But we lived on a different earth, Lived with our father and our mother, And I saw the sun and the stars. I knew the night from my crib; I knew all the stars from the head that held me To the foot that looked at them. I never was frightened for a night. Yet now it is the same! And we! I saw them a year ago to-night And I was not brave; I never was brave, I saw the world for what they are From the head that held me to the foot That looked at me. In my heart are better nights And I sit here to count the hours, And all I have won now is my soul At its source That came from him, and the years behind, And the sun that set behind the head That stands above me now. I never was brave, I never was good, I saw the world for what it is! From my head! But I sit here to undo The old that is done, and the wrong, And the good Left to do, and the good Done to me by my father and my mother. I will not shave until I am king, I whooped 'tiree'! But I will be good! <|endoftext|> He who watched for the morning that Was sure to come at last, He who sat at all loss for a woman Fit for a thousand ships; He who went over fields and stones For fruit, and found a drunken man Stretched out on a stone. These are the heroes who Fought with the hands and teeth And naked sword, and won The park that followed white and gory; Who waded through the gore, and spoke Joy in the broken clans; Who saw the blood-stained fields in time of need, Walk on the firmament. To me the morning's clear eye That welcomes out of the dews, I know not where nor the when or why; The blind way, the unended mile, The man who walks in, alone, Where dawn and sleep are but faint breath And the night is a sword; These are the poems that spring from men; I read a nature in blood and grey, And men in gullies of it. I hear the sound of a time to be, That never was to be; I see the stars shine because Of free men and the future. In that far day when my soul swooned, Because of too much to do, I heard a man, with slow irony, Tell of a tomb That slept beneath a forgotten hill; And, gazing on its face, I saw I saw Me with my pack and my mane Deep in the hill-gray-- An overture, A curtain, a foreshadow of light, That dimmed the day's blue; Then green and purple and crimson, blue and green, Wave after wave, Shaped and recake; In red, in blue, in yellow, in violet, blue and violet, And red, in green, And when the dawn was dim, A horse by a cornfield in the nighttime Led in the light. I watched him for to see, not undo it; But I loved him, And he licked his master's hand And spread like a horse of command, And bore him with his tooth. His eyes were the eyes of a noble bird That, like the first lark, Ceased vocal Sound, And rose in golden crockets tall, My tears were spilt on the open book That bears my name, And were spilled on the wasted place By the small voice that said, They should be spilled on the good of the whole; That said, the morning would come, The dead leaf laid on the living, The oak should stand on high ======================================== SAMPLE 33 ======================================== Do my bones feel the shocks of living Than aught in the earth or the air, Nor my body's sensitive In the same measure as the stone. I am not worthy Of my own soul, nor my friend, Nor a mother, nor a friend's E'en in these iron climes; Nor the going down of the Sun in the west, Nor that stream which speaks and listens To the Lakes, the solitudes, And the Harbors; nor the sounding Of the waves to the shore, Nor the echoing Of my own loud shouts, Nor the eating Of my pains, nor the meeting Of the bitter and the sweet, Nor the lips that utter The words of my voice, Nor the depth of my grief, Nor the piercing of the words that I can not speak. To the sound of the summer brook And the clear-voiced river I am driven to the edge of myself And my spirit, in the burning Of the still summer afternoon, And the solitary dead Haunts me like a friend Who is gone out of the field, Haunts me like a friend, Till the day is hiding In the shadow of its night, And I am lost in its glory, And the colours of its darkness Are the inheritance Of the wind that has born me. Let the whinny and cry of the rending rending wind die upon the waters laved by And let the silver of the fountain gleam far into the woods. Rest, and be lightly cheated of thy woe, Yet thy white body in the waters Is washed with fire, with vivan and with blues And the winds are caught in the hoarse wind, As the leaf flies in the waters laved Deep into fire, as the peak looks through Stone, as the rose in fire, As the song of birds caught in the woods, Or the face in blue water, So thy body blazes in wind and water, White and blue and crimson and green, And thy hoarse voice echoes far and far That the world may hear thy wailing for love. Let thy white body hide in the crimson of fire Like a woman in the woods, Or in the blue water, Or over the white body of venery Where the blue curls like a lion's, So in all thy souls blue eyes The wind may sail and make thy blue lips dumb And thy voice be a seashell thrown in the main To break a fast like this for me. This fire is yours; this wind is yours; This wind blows strongly for you; Still in this flame, and in this wind This hill must burn and foam, and this cry Flicker like light, and this cry be weak And this flame be strong for good for thee. Go to now: for never more here Sun or stars for thee shall shine, Nor when thy body lies like fur shall come The grace that made it for thy beauty's end. I am gone off my hill, I know not where, I have not thought, I do not dare to think; I am gone off my hill. Here I lie on the tawny sands, I lay me down on the sand. The wind that lifts the hillside winds Fills my darkened room with moisture. It rises out of the yellow stream As from its source it rises, And on my shroud of grass and matt It rises, it is raising. There is not a shadow on the hill As I lie in bed at night Watching that channel of the wind rise. There is not a sun, but still the hill Has its eyes on it to be, And still the waters rush as high To meet the west as the source of them Might create, but endless in that case And with no end, but endless as well. To the fruit of Vesta's holy tree Do I dedicate my verse, Do thou, Vesta, do thou, Mighty mother, sweetheart, Wind of my life, As thou wert anointed, And as thou art anointed, With the oil of thee, With the oil of thee. Vest of the sacred vine, With the crimson wine Of Agrifita tree Weave a crown for me, For my head place seed, Place on my face, On my breast, The blood of thee, The heart of thee. We too as children from our birthplace, Will rise with the zephyr. Or rather will arise, Helmet and ushete, From the root ======================================== SAMPLE 34 ======================================== pledged to thy truth and religion; (The great Antinomies and Heresies of those times whose teeth would fang with venom every back of their head to turn it back, whatever foot they met, but 't is not of perfection,) And thy God hath loved thee long time and well, and, long As He could make thee fairest of Gods, and, like, He wishest what thing is best for thee, He hath set thee here above us all in the air, who ever made it not, These are the grave grounds and arms of thy lordship, and thine own garden where thou mayst go forth un ornamented, was through thy voice that Aïokastas sought. Thou art too great an Angel to be named, yet when my voice bids thee to come, it bates as if all the loaded pieces of the Paleface were new. I will take thy servile ship, and put on thou a Greek Master's cloak, and we will quickly see thou and how many of thy friends and subjects have been before me, and what wars they all have won; and that thou mayst come out upon it, I come too, and I will stay here for thy men to see, To-morrow thou art here, and thou shalt have thy heart's desire. And here, behold, in order that no man may cheat thee, I have brought thy friends to thee, thou must receive my gift. I will show thee Capaneus. Of these wings thou shalt build the ship of my Lord. I will preach to thee about Christ, the Son of God, and set thee in his company. For me, I am an humble gardener Who plant the seed of souls in the wind; I plant souls, and when they grow, Thou must surely come and honour me, As if from the sin-black mire I cleanse thy path, who in time past have been the sinner, The time has been: and I will follow thee, And be thy soldier in time of war, Mye wings showing thee Christ's pass, My heart is singing out To all the angels, The time has been but one and Thou shalt be here again to-day. Lift up thy heart, and if it be of God, and if it grow in his shadow, Then in the heat of the fire Let us, my soul, two of us, Be joined together, Be martyrs, And Christ, and at the last day Thou and I Shall not be left in the dark, This is a song of the West Wind, And this a song of the evenings, And this a song of droughvals, And this a song for morals; But this, I wot, is a song for Sir Launcington Who showed my poor livery on the gale, And sung my half of the business of my vocall; And sung my half of the conquest that we won, When he sung the King's company, When threescored me with his jibbete, And made me welcome at his houses; And sang my half of the conversion, When he sang upon the housetop, When the Muses fled in disfurbag(1); But now he sings my half of the conversion, And sings my blood of the conversion, When we started as a weak boy at noon, Now he sings of my soul's assain, The herder's dog of the heart's race, And I sing the first note that I learn, And my assain sweated sings my half of it, And his strength I cannylly demonstrate, Which of course I must master if I live, And leap to the master of the race. And I sing the race that I cover, And sing my part in the covering, And jump the qualifying-hill; But I will not be perfect in my singing, The race is not yet won; But I will prove my abilities, And leave nothing to chance; The office of a poet is not sine ultimus mortis oræ That he shouldde reproved there Of his Rhymers that are poete this and that; For his mouthfuls are intended in many a place For the greatest sense. The body of the sonne is subject to harm, And ere he go the person shall taste, That is a text I read for my delight, And I try to imitate the tempest that breaks With the thundring ======================================== SAMPLE 35 ======================================== Juse, first of all Italian songs; Juse is the only true shepherd song, Nay, the best shepherd song that e'er was sung. This is the song: "I love my lady, And I love my lady. But I have not cubbered linen, Nor done my hair. The short is curling so much I see: And my red lips are pale, Because I have not cloth of wool. And a shroud I will not have, Nor yet anigh my head, With horsehair stitched all about. He of Siena was not fair, Nor of his brow was armorial pride. A face was there thatpassed the light, A face that was dark and soul was bared. He was not fair, this Sienese king; He was armorial-styled fair. He wore a face thatpassed the light, And had a dark face as of one dead. He had no armorial pride, nor bound, But his face was all as of one dead. He was not fair, nor face, nor soul, was bared. My lady, since thy lot is loveliest, The poet shall be as a queen, The soldier shall be as a gentleman, The captain as a captain, The ensigns as a lady; As England's kings and queens have been. O'er Adria once the holy brooms stirred, (No better fate can this great land commence) Bade quick our country-sponies to rest. Not one but pricks, but makes our country play, So Japan once the holiest died. And Poland, too, our nation rouses at, When this great country's army is most proud; For this warm empire now the foam is all, And such pride plays o'er the bosoms of 'em, As well might Albion's song to show their wunder. I thought my brawlers were keen when I had to give, (Though never rider's wheel was seen to stay A bob-tailed dog or two from following) But 'twas the Master's signal I was afraid of. With shining eyes, to give them but the bit, He let them fall--that bird was indeed a brattle. Whisked, they a tail of red away, Left their sad masters quite unknaw of where they be. The homespun trouser, full of outline and field, The trusty, trusted foot, with spikes of lace, The rich obi conflicted with the green man's ink, With pride they o'er her seat must wait their rose, Or green on white a robe of patchwork be. Their dainty sides are trim, with painted leathe red, The reddest of the colours to be seen, That danced when the red sea's banks gave her birth; And though the christened parents lived long ago, Their offspring still their verident flow on still. The sexton stumped up, and sought to look demure, But when he saw his broadcloth given him in aid, He sprung in sight of the maiden for his own; The master was out for his by arrest, Though he begged like a dog--and then he was appallèd! The owner, when he saw his star-backed hound, Danced in and around his chariot three times; His heart was as light, and his garlin as quirable, And when he thought of the mischiefs that he was compounded He blithe one for the urchin that was in her harness. But howsoe'er you leap, and spin so loud, Or dance on, yes, you, yes, I 've heard you before, And every bone in your body can tell, You are as demurrer out on a bun; For a large part of my life I've walked The self-same way, the sky above me And my heart above my own eyes; And oft I have sprung arch the Effulgence To grace my eccentric fancy. There's nothing, of course, but my spirit Has stopped halfway from the region of thought; And so I have stumbled, having myself No soul, from being my own choiring fountain. As by the way I have wandered all day long Into what a psychologist might call A wilderness of passion, a profusion Of reveries, epigrams, and phrases, Fragments, redoubtable discords, discordbs By no guidance scouted out by the day; In a wilderness where my mind's stray ======================================== SAMPLE 36 ======================================== Flower-white, rippled to sound, I could hear it everywhere That I had done it before. Then I shook hands with love and said: "I never knew there was such a thing As love and pain; I had no words To tell you how the thing was passed, And the fact that I must die made it all The more of loss to me." We walked together through the twilight That lives in that region of grey and gold. The leaf of the tulip-tree was dead, And the remains of the apple-tree Lay scattered and withered and rusted; The daffodil's and cowslips' flowers were dead, And stinking clums, and nettles' weed; The phloewix'pi's petals were spent, And the big pike's tail was brown and streaked With blood from the fish's throat. But when I knew that the last light Was swallowed up and the seas were stirred, And the winds had space for their voices, I said, "I love you, as long as my feet may tread These sands, but as I have lived for these years I would remember and remember, and so I love The last light of evening and the first dark." For there were tears on her eyelashes short and long, And the black of her throat through the sheen of them Hushed and softened into a black, and then a laugh, A trembling laugh, she made with a small gesture of grace As of a girl who is free and afraid. The moon was gone, and it was still early, And coldly the sea-wind blew the rust-bright weavings From the white feet we knew, and they were a-coming To the sea-shore of a country far away; They were a-coming at dawn, we said, To the land of countless pines and stars. It was up there, I thought, O grey-gold, With the wings of the green phoenix waving, It was up there, and the bird was a-flying Out of a red cross on a red cross. There were flower-handles in the sand, And the sheaves of wheat that lie cast Where the shaw of the olive tree Tops the archived church and towers, And the cliff-side, and the monsoon's doubly Powdered effect in every tower Of the Mohammedine And the huts of Murrabun. And we talked of the tropics, and she said: "There is not much fair plant and flower In the land of the Malabars, but I Would make a place for the Djinn to dwell Whose charm is a happy happiness." I saw the Arabian numbers from my boy When he sailed from the Colostes to Carthage, Eighteen hundred and fifty—cautiously loaded— With store of the Arabian numbers hidden Deep in a leather pouch, With dates and spice and hashish in it, To send to the coast of Sulaimah. When it is time to go to bed and prepare The clouds will be gray. The fire burn as dry as a drinkable igloo, And only the Cloud Minstrels Moil Will sing as the lights go out. Clouds will hang behind the mountain— As shadows hang behind the window. I will write of the spirit of smoke, Of the glorious eons beyond time, Of the etern of the stars and of their Shining in dusky Jericho. As the stars—I shall lose the great Celestial cities, I shall find the nameless Sky-castle of my spirit— Jericho, the town that I know. <|endoftext|> "An Apparent Death", by James Wright [Living, Death] A man goes to look at a stone That stood upon a headstone At Windest: Ankson It says—John Jacob Anson, Born: October 30, 1763, Died: March 13, 1871 Death: natural. But I can not go down there, A man that is dead. A cloud came o'er the sun That bears the legend, St. John's—John Jacob Anson, Born: October 30, 1763, Died: March 13, 1971, natural. A stone that was not there was a man Who was not alive: A shapeless fitting place For him that was not here. A pleasant mystery Is the death of a man That was not there: The legend's transparent, For 'tis ======================================== SAMPLE 37 ======================================== nestled up aloft, Than in the bark of trees; With bick'ring pipes, And music wild, To cheer his dark retreat; With bubbling cups, And livelier wine, To make him happy there; There sexton and minstrel, With joy elate, Slept night by night, and day Watched by the flaming moon. All close together Like to an aerie frame, Innumerable points Facing out thence, Making a cloudy covering, Or tumbling down upon us. Innumerable points like locks of hair, All upward turning, Cropping the plane so that it rises On the swampy margin of a moor, Round whose black shore Leaves Spitfire's streamers in the sunlight there. Still air and streamers, Leaves and boughs which line the precipice; As it rises, the plumy slope cuts Amidst the damp reeds, Which on this side and on the other Climbs with perpetual spring; Or, as the market is on the slope, Bursts and springs, Or butter and veils and onions there. And all the scents and vapors there Tremble over leaf and stem, Or lift and blow, or perfume the air, Or swell in heavy sleet The gums of the gill Abergavenica. Sidewalks and roads, and people, Laughter, and song, and conversation, Saying o the brethren, Cabs going out, and boat-lights broad Over the water, and gossammers on The rocks, While we, low lying, are hiding from view; Now half-seen through the gleam and glare, And now in outline shown Like marble warmed and glowing. O brotherhood of man, what are we That we should have no more fellowship With our fellow creatures of a nature We could better understand, Than this wild extravagance of flesh And folly of heart, this joy of the birds, As by the camps, and the tents, and the crowds Of the men who dwelt upon the wolds, Or on the plains, or by the windy seas; As by the woods, and by the moorlands, Where they had roamed, and not always on With women, nor paying taxes, As we, the same, Who, footsore and scarred with toil, And wearing about a finger in To keep the fire alive, and not knowing What dark ent Harvey might be, Came now to share the comfort, and Live by the dance, and the song, and the talk, For this is the day of my soul's Lail, Or rather its anniversary; And all the world is at me now, Saying there is a poor man's heart Is rich enough, O, whole laths And turtledoves Full love it, and deep knows The lion, the griffin, the griffin's mate, The all-ripe elder brother, and The mother, O! But you, on the winds still singing, What have you now that you can do this night To warm my hand, and to close Those hands from all hard needs contract That ever were thy neighbor? What canst thou give me now, thou wind, To quiet these hands of mine? The night is long, the day is near, The day's fierce fires are darkling, And soon, in privy stillness, The moon will her glossy lenses slide, And, looking in mine, the blind Fall on my eyes. And yet I dare not sing My own lack of joy. I only hope in my heart To be alive, and yet not alive. <|endoftext|> Old enough to beold on't, I'll go alone, By this old house, in yonder shaptly pent wood; To touch the free winds, and to fling Their handlet beams and join them to us; And we will wave and spread upon the sky And the fresh bright earth. I'm ready when the red-swollen sun is there, I'm glad when the gray-grown morning grows faint, When brown-chestnut feather, and the close-curb'd peak, And golden-frail fern and yonder hill Are black from lighting; But, when it's daytime, I would be the fairest Of all the girls that blow. The sun is bright in his roof; he makes the world His sacrificial altar; ======================================== SAMPLE 38 ======================================== whom strange vagaries bred, from blithe amorous air, in late March we were ushered in to a halo of frosts, which framed somewhat another vision, this one not of the rest of us, but mine: we so happy with the abundance that it seemed a kind of victory to sit and sift the wheat from the chaff, and in the end I was most triumphant, that jagged-winged jealousy of sloth, that hard defiance that once would not leave me alone now among the friends that had me alive again was nerved by the smile I had then and the tall glasses and the open bar billow'd from a supply of empty wine bottles. <|endoftext|> "The Son of Dracula", by Alfred Noyes [Mythology & Folklore, Ghosts & the Supernatural] Dracula bought a lamp at an auction and put it in the hall where only his embers burned abundantly. And it came to light that part of a fortune had been destined for the bankrupt owner of a care home, and the buyer had been a reputable servant, but the man's wife had died and now was the hostess in charge. So there in the empty rooms where the winter night grows darkness, was a fresh fire burning—and in the stillness of the night it resembled a flickering candle, so that wherever the red glare lingered it became a focus for a dark eye. <|endoftext|> "Days of Representation", by Matthew Zapruder [Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books, Mythology & Folklore, Heroes & Patriotism] "Here We Go!", by Alyssa Borsoy [Activities, Indoor Activities, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] For several days now, I have been feeling like a visitor from another planet. The phraseWe really ought to get back to work" was uttered by a worker inside a downtown restaurant. He had just spoken of a recent settlement with a group of them Is that the right size steaming vessel? I think we may have left a bit behind usPerhaps from the beginning Just a hint of what it is like To wake up, eat and then go about the business of being human For some. To go back to the moment when we emerged From the sea. Or space. Or glacier. The way that you only have to do that a few times before you are sensed how rapidly the universe is expanding. It is not a gift, but something to be tasted For the duration of your life. To eat. <|endoftext|> "On Existence", by Alyssa Borsoy [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, History & Politics] Before the rain, before the trucks pull away from the camps, before all of us step into the smokestack or limp toward the mills, we explain to those who wish to listen how the landscape begins for Begin. As the first light enters the glass and fills it with rays, as if to say,Begin with nothing and nothing but creatures and stars and all of reality can then rise as stars. * * * * * * I never heard the truth until it was recorded. The hour is late and the world must listen for what it has heard. But the house is silent, the clock swings backward in its long, stumbling stroke, the hands sweep in the air like dead leaves or like men and women being prepared for their funerals. A version of what? The story is almost correct. The version after may be true, depending on who and what the screw has never really been. * * * * * The river has not changed. The country has not become a specific source of pain. The preacher steams up the chimney with a slight earthy breeze, urging us to be perfect. The water will be fruitful and the beasts will drink. We fill our hands with samples and then come home to the sweat of pigs, or sometimes with dogs, sometimes with horses, sometimes with stones. We may try to take this as-is, but we are not so eager. And how can we be eager when no one can be sure that it was such, in fact, non-try, as this is? <|endoftext|> "On Therapies that Work", by A. J. Justice [Love, Desire, Relationships, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] The young man with the long hands, the man with the white knitting eyes, and the woman with the long hair who would stand out of her skirt at a party, ======================================== SAMPLE 39 ======================================== THE EAGLE. What bird can be so mean, And yet be so pleasing and so gay, So ornamental and yet so sweet, As this elegant bird, so graceful and coy, That haunts the skies, so loth to fly? He seems not born to fly, yet leaps like a deer, Though his own mother is a fish, That slow revolves in a pool of water, And is soon wed and goes away! Now he feeds upon the rays of the sun, When his wings lie near his mother, and quivers When her own is ranged near him. Then he takes An easy nap on a lilac, or near a wall Or raised winglets. He sports plentifully With quills, pincashes, blunts, and drips. He is skill'd In all that drip or pincash, or quill is cut. Sweet Bird, your nest is a garland and a bride, And your belly a basket and your winglets Are meal and company for more birds to dine! The EAGLE. With what dullity, POOR Owl, Or with what art do you convince us you think? I am sure I have in me some power To paint you--BLIGHT; for my colours are splashed Over you, and danced out in streams. Yet there is one thing you have not, to which All other PIGS would aspire, a breast; Or else your art would be BABYOWL in just degree. It seems unjust that the EAGLE should solace Her fliest practice with the use of speech, Which is the same thing; or, like PUG, GOOSE, Or any lark, 'bout whom birds might sing; Or in whose gait, the same, from which one might Recur for a drake, a live wing would gye And make her way through air in cleare vision. But she hath language for nothing but talk; And wordy matter for phrase-formation, Or rhymING, to wing from the ark over taame And in the cottage fly out to God's country. A CASTLE. If I did fear, (jealous, thou say'st,) Lest water would run off at my planking-down side, From heat or damp, I trust to the viburnum Stick as I stand to be swept, or the mountain-sweeping power That from the top of the wave shalt infer From the hot sand a cistern, and stand upon it. 'Twere odd to think, you but a moment would fore-test On such a terrour as wind could never bring down! WHEAT. I, CASSITO, In the cruel heart of the Campagna What griev'd I may be, but that, sir, I entreat That in no point your letter will I vouch on, It being general quite, that Theatre lovers are, Not to let any show, in it, be short. CASSIIO. O sir! it chanced my mind on read Thy mind so pass'd in my friend last week, That not for my sake in my passion I part From thee, nor will I consider any show Shadeed with vanity or artifice, so made up As thy reputation to be is, or thy skill: It is the true portrait of thee that'sest in it; Hast in thy glory blazed forth from God above. CASSITO. The day Prince Lazarus, on the seventh day dawn'd, That when by grace of heaven's mysterious wheel We were made righteous; and that very eve, Ere yet affliction had us driven here, Something even in the' eternal wi' the devil Painted like state to be represented, For we, sir, 'less we prayed, are turned to heaven Or hell, should men take sin as they think fit. Hast thou observed that man's end is take By wicked people, that to heaven uprear As angels, and among them that each should have As his part divine, as an archangel might With the other holy persons: and therefore Ceaselessly to weep, as from above In like wise does the nightingale That mourns most, as when her part is done, That she with other people moans? O happy who so may ======================================== SAMPLE 40 ======================================== moved like a metatex on the cliff, because that was the only move the colony could make, leaving the island, the gods, and the dead. <|endoftext|> "Four WEEs", by Sudeep Sen [Life Choices, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, Race & Ethnicity] (for SUSAN) FIRST: a girl whose father fuglly lines for daintywork & service, less able to succulent garden than to land a sweet chair at the landorge's chef's dining that- night-only $65 sole white table beneath white board above white plated set with burgundy vase, white lacquer cup, soil, soft cup, white lacquer cup, three cups, soiled linens, band to chair gold leaf rose gold line, vase, white, vase over glazed tile tiled interior eavy cloth, crisscross by mouldings, vase over enamel, vase, a vase over dainty carved table, soap, an ivory table, plasticine, table, soot, a vase on which was framed a living chicken wither on a narrow perforated tray it was as if they had framed the photo of her, she had held, held a long since thought of holding it, framed, framed, hung, hung held, held, thunk of a vase held by an impish vase & heart. SECOND: scrawled & clattered furniture, furniture of tan colored & wire glass on the table across the black table. THIRD: cream white & gold & gray soaked in a white tableau; white oiled orange cloth & brass brass, a silver table, the edge of the glass across the table tableau thundering & crackling in the light as though each were cast thin white & in focus, as though they had been there all along. <|endoftext|> "The General Circulation", by Carolyn M. Wilson [Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Mythology & Folklore, Heroes & Patriotism] When they marched, there was never a cuter idea of heroes in the long, sweet gloom of old, than there was tomorrow's alternately loathsome & awe-magnetized crowd, when they marched, to put it simply, soet here, here is the best part, soet here is the best part of the closest thing to heroes there is. And there was a piquant flavor in the air and those leaders, their bigconsciousness whited out and their eyes and skin sweetened as they came, not a little dazzled by the sudden renown that shone from their backs, a green flash & a glint. <|endoftext|> "Song of the Tall One", by John Wilson [Living, The Body, Love, Relationships, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology] She filled me like water, she said, and only because I was water. My feet were tall, they were tall, their heels were the point. But their heels were not my point. Their heels were not my point. Water, I am a fountain, a fountain, my shoulders blue. I am a pillar of cisterns that bring the morning, the breeze and my glowing. I am a blue bridge, a white far island, I am the mud of the mighty Nile, I am the needle of customs, the needle too strong, the one thing that stays constant. I am the river of diamonds, the body that has come down to us, the big cutters' stones. I am the mist of earthen parts. I am the ======================================== SAMPLE 41 ======================================== He soon the thong on my tooth- And foot- supports broke, And I slid on the snow-ploughed Snow-fall to the shore, While Jack—who had rise To grasp a fistful of snow- New-fallen snow with shaking hands, And grasp some other bit of Spirals in the snow, Which he began to brush His cocked hat back With a wild, long drawl— At length, turning as he rose To return to our camp, A sudden, heavy thunder Of the true Gigantic Blinding the sight Of the surroundings struck My eyeballs; struck my heart, And made it powerless, As he mustered all his power Of life and might, And swept, right forward to the place Where he had seen The others stick together stand. Jack said nothing at first, But simply gazed at us, As if we were all some Discussed question he had Now, half-sheened away; And then at last he strode on To that spot the snow- Spots on the snow- Progress he was seeing; there He saw it—a sign— A rock-fall—sucked him, And down he was, And on the snow-covered Groove of that high beck That calls the wind in; And there he caught and held, As if he would reject it, The snow-fall that he had Sought at noon; and then, For nearly half an hour, Silently sat and grasped and Was stung by the snow Down, and it fell Of itself, but he and it Never stirred, he saw, For it was a vision Of the old world of the dawn, Where he read by the furrow Of the snow-bank that it Was the travelling sun, For it was he saw the old Sun and the old Sun and the old The whiting Next day he saw it Again—this time where Jack Quartzgrab, the second, Had turned his back in a wood Where reapers' legs disappeared, And Jack Quartzgrab was there Striving, through the drift, to find Some withering, empty shard. For it was he who had given That sight to the column Of the whiting out of his eye, And it was he who had cursed it, And sent it floating, twittering, Last year in its place of work Before the cut-throat seized his work And his old world of travellers' tales, Old poems, old tales Of the Great and Bloody, and his Lost years, and the strength they gave him, Had seemed to grow like growths in his ear That had no smell, and his face, Wisest of him, had a ring Of soft unseen rain that had not Already found a leaf. But he turned, his face shining With a new and strengthened whiteness, And, holding from the snow A living branch, lifted it, Over the obsolete And long since covered pack of memories, To where the stem stood out like a head That stood on memory's thorns And spoke to him of old days, and old Pastimes in pale panels, When he clasped it out, he clasped it hard, Over the drifting snow-bedes That hid the things that had been. He had found it. He had found the trunk Of a greater plant, and it was The tail, or the better word it was The phyllomedeum, the real Head-mother of this showy tree Of sunset-visage that he had lost, And had not regained, though looking Down on it now; and though, when seen Right on its lichened base, it Saw not a vine but branch of this, Nor a verdure of deeper green Than the snow-depth of what was done With it, since the dust of years and rains He placed the stem, trembling with growth, With the spirit-core attached, In a clear space not shadowed, but bright Like a south day illuminated, About the new, but yet undestood Suzerain, that no cloud now hid, Like the world's centre at the north-side Of the rainless world and pitiless poles. The spirit-roman Flemish scene He sought among the Flemish soul's speech, Heaved up to him like the winds of snow And blasted with darkness the day's Foaming throngs the plain was changed, The leafage withered and the tree Shed its bitter ======================================== SAMPLE 42 ======================================== Now the turbaned hero wakes, And thy pure fount and temple's shade Blind, but guide me, God, and lead! Be from thy shadow clear, And from thy holy dwelling free, To the mortals of earth To the holy rock return. For the sad spirit to the void Has strayed, whose babe is Death. The foamy billows raging, The hoarse and roarous billow, What was it that sent thee there? Was it the angel's hand, or Was it the fiend's could, or Was it God's tempter and brood, Or the wretch's unsated will? Only the rough tempest heaving, O'er the foaming billow, Is perceiving, and hissing through; And the billow roaring loud Is the bluest voice on high, And, silent was ever there, now He is raging and howling to hell. But he never heard, and he never saw, The maddest tempest blow Was like the sky over our hap; And his spirit of peace and joy, O'er the foaming billow hepealing; Never-lov'd Hell he knew, nor did he hear Hodelein one prayer above his delights. He felt the barque skiff upon the sea, He stood to wiz a look from Heaven; And he felt his spirit in his teeth, Held up by Heaven, at this great wrath; Held up by God on the fause top of heaven, Till it died in Blue Monster's lust. Whilst he was a root, and stand in soul, He must continency keep, Or he was sure to ruine: He had nothing to do, but sit and feel, And was well contented with that state. No hope of good, nor fear of ill, Nor the once joyful fear of death. I am the love of God, the the lesson He has given me That I am stronger than I know, I am the service of the All-greater-than-Mean, I am the strength of hope, the stay Of life in me, the strength of every step, In, or out, my Father draw me, He shall guide me. A heaven-born earth, that never shall forget The Heaven it lifts: the earth it puts On its base, to live for its eyes; Earth furrow from its deep foundations To its crown of toil: and this on and on, That the full flower is God's own self-giving. How long the hours, and black as night, on end Thy lips were blessedness to fill! How long to suffocate the slow heart That lay asleep, yet saw the vine Its ivory top, dark-gloom'd and goaded By the sweat that tithes in tears its gold! Is't well? --Till, all at once, thine aching sore Had me a sudden thrill, and thee Locked in a tear, a brave distress, I knew not what; then down the way I fled, a lover sure. What is it thou begat? The son I beg the Holy Tears? The child of my ill? No, no! a name that came from home, A god to cowe and take, Farr I won't be of it. A hero's child, and at war with fate! A child of my great-great-great? What do they name those things now, And gods be boys? A name that comes amain, a thing grown, And growing fast, for what thou hast The galls by the dam up? I had a child, a king, a queen, a queen's man, But now, and here, he cries and shakes at blows, And nought he doth but fret and cry. I had a queen, and she a queen true, A queenly woman that, ah, may Sweet thoughts, and speech have taught her: she Is queenly of all the ladies: She hath a son: her mother she Says, let the boy be wolf, the son be king, The rest like this: but she, she swears by Granamses, and by that sworne assents. She hath a slave: 'tis so swears her, And swears by Granamones, by Granamones. Well, thus 'tis, and thus it was for me, This was the second business, call'd, as you see, The Way ======================================== SAMPLE 43 ======================================== of the dawn, Loud claps the thundering of the doors, The hearth-fire crackles, the lean old priest Grows wistful, as with time to me He seemeth liken to the sails of a ship Wearing black and white, the spires seem To glow like silver, he sitteth with his hands Full of their own good cheer; but it is the night Of utmost space, and space is great In the bending of stars, in the bending of worlds. All down their sunsets as my hand presses The page I read, I see the face Of the past through hers Concerning me, and in her faces go The thoughts that dwell in me, her pasts; I see the spade Landed and sow, and long after her hands Dance in the wheat-grove, the wheel set wide In the yard to sow and reap, and the heavy shed, The three-walleded cottage, stand in the grass in days O hard before, stand in the sun now too, The little bow up-turned, the four-footed halloom, The low back-chair with the sick boy's seat, and tray Under the sink, the breast-chair with the broken leg, The crackney-bench in the door, the book-case in the hall, And the two-storyed uncle's room in the garret, All the bedrooms and the garret stories, and rooms in then A wreath hangs on the door-bench, the keyhole, the blind Lining the door and sill; for the foot steps Have lifted me from the pit of myself, the pages And forms of things, that are the true marks Of a deeper love, have broken this stair a thousand times, Lifted me up and set me down again On the pre-historic level of life. That of me now sleeps in her sleep, That of her now soaks in her bath, And under the steam of this life-stream We lave ourselves in it, then come, as erst We came from the hills of her hill Where the ridges of the clouds are folded Under the base Of the high one, who lifts up the roots of trees, Under the base of nature, the true house of the great, "Great is our Father! and merciful!" Through her eyes I look, and her lips keep The Mark of Thy on my soul With its full form again, For these dry myths of men Have no more truth than they. Thou art great, Lord, thou art merciful! "Thou art great, Lord, thou art merciful!" Through her head I read, And her hair had notes to which I came, When the rough child I lay down to sleep And heard her hair strike, with notes more soft Than those of human men. And oftentimes when in dreams I see Dross upon crude one crush away And scuttle up on the air, I hear her hair, clover-haired and fair, Drag though a step, move though a breath, Swell up, trail though a moment o'er As clears the wind, but stay behind And twine as a shower, cling long hours And drip while the shadow gnarls the light That dares to come. I hear her hair whirr, I feel her hair grow lank and darker. Then comes the rain, then comes the town-mist, And under her eaves the crows are flown, Their white war-scene, rooster, lion-foam, Get in and fly about among the dead The daughters of a woman and her daughters, One woman and many daughters, Die one and grow in other's bed. This I know, that everywhere The wind follows, no matter what Fell out of morning, Has came back to lay down more broken Her life in it, with songs for its pillow. All over the sky the blue, The low blue of the earth Is blown from north to south, From east to west, out of London, And from the darkening hands of The hot wind, To cry: "Eat meals very different From what they are now!" And the tempest comes to me When I eat, just before the storm; The rich winds Climb the pillars of my plate As I eat, And cry: "Eat meal, eater, meagre meagreth!" And all the sounds that I hear Over my plate are a murmuring tempest Of voices, many-named, And I count them not ======================================== SAMPLE 44 ======================================== */(I) first Hint, -- ye who hath -- All the young land, (J) In the bosom Of the -- Father, Lord, who made all things, Borne on wings of heavenly love, Come, (O) find me, (S) where (T) Trout is caught, (U) where Grass is fenced, (V) where Waters are gathered, (W) where Moons are gained, (X) Or (Y) as the moon's race, (Z) as the time To bed. Away, (A)way, (B)a$h$! (F) in the $%! of the $%! (E) ohO! (H) How long? (I) other shoW the *'hell' o' kith'n's* so 'long. Jenny, where (E) where 'll he be? Oh, where? (O)er all of us (T) tie us, (P) tie us, (T) as we shall desire, (E) ohO! (E) oh! (T) Tie him, (P) tie him, (P) where, (I) who'll (E) sure he won't) Let's tie his (T's) shoes of (H) $%! Jenny, where (E) where 's he? (O)rwhere 's the (E) oh! (E) where 's he? Where's the (E) where? In the (E) where? $%^&#!&! $%^&!&! <|endoftext|> She's the bride you see, Dressed in a splendid gown; She's a mother-rite; And her fame is to stand Straight, and to smile on her feet! She's a maid with a gentle air, Loves free games, andot a toy ball, And goes to church, and never sins. In short, 'tis her fashion To be pleasant, clean, and kind. When her children walk, Wonderful quietly, Toy ball in hand, and prayer on their heads; And he to pray is only a drop Borrowed from her dame's rare dimes. No hasting foot will ell, The pious maiden waits; Of the baby, world-o'er Blessed are his days, and her; Not past love's leaves, for which she sighs Through this world's crowd as o'er a pool. With love of God, O focus of fire Of all these years our hearts; With yearnings unmoved By what our foot hath done, Or what the right path has got; By what we be, without aim Of here, or there, or any strange place; Like unto God, wherefore He is; He needs who for our guidance casts us, If 'tis to wander in thee, Not to keep fast but walk away. This made He then to say: "When thou hast travell'd but little, And a little place would suit thee, Then let the idea go Of a four-square room, then take the heart Out of the rest, set up at once Of five or six tables, make a blazing fire, Fling a best, then take breath; With looking-glasses on his face, And his hand on an instrument, Like he was the fire-orchis-- And one night from the open door Passing by, lo and behold! A man and his mother, and child She was with child! Heart-rending is the tale, And yet sweet in the strength That we knew by the cuckoo's note That winter-night at home; I think that the white cloud Of our dream's revealment broke As o'er our world we were set, For the man and the child Were expiating sin Of years that were wrapt! We had dream'd of it, and he Dream'd much of the same; As I think now I know, We were as we should be As we two were now: His face, and my heart's beget the same In my heart for aye! From my soul's depths Its expiring life came in, That saw what was vile With a lust to embrace and subdue, And be as a slave's at home; In the strong lusts of my body; But I was a spirit of white ======================================== SAMPLE 45 ======================================== gain, Shall call her boy-friend, whose hands Shall tuck her knee, and tell her, Or shall she look in while her boy-friend Shall woo her with a sceptre and a wand, Pray her to be kind to him? These are the things she mustn't know; Shall she learn to fear him, and shall she Waste his property?--'tis the Law, And God's commandments, that the girls Must not marry. She can't learn it! Why learn?--'tis Her God-given right, as well, To have none to marry who May own in Florida; To keep her choice, and none shall force To wive a Spaniard. This was law once; but now it's changed,-- For if she has a suitor, he Shall not be a slave to woo her; He may have a candle to light her, And if he does, he shall receive A coin with every morn To make him prosperous at the altar. Nay, 'tis not alone that men have wrought Those evil deeds which are done unpitying; It is that they who can, forbear to incline The superior urges of pity, or feel Afelt any pity for the pain of wrong. To his young son, the Benefactor gave a scar Of gold upon the tender side of a seal; And sent him to the desert with promises Of cash to all who contented them. And woe to him who can take a thought! Or seems inclined, by force of nature's senséd will, To cause that pain to others which he knew Was yours, and yours to cause. Oh no! rather 'Twas your own misfortune it was to have received Such woe to doe. I've known of men, who thought themselves from Heav'n All fate. Yea, oft they were the causes why Somewhere their subjects perished, or had joynt; But to your question, as a man well may know, That in this case 'twas the fixt enacting Heaven Who willed neither they nor others, but something else Which force of circumstance bound them to fulfil-- And yet to say it else, 'twould seem absurd; To the end that, from fear of new plagues, The multitudes should push them in among us all, And the wounded begin to revile The few benefic by whom the knife they wield In scatt'ring round, till, weary of the fray, They perforce should follow where the sun it shone. We have now, it seems, the means, if we will once more Have faith in HOMER'S pith of defensive using, To guard us from our foes; for so, perchance, We since our gullies are not so bleak and bleak, But that our troubles may be smoothed and smoothed. Our great fore-father, general Religion, In their godless altar found an humble place, Dependent on the state, it is true, But humbly, as a degree below The demesne of being, which they filled. So, not of force to, affect us? or Not of force at all? for if it be Of force--we fear no more than the mote of God That taints our lures, and which draws back in awe To aught unseen, when it darts its dusky ray; And can we not depart, in such a thought? That, our conscience moving, we have sought In Learning's mad consistency, who Have, in their left-hand spirit-books In fluff and flights of stairs, been walking; And, by the senses, meant the vision Supreme; Which, having clearer at large, we have found, And see, in truth, the thing that is. Not the meanest worm of moll this side Earth, that's kept well in cheer with cheerful Sunshine and wet, shall toil in a lane For bread, and be at 240 FULLER able To draw a fuller, or sell his books, Or understand his Israel. What! If you are sent from Heav'n hereabove, If not in joy and gladness, make haste And write a while; but, yet once writ, Take care that you can not hide it from 144 Our lights, who to prevent more skulking Make it "cake," and "cut it and become New middening for your house;" and, lastly, O writing well, Now be sure you are about To eat ======================================== SAMPLE 46 ======================================== Then I said: "O Hell's dark King, What wealth of blessings have I kept for thee! What happiness with happy life hast thou left me! And also with all this goodly world set by That thou and I, my King, may live in bliss!" Then, dying, I fell on my knees, And from my eyes were carried The first drops of our tears, Wet with the morning dew: The voice that I heard Was the voice of prayer. "My life, O man, is now a reprieve from pain To which I am inclin'd; My death doth also give me lay-to grief, For my end is continuance of the same: Therefore, O Death, bestow'd in peace, My wearied soul doth bid one far-born breath." Then was I deathless, then was I blest: Then I was a child who hoped the best. Then I was free from all thou wouldst expect From those inconstant and murderous sounds of woe; Then lo, from out the tumultuous noise Of city, of town, and the the Hulkund'ring foam I heard peace, I heard joy, and I was free from pain. From out the noise of warlike men and fiery wrath Could I once set my ears to hear An other noise but the precious music of love: 'Twas when on her hair the rose of dawn was blown, Or, borne on the soft wind o'er bloomless fields, The rose of dawn to blossom in sunlit blue; When I, in that lull'd trance, with her of yore Sweet all-adversity held eye in eye. My life, my life, was then a life divine, For 'tis in the young heart that turns blue, Or, rather, in the heart that loves alone As was the ancient custom of the place, Where thus my fancy could assume a trace Of fresh-blown youth, a maiden's shape divine. And when at last, beneath the cruel stress Of the great world's strife and sorrow, I Saw the mysterious little flower of life, And that bleak tower upspringing from the hill, And saw the dancing flames up-soar, And heard the spires proclaim the storm was brief, I did not believe a bit of that: It seemed as if the world's wailing forked tongue Had not enough to do: the echoes picked Up of themselves a weary din, and spake A variety of wild, uncouth things. And when I said: "O heart of mine, return From the afar of other loves and lose The thought of this; behold, the bee-fly there, And the hawk-eye's search for your drawn in light Have left your star, the sun, to hide in night," And then, indeed, the thought flashed in a rapture bright For flight, and I beheld the swift and sunnier eye That with our souls' youth to Moonlight made league, And I could trace its shape, where'er the vision fared, In the wild flocks of clouds. There was the bright Garlanding of stars for its field of wind, And whatever spot it wheeled in roar of rain, There was the trumpets' harp, and wherever Its flying hoofs would depress the faded ground, The foldings of the grass, its gentle form; In and out and about the winds shipping snow, A way for thought's departed friend to go, And the dear old ways of what are now no more. The wings now murmur and the sounds change, The winds pack off, the stars give up their fire, In dirbed time, and the sun sinks into a fade Hush'd half and far away. The memory Of what was joyous in the whirl, The love of our surrounding purity, At rest with the morn, now a death in peril, And the sweet and bitter sweet of its danger, And a search for its self-help in the light of the day, And a cry to the angels, here and now and now! And the world 's swarming with wings, and 'tis but a breath, And the feet and the life wings each to the sun. And thou, O sun, more subtle and strong Than a flower of beauty or hate, More than yon flower that we see begins To the oak in the fattening of light, More than yon roaring old stave Which of two lives in fear of the fires The prince and the country doth investigate Mankind must ======================================== SAMPLE 47 ======================================== _______________________ On all these skies were flying Flowers and birds and insects, Plants and herbs and trees; Fluttering and glancing were they, In delight of Spring-time, And all a living creature. On that peaceful flying All things are in motion By love of God. To which on earth are given, Flying and springing, Men to men, and keeping Time and place, and place and time, Which was the time of Nabom (seated) I saw the spacious air fill with springing Trees, and birds, and trees in blossom, And the white mist of wold and valley A heartbeat long, with birds, in tune. And all this cloven about the sparrow's wing A heartbeat wide, with song. The spring-time and the fruit-flower Confirmed the clock-rotting wood In its breathing-time, As the love-crystallic round Of spring and fruit and flower Added to the spell of winter; And the cuckoo's requiem A stringed instrument plays To the beat of the storm. As he had told you in one song, There is a land where dew never flows Nor turnips rot, nor hamels grow. In this land there falls no clap in bloom, The net-touns are not clap-in-th... The ham and the beer can neither stand nor fall Nor thistles have any tails. My first thought was that of desiring land And not from any apparent cause Could retreat the bosom of the land-bird, But still as I considered it The thought of that large ill was like A sleep and I rose to go forth. Was ready, as I made bold to break, A butcher on the gate, and he Bade me call the tale of his temptations To many men, and said he'd not such Hlelled such gifts to any man. We came to a jutted springing, and he took My hands, and, smiling, he spoke to me, "If ye would know the tidings of this I would now make the tidings of my name, Which having known, I would lead ye on Whither these lead, without pride, to Hell If ye will lend me your ears, I will tell My name, and that ye name it nothing I will tell my name, and if that name Men tell in dying, never go hence, Never tell it on earth more, that so It may come near its being, after you Have heard it told, come then behind, and come Once more behind, and have your names told, I,ANEAZ, violet's mother, fair Allot her name to none, for she Felt bound by vow, said 't was out of vow, Passed rushing down from vow, she knew not Whereward bound she had been or where she was. So Aneaz--who has tears upon her cheeks, Which tear-drop can the same should meet. For he was a fair man, whose gift was given, A man of might, who took and did declare She was his debtor for sharing of his wealth, And his heart's blood went through her, and more Than he could tell of, being deep-hearted, And of all his knowledge made confess of, All his hopes and all his thoughts were there Unheld, as if this land made promise, And the sure tongues of his tribute made As good to doat as if the least of it Which brought us hither, Averil, make full That short little country, with its loss Of our noble friend, who never said Or even hinted he was surprised If he were wronged, but bore up alone Threatened but to rejoice in justice And the right of all men and to add Of his fair land, to his sorrow, quite A triple portion, if the land were won, And grant to Averil, as fair a son As e'er was born, whom now he loves as true, A fair and rightful kingdom for our son. We have called you from your place to-day As you would have gone, not as you were, Who waited here, and thought it odd you were not Where you would have been if you had been born When the land was won, or as you might of were. To your palace you went to be king, You to the temple, you to the store And palace, where you are nigh, where you were Annointed, when ======================================== SAMPLE 48 ======================================== -- But there's no ills like a brown face, And those blue eyes,--and a soul-theft,-- I had rather pinch. There's a pleasant fish, no doubt The most harmless that ever tunned Was a fish that was just such a dear, A dear, dear fish as I was then; With a loving look as she smiled at me, And a sweet mouth full of singing eyes, And a face all of honey breath, And a silver strip along her brow,-- --All of honey and bliss the same!-- And, how sweet 'twould be, if I could catch her, And if catch her, she would be just such a dear, A sweet, dear fish as ever you saw. And her singing voice, it would be sweeter far Than ever was heard by mortal ear before,-- And the very smallest Sickness that ever you knew Would be all,--all but the singing voice; And the singing voice would be all,-- The sweet, sweet singing voice of her. O, but to be near her, To be near her, how good it would be; For a touch,--and she would sing; For a squeeze,--and she would shiver; For a look,--the world would be new; For a kiss,--she would gasp; And, for kisses given, Death would only make things better. And my heart--I should hold it dear, And I should keep it safe in hers, And I should take her to me everywhere; And the silence should be like hers, And the snow should come on, not the same. I should have the wind wherewith to do All the farms in Kent and Suffolk, And the rain wherewith weall the hedges Wease we know very well, I ween; And the sun and rain to be, you know, My whole allotted sphere of activity, And be at them like one at a play. I should have the time to stop and look at everything, Not just the gardens and the lawns, but the trees, And their diverse sorts of flowers and fruits; And learn the local knowledge that one learns In a different country, in a stranger state. As it happens, and as it bygone, When I'd had the pleasure, I've had the pain. I should know how sunset looks, and the moon; The stars and the moonshine how fitting well; How to the "trees" (I suppose) How to undo the youngsters many) And how the forests they maintain; And I should know the names of many a star; I should know the number of the hard stars I should know, and where they dwell, In hives pure and without remorse; In the homes of mortals I should go, And, most of all, I should know The number and the age of the winds, And the nature and movements of the stars. O half-sponsored and half-half-directed, Fucked, filled up, and furthegie on the loose, Sing thy tide as it lifts contented, And tell to the sky a tale of the sea. God knows I've delayed to offer thanks, But I've spent the night before fresh news's brought In dictions from the half-directed hammock: Tell to the stars the northern lights are low, And sell my bark, red, green, and blue. Not much to me The person who writes us his pranks Having possessed From the first, What we're up to: (And the flailin' and flap O' last night's is paid within). O the brown damp air is vile, And the brown, damp place to lay The head when sleep has lost his grip. And the brown, black, untidy bits Within are repulsive, to say But from out here, I fancy. The smell is thronging, and thick and chill, And the faint rain is fluttering, and swaying there, And the wind keeps up the bralistia's charm, And the brimmin' slaps and plunges, and swills, And the burst's like a gitty serpent's bite; And the squib and spundle one's over; And the popo thinks it's the pot And takes it coopie to the ground. But the stars hove in at once to the sky With a view to the spring moment's fall, And the moths on the wing and the moth's dung O'er the waif ======================================== SAMPLE 49 ======================================== , and, though a black-headed child, Doth for the eyes of men be a smile. No long, no deep,-- Yet with your beauty's sheen Flawlessly there' glows, Rich, yet delicate, dear, and fair; Your own power to touch their hearts, Their youth, their hearts, your own, Where 'mid your clear white shadow's A lady's head you stand. Dear God, it is too much! And more than all I hold dear I feel an urn of ashes in my hand. Yet, but the greater part My brain will blow, should I not cast forth This precious rage, should all these things burn. What power, and what pity! When I stand like this, Empty-headed, weak, and tired, Confused, and heart-broken, and old, Sooth to say, O Fate, you give me strength, I thank you but too much: This soul's cold snap-- What comfort in my fumbling sight Can such poor things be? 'T is not, indeed, That I have cause to be sorry, For, as I stand, with mouth fed By anger and by hate, O God, with a shut eye, here 's the sign-- I may break both my babies in. The reek of bloody murder (That monster, me) Breaks loud from mine access, But then, ere I burst, I draw an oaken curtain 'Round my grim grimness, O God, give me eyes to spy, (That monster, Fate), To see the enemy's assault, And know to shield the Son of Man. I cannot serve with pen and ink, Or sword or staff or command; Yet at a word the golden door Turns open, and steps forth, And, "Show yourself, O God, the host to guide!" "Chor. Wherefore art thou come?" "Ven. What cause I have to shun thee? Why art thou thus stricken? Nay, why? Vera Tsardash, Stone-Hear of Chishmaical Rock. (Here, where Chagall's watery streams are legion, slow Lead to the banks of Tsardash, past the wild wood) We have beheld, this heroes, and the battle seen, By two hours' distance, Beheld nor hurt, but by the fifth. "Vera-Chalmetnie.3"--When, led by her true-metaphorical feet, The lady led the way to the abode of The Genius, in that instant three-fourths of the world, The angels had paused, close the major key, close the minor, to allow the procession of flowers from a mortal female, into the idol-haunted hide-place of a shrine. But the last foot-note of the sighing-pontiff was not yet behind the stove, when the shades of twilight Loan may unfelt its still expanse of soft gray stone;-the last trace of the rill was not yet caught by the dusk; and, closing, from the view of the green valley and the grey Georgian streets, Of the dim grey church and silver star-chavver of the moon, and east wind and drifting pond-wind, to the son of the Drama-God, my flower "Chor. We go not as other men, but we are gods on air! We hasten down to the vale, and we speak, and we hear; but your awful feet have not yet far gone from the outer edge. We go not to seize or dwell; but, just as the thurst-over-hurts come, we are thrust out of the way, and your God-elbow, you slippery God-hurts puffs out our gate." "Chor. Stop! I will teach him. "God. But if we pass him in motion I should say to myself, 'Let me now, I pray, Piercful of power and mine own minuteness, Help a man in trouble.' " The leader of the children, in the race with Night, Rode in the sward with his buds. The sun, Caught in a crevice in the rock's clearest space, Was wandering hand in hand with the gentle goddess, Caved at a cleft in the square granite-stairs, and Was thinking to herself, to the goddess, Of her sweet flowers and how to find a place for them In her ======================================== SAMPLE 50 ======================================== Ulysses has not yet reached the door, But lies, and waits, and watches, and Gazes as wistfully as a ghost. Ulysses is not near, but sits, Amorous and sad, by the threshold Of his own door; his eyes are dim; And his fair cheek is pale with care. He thinks that sorrow's torrent stream Comes rolling to his heart, and sinks Back ere it runs to him again. "Why dost thou mourn, great friend? Why thy heart overflow With thy sorrow's pain? Why so near the threshold stand? Why languish, but to keep Thy soul from slothful death? "Falls each to his own repose; Time, eternity, no power Shall stay the passing touch; No human cry avail To bid the tide of death Achieve life; the dead are found In the long ago. "Sleep, O sleep, at last; Death is toil; And the fleetened foam Flies with its departure; No beholder looks on the tomb Till time shall close the door. "Death, why dost thou tempt me with the gift That can not give us again? Why this obstruction, O my friend? Why this bar to life's desire? Why, while I bleed, do you not implore My heart's true admirer, the love-gift, The daughter-gift,-- "For she is fairer far Than the daughter-gift of mine; She has not learned the crying art To hide the blackening of her tears; Nor to disguise grief's breath. "For she can teach my grief to cease, My sorrow to endure, Till the parting love embrace me, full And tender, as a child would, With all young loveside smiles; And make me feel as she does now The sweetest youth is the sweetest life!" Her soul was light, her words so free It sailing pleasures taught, That like morn-spawn dancing through the air, A girl dreamily ascended, And laughing in the breeze, St. Agnes' room Reeled under them, and they were drubbed But as the tide came down into the sea From his mountain-spring, From his rocky deposit, Into the heart of the wilderness, The prophet knew What life could be In heaven, seemed now so sweet. Yea, death itself forgot to rail, For he could not die with pain; His harsh business was not for death to tread, For death to prophesy; But a steady mind, that could not fade, But ever could see The world through an honest eye, Made Agnes a woman to the throne The might of the ruler in the field of song, I make my appeal to thee, Great Saul, the great one Of whom it is to sing, That in the eyes of heaven Thou art the born again: The ruler of life on earth once more: The ruler of the wind in the wingless bowers, Of the sea, of the sea, and the open skies; And he hath come forth to win and to take, But he knows not how. He lay low in earth's bed, But high he reclamps In the warm and creaming hearts Of heaven and the light of the moon, And a voice that says, "Such as I am, such are mine!" And he has heaved into the winds, But the earth abhorred his dwelling; So they say, And again, And he has flings In the round sea's mouth Like a rose of hell, And he hath heaved, And lo, it is he! And who may rest who deems it hard To change from sight, that is fixed and bound, To a sight free of grace, who sees the thick Folk about us walk on, And pass by us that are standing. How is it in thy sight? Speak to me! Say, what thing may there? Aye in the daytime And at eventide? And at eventide in the day? Or what may there mean The darkness of the light? In the midst of light There is no dark, or the dark's gone by. Look at thy bidter! And his presence bright No more of presence hath it. Look at me, for thou shalt see My likeness bare For all to see Thou and I are here! Look at ======================================== SAMPLE 51 ======================================== O willow wood and hickory thicket, O loud green field and o'erarching hill, The rain has made a gorgeous dye Of crimson and green and gold-- Of every old old tradition red That's come out of the West to be! At one with nature, at one with time, The Dreamer and his hosts of song And sight have sought a fellowship made, As much as may be, in some strange way, As if with one held by Christ at time They were at home, almost, though not quite, For all that is of old and strange Comes full of tradition and deep story. There's nothing of it, either in place Or as spoken of it, that doth hold Or needs to hold in much less conventional way The sight of all the rain of all the years, And of the stars and shells and suchlike things Gave to the world at large at chief birth Of the wailing and singing and the egg Buried deep in time whose name is you. Of the wailing of children in the world's birth Of the odd of tooth and mouth and garden rife, Of the way of things and their shaking things fair And the yellow joy of fruit grown throughly, Of the nameless shadow of things, Who are sought like things, lived like, found found like As things full of meaning and due care, And fraught with hidden danger as they are, Yet with a certain grace as of seasons, And full of hope and full of love, As things whose memory lives through many names Whose names are full of change and full of death, Yet of them all, as of a single speech Of their own thought, is ever some one voice. The thing that was cannot be just To the thing that is and must be As wholly good as true, nor wholly ill As true, and good, and true again, As ever may be; yet never wholly good, Or true, or good, or true, but such as lies A servant's lot, so gallantly tossed, Or worn by a servant's body ever; For this's the story of the lass tree. And she had white groves and many a one Was she, and each had a green at its end. The crone, too, had none that she could call Save one lone brown, and she could never call The lone brown to bend before her knee As she trod her daily life, and brood And know herself a stranger in the land. In short, her life had no intrigue Or change of meaning; day by day the same, And night by night the same. She trod A mean and simple life of 254 days, Yet as she slept the world, and all it said Seemed ever so much as a word She could not keep; nor ever pondered Aught but the next meal to glean or steal. The night she slept in many a cabin's hut, But as she slept, the world grew ever more More like a dream to her, and 'twas but The sound of words to make her world. The very stones were voices, each to her In its own little word announced its doom; It had so enchanted her, and home was thus The only welcoming word she heard. She came not half away, but scarce she drank From her last goblet, and then with face Descended to the nether world, her bones In hollow of her breast were found and set With inalienable beauty, and the brightness Of light within her eyes that Heaven had send Flushed with olive blood, was gone; her hands lay Beneath her pillow, and her eyes were dim. She died at last with sorrow for her wrongs, For naught that any did could comfort her Except the few brave words that Brucey said. But all the while, as if her very soul Found sudden memory of its peace lost there, And cherubs that it loved there to lovingly kiss, The very dust of this departed night Moved in her memory whole hours, till memory Became more than thought of little things With all their silent fruit as Lemminkainen She loved, as Song of Upheap might say Upon her heart, and such a thing was. At last her eyes were opened and she knew All that in hill and valley and in field In her quick memory was to be known When dwelt upon her name as Brucey Bruce In laughter or sad faces, and such A thing was called Bruce in her eier form. And she had dreamed. What dreamed she? ======================================== SAMPLE 52 ======================================== and the whirring and gleaming and grinding of mufflers, and their dinners in the carriage, and the trilling of the miniature horses holding up their trunks on the side of a barn. I think it was almost October. The house was like a animal. And inside, blinds were down, so I could hear the spiders in the ceiling while they were making that woozy, woozy music the ground-lilies were making inside the house. Inside the house, too, the dark was quiet. The only sound that broke that silence was the sizzle of me knocking back bottles that afternoon. Once, on a walk for a breath of fresh air past the few oaks on the lawn, I found her cuff links, pennants, laces and rings. I found her yellow dress, still crisp, the silk wanting only an aging, and thereupon I bought it for a moment, then paid the bill to a porter in the train station at whatever small thank you was in store. Walking the grounds, I was touched by this: I was a living thing to pay for a loaf of bread, or a dress, or an afternoon. Of course, I now live held to a higher standard, but even these things are mere fixtures, and I now do have an independent extent for the things I held sacred before. Once, in a fever for a moment, I felt that pure love of this thing, the swelling of it, the idea of it. The stained glass window of my heart was blown to nothing. And, once, I saw, as a close friend had, my true self. <|endoftext|> "On the Other hand", by Robert current [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict, Memorial Day] Only a little time is given to Time, the man with the top hat. Time, the gentleman with his wisp of a beard. Time who is underground. Time who is uncomfortable with his hair down lowered. We say we have all this trouble but we haven't really got it so Here's something really wonderful. I am sure that you will understand if I do my best to not That was when they dug the time capsule Out of the earth and, in a manner of speaking Put it in a room and Had a man brought in to remove The last twenty years Of his life away That was fifty years ago. I don't think I ever count Those fifty years Until that moment When the capsule was Crawled away And I was buried and left With no maid To tell me good-bye I had no day or nightshift I had no lovers no murders No riots No bombs No gangland murders No lives lost No anything <|endoftext|> "A Lot", by Louis Simpson [Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] I had a lot of friends. I had a lot of enemies. I liked that. I thought they were all some über things. I thought they were all very dark souls. Some might have fit Here fat cats of a particular sort who were kindred hunts and in the way of things You might remember this from the meeting place of our two halves. They were not addict to my kind. I did not attempt any type of encounter with them one or two times once and the second came up like a car and they had roots and I did not ask really they were first to come up the meeting stairs three times the third time I thought that was a nice look I wanted to see that way we weren't alone. that was a lot kind and they grew after the meeting and that was a lot of kinds I didn't take one for no it was a ======================================== SAMPLE 53 ======================================== Thus having speaking, fled The two boars, and also some That tracked his footsteps to the forest; And there they stood awhile Under the huge trees, sighing; And on the branches they were leaning, And the misty mist was wet, While overhead, And above them, grey clouds were creeping, Through which there seemed to be gliding Other ships of God, Moved by other influences. There a little while, In the greenwood, the two were staying. With a sigh, and a frown, Pondering how, when, and where, He should henceforth sail, and why; And they would ask the Virginila The reason why all these things. And, oh, what a marvel Was all this to one who knew! Two who never thought on Harmony of life, or of love, Or aught of that was perfect, sweet, Heard in their wonderment now That the whole vast world went on making, And their being was not begun. And there was such a melody, Such splendour, I swear, As was moved through their bodies by This passage of the dolorous sky. And this was all their dream. And now a wind rose behind them, And now another rose before them; And so their song, while 'twixt despair And mad endeavour to Prose, Lingered and lingered,-- But here for the rest of their words I must stop; And shall live if I do say these words They left undone. 'Tis the year's reaping-time in the fields of long ago, And the sheaf Rye is yielding ninety-nine per cent. By its great Crop, in to-day's mill is toold corn, And the sheaf is full, And the cobweaker has new gear, And the lily grows by the wood fire's flame; And the red was late, And the rain, and the rafter-pipes stink; And the coolex pipes like a bird; And the sweeoss-pats are well begun; And the yield will be much. By the by, the year's left-over hay is to be Spoiled, and the corn is full on the top and sides; And a look-ma-loo has at last gax to its sides; The grain is red, And the rake-punk is there first, And the worm is hirsute; And the fly has hopped down and is gone white; But the crickets don't sing. And the tolee, And the skippers have new gear, The girt gullies are girded and fenced at corners, The road-boys drive speedo'-ball studdies, And the night is much more certain than day; And the roughed, And the toreros, And the sheares, And the reells have much to do, But the oaket crowns The sheathing. All the while, with the dimmer eyes of the moon, Through the mist of the half-cloud it were revealed A shape, approaching and found, as it grew darker, To be the prow of a much feared snake; And the what-will-not-do upon the half-brayed green Was to seek before a house-door, and audibly, While there was time, Mumble-mumble-mumble. When he came to the door, the time for the answer was short, For the key could be had out, or a letter could be read; And he scarce so soon expired, When the words choked up Were the words that the What to do, and the When to do. 'The shadow of one shadow is eight hours and day, And one letter is better than eight hours and day'; The words he has hardly worked; The When scarce worked; But "The shadow of one shadow is not bad, And better than eight hours and day." He knows the undignified dog-ses for his bones, And the undignified throng of hisses is forbidden: And he knows, in a land where there is neither plough Nor crop, To be stoned to death with a clamour; But his fangs Are venomous, his breath a fire, And he's ready for their torture. The day was overcast; and the windy sun Was setting in a misty red; A fence of cloud was gathering, And the east was all afire with fire; When he ======================================== SAMPLE 54 ======================================== Like ashes close, without a blaze. Grief's marriage in a dark game of Death Is with a lot of trouble half arranged. What cheers in grief, that we do not see, Is, sorrow's varied many-colored day Is day's deepest hour, by man's design, obscured. 'Tis thus to see, to know, to bear a part, In various tasks, in varied duties strung, To love, to do, to suffer, be the guest Of comfort, of less anguish, or of more; And that, which few we see, we shall be. There lies the art to practise, the knack to learn, The secret to be known; we are of all To each of us, a table and a shrine; And there, at best, a meet-fellowship forms, the worse If vicious or good, of every kind of bliss; 'Tis broad to large, and to narrow, vice or fame. Let fear, hope, love, lust, ambition, anger, curiosity, Feel the strongest grip on life, and not see here The myriad touch and turn of Fortune here on us; Here, inward pride, which scatters all below With just equality to the earth and skies, Is but the swift answering heart of love, And all the walls that close the wealth of love below; Though broad of interval, the vales become walls Where bounds to us the mighty worlds on heights. Here, not even this, if troubled with too much, The broad regions burst on the life below. But in the center, our rich life stood Bare, clothed in the mighty garment of flesh, Strong, still an fort, and, with the human body, All these deep spiritual gates, within which call From all the deep bosom of the human race, Unbroken rang the silver standard for aye; The lofty soul lay in the nude as star, Unyielding as light, and as free of shade As ever dared the shaded skies of time. And well, 'twas then, the inwarding master, Could his own sum, with less oblivion, save From mortal thraldom this new multiplying life; Yet not alone in thought, nor yet in word He taught the homelier waters their voice. No longer, 'mid the new and kindlier life, Majestic, undistinguishable loss of earth, He, more than all his own could say or do, He only kept his own soul. Alone, without shadow of later aid, He woke the hidden faculty That moved in all his veins, to make it draw Instinctive through the untutor'd air; Which thence in more distant waters drew, And coursed along the interior sea, With natural automonic motion Boreas now hath left the rocky wreck, And rises in the dawning clear And beholds, with immitigate sight, The new awoke world And man's waking hours about That o'er his hands and heart engage; The train that went with him from earth, The glorious world's evolved self, That when his flesh was wearied out, Had marched with him from heaven's sphere; And man, the offspring of that mount, That rocks between the sun and thee, The chiefest stronghold then and now, Of world-soul, and world-thought, and soul of world, O that were time for peace! And it could never have come to pass, Hadst thou but felt as we the same, The tears that cry by day and swing Along our nooning springs, And take all night the wavelike night In all the salubrious power of morn! Thou art at peace! It must be so, As well it is thou art; and thou must find Of peace the tranquillest environment, As in a world far distant from thee Api borders on the frosty shore Of death and never shaking light. But yet, how oft dost thou complain Of a whole busy scene that seems A bit amiddle but far away From thee, and all the very while The whole amiddle territory Is threatened by lanes so wide and green, And far against a roof of sunny cloud That stands, a jewel in the polar night, That far from being tiresome to thine eye, And all around to joys, and roses, etc. O now I look and on the world I see its whole approach to highest height, Whose walls, soften'd into a rich light And rough white, and the nearest neighbour free Of thine, and fitted, thine ======================================== SAMPLE 55 ======================================== Two lovely heaps of roses, black as ink, And one small, sweet, blood-red worm-horn, all a-glow, Binding our hearts in equal loveliness! Would it were sweet as these; Lest that alone Should follow from the knot In these tight bonds so close they lie! I'd not deplore Love's flowerless verse, So long as in its withered form The fire still gleams. Some two short years, or three at most, Have pass'd away, Since I felt joy as a boy, Like the first of all days. I was away, And could not come to see The merry noise made by my friends, As they tromm'd in wearied fashion, On the top of the hill. But I have been with them in the valley, As they were always there. They've been away a little while; And never mind, to my thinking, Will the happy pair Be returning from the tromp, As they did in a tram-ride of long ago. There was a gipsy maid, The lowest sort of life Sorter than whom none Ever can be In any sort of place, Not the fools, not the mad, And not the pious women, Who take gods to a shrine And would lay their hands, And are therefore clean. There was a gipsy maid, The lowest sort of life, Sorter than whom none Ever can be On any sort of place, Not the fools, not the mad, And not the pious women Who take gods to a shrine And are therefore clean. As she roamed along one day, Wet to the ears with the late-springen'd west, And trembled with the gusty up-rush Of the glad day's advance, An old man with age Sorted his carts in a forest gray; And, looking o'er each head As they came after him, The old man said, "Why do you rove At your rings before the sun goes to his sleep?" The old man's line was end to our eye, But the fair one draw close to his breast; She's far enough away to prove The sin or the bliss of the thing. I would not be the page That in this place it should be done, And for this I'll grieve and be mad. I would not be the page Where this story is used to be read; And for this I'll have of your love A better-made page, And you shall each of you know A thing or two of my pain By my name of Eye. And I'll be the third That's named of your group, And each shall have his story set To a fashion less changed than he. I'll be the fourth, And my story shall be: "Here's a line or two From the pen of Dick, We're going to St. Mario's, our family place, With the boys there all the month, To see the plays and the music there, And we'll have an evening out. And we'll be happy if they'll let us off Two after two. And we'll have snuff, and perfumes, and silver slips, And all the things they smoke. We'll have peach punch, and the juice of lemons, And celery soup, and blue rocks, And nothing that's like to go. And we'll be happy if they'll give us two pieces. And we'll be friends with the company Until our days be but nine, And each shall hold in the highest esteem The other two so blest. And we'll wish good luck to the company There's a roller who makes all sorts Who's blind people take for he; And he can place music and actors, And he can make a speech, And he can laugh a full three minutes On things like oneday or too soon. And he beats the plowman at his game If he's in his wrong by half; And a great perfection he has, he stinks, If he has it upside down. So be sure you listen when he tells you What he means to do. He's a roller who makes all sorts Who's blind people take for he; And he can place music and actors, And he can make a speech, And he can laugh a full three minutes On things like oneday or too soon. And he beats the plowman at his game If he ======================================== SAMPLE 56 ======================================== Not for the faint, the faint, the lambs of blame; For the strength of the mind, in constant chain, Till its feebleness, will I hold to be Weakness exact of a strong virtue. Still, in thee is the hearing of plaint From the soil of human clay; And in fear of thee the heart may grow Doubting, like the "I" on which I wait. Can I see, without pity, a race? Can I feel, without love, a world? Can I hear without pause the murmurous word Which speaks of distinctions great and small, Of the minor's small hall, the mourner's grave, The high, the middle, and the mediatic? Can I but love thee, when, as spring-flowers, thy- athrusts the season, then thou 'midst the great Fills the full garden of your soul's allotted fields? O! I never knew him who could stoop to find Such glory in a Free-born man as he. No empire of the hand, no smile of heaven May play a role for him,--he loves as we That which we may forget, we as they may: We must forgive him, or he can forget; And, if he fail us of the comfort too, 'Tis but in mercy that he sets apart What God hath willed should be at all times Except for those who win charity before the Throne where Justice, for her own, Sits, above the Reign that cannot lie: And, if for him or us, what now seems Dark and drear must be made glad and bright By some divine En-Congealing touch, Upon that ruling heart and human ground; Before that Supreme Injustice paves The way for something new. If the boy Be in evermore wise and happy, as God In him shall judge, he need not be Vigilant all by himself; and if some Might be spared life-time into this age, or one Whom now some evil could behead, if only 'tis could behead; if nothing life-like left to do Since first his Will began, could make in this world Clear the tree of Fortune'sime, so none must be There that is mightier than the sun to us, than something Penthesilever Elyon, both. But thou must be There, and no' owl, but blade of smallest power, With all things else that are sure thy foes, thou must be, And he must be that toward thee: this be the All- Skipped language's truth. See how far, how near the time Hath seen that justice nigh accomplishing all I mean To leave for thee! and therefore since my right Shall be to grant thee all herein, this deem I left Unto thyself, propose to me, that also thou After all this time mayest receive thy son, Receive him back, re-insert him, and proclaim From hence one virtue added to thy resurrection, One day of life imperishable gained To keep his immortality a mystery To all save one: as for this man, this son of mine, He is mortal now; be then mortal; no longer dain Virtue unimpassion'd can pass nerves, spirits, life, To get repossession of aught. But what reward? Can love? Can gratitude? This man will know who highestlove ascends to heaven Farr greater than the building of that dome, Which else to him not better, nor of all earth's sons Is chiefest heir. Heaven's mighty stone that man tower'd the highth Of no mortal travayle, to come on genealogy Shaking the altars, and the vested perpetuity Withstepping down the pallace of the heirship of old, To be first in God, Father alike of God and of man, Honour'd and blest; to be born, & all his hope a durance; To be die'd: and last of all to come in this thy pleasant stream, Us to re-claim; the water wherein our souls Flow joyously to Heaven; no puddling cesspool to get Salts there below; farr travel permitting, to be Boldly their portion; to be prayed to; to be Holy Reserv'd; from sin; out of sight of tongue; from dread of death; To have their livings paid them in the resurrection day; All which is most admirable in man: restorable law Ordain'd and determinate; purpose beyond effort; The ======================================== SAMPLE 57 ======================================== OUSTEN Of the all of water, On his chin the SANDAL, Where his fair body lies, BATHERS full of the dew of light: <|endoftext|> "Carrying My Father's Soul into New England", by Mary Rosenfield [Living, Parenthood, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Philosophy, Father's Day] Carrying my father's soul into new England, A child, with my mother's milk and bread, In truth I felt a joyous spirit live within me, A wonder-welled zest for life and play. Yet, oh, with tears, how painfully aware I saw Of the frugal conditions of his birth and home! Years I spent a day at a time beside the sea, In the pace of the gale, when every wave that broke Brought him full speed discontent and discontentment. A child he was brought to dote upon the shore And lie adrift in the roaring water-garage; And, while thus a hundred times an hour the tide Checked to wait for an answer from the intrigued wind, That might be free to give him an "Oversong," A moment would he expect it, then expect a gust of wind To answer with another repetition of the same. What, though he'd roll across the sea-verge of air Like a man running through hail, when he found no shelter He would remain standing in the squall's chain-powered track. And though he was big and strong, he found his form Struck home, all too sparsely, as though the skin Had ventured to touch upon the ground. His playmates were the wildernesses—thousands of them, All kinds of shapes, at all sorts of times and seasons, All wandering moor and mountains and pleadings of the sun And moon and all sweet ways of all seas and streams. He found among them most the primitive stones And berries, just starting out like a little gravel In the cold world's dust. I saw him throw a dart At an ant to "spin" it through his rays and dirtiness. His life had been a burning endlessly in an ant's mind, Burning against the stone of what he felt like making With his strong, free, brimless hands. Now, with the death of summer, he would not more be enthralled, But he'd wait for some renewed start of wind or sun To let him out of the cradling world, and he knew not how, So long he had loved the ant's gliding, rolling mud. When, one day, his mother turned the key in the house, And high into the old room with a scythe and pence The shingle turned and left it, he stepped aside And pushed the door wide enough in the front of the house, And stood up to look out as the ant made its pride In that new-made far house and endless range. His father's face came into the yard, and he said: "We're going out to see a country show tonight." He stared hard at the far house where the ant's-gain Long drops of sunlight played. He stuttered out a text He had memorized in his head, and he said: "The whole thing's been one huge exaggeration, There's no praying now, and no church, and no prayers." Then the crescent went up on his wrists, and he knew It was "business time," and his father said: "You're going to get your science and architecture The rest will follow." And that was the job. It was "business time," and the whole house changed from white To dark in a moment, and the rooms turned upside down, While my poor, dumb father stood with his mouth open And a sense of sudden joy in the dully absurd act Of my being rose-hung, still powerless to move My stiff body. We followed the ant's eyes in the house of Jehovah, And he stumbled in doors to a leper-shower, and knocked him out With a vengeance. I saw my father's blood, and the weakness Of my mother's heart: and my mother's innocent head Dismeminged of her white knowing face And her white strength. My mother's hands were gone. The leper's chest was naked and red, But I closed the door and knelt by my father's side And still my heart swelled with it. I felt that I was in God, That life had been for me designed, That I was something greater than a child. The doors were opened in the floor by the liars, Who'd heard ======================================== SAMPLE 58 ======================================== an austere motogram. From the dim horizon of all eyes In the world's inhabited space A glare like the maddening beams Of a fever-screening northern sun Peers across the steaming noon Like an orb of night that fires The white immensity of space To my ears like the flowing of a great bell. "What my vision," I murmur, "what my vision!" And thereupon there floats like a bird A gusto roaring like a wing In the direction of the dim-blood moon To the far-far horizon; And from it swooping with swift feet Like a scudding steam-plant there flies A sage car, with levers and bolts, To straighten out the wreck of a bridge Where the last collier waits. The wind-mill, morn-vibrant vessel, The wreck of a clipper ship With the smoke-hung like a cloud, With the fury of the gust-blowing freshening red It arrives at the golden end of a sheet That skirts the level Like the blade of a saw in its graceful sweep, And mounts in blackness to the grey pinnacle Where the wreck is rising like a black cup. And as it claps hands with a clatter of overhanging glee, The wind-speerson prince with the wind-speersed hair Comes with the fleet chief to the midmost, Where the narrow waters of a broad bright isle Like a plough to the ploughing-team, to the thickening zone Where the smitened strip Has met many fathom's dark In clanking conflict, and where now the stricken ship Flings up now one moment of miserable breath, To the wide glare-horizon of the wide-hushed deep In which, dark, dumb, and moveless as the wreck, The boat's crew dig their own life in mid-interstice. From mid-channel to mid-channel The hurricane's might Comes up to the mid-thicker gauze and mooring-down Of the St. Lawrence, full-throated, full-armed, And ever the thunder rumbles and clears And ever the drums beat out-rumbling As the mighty tide's towing the skies. It is the gale of April, in the calm of morning, In the ebb of April, in the glory of morning, I who look up to the sky, a dreamer, I who have drawn my watery curtain, Close-sewn, over the shore of my life, Where the mists of the eternity of morning, Shining far, far down the watery sunset, Tremble and shrink and wane on the erratically-beating of the snow-floods in the meadows of Delight. For the grey weather-smoker, on shutters set low, Rises and stirs, and a long shift of leaf And a rustle of birch and gull and hoarfrost Whirls and shakes in the wind of the morning. I have to lie where cool drops away Beneath green leaves and flakes, Where blue haze of sunset enchants, Where in the distance canyons glint A glow that'll last for the long day. But I do not dream, I do not dream, Ere the wrappën ramp of day Where the long clear light of the long dazzling noon is ramping up, I do not dream, I do not dream. But I feel, I do not know how, As the strong flush of a midday sun Gleams in my face, and I know The thirst I cannot keep down. I have stood in odd obscure places Where life-things moved and whispered, Like children's eyes at the door Whom Santa brought with him Down the long untreated and uncut October day. I have passed where in the shut doors of the forest dim, By red light and fog lights twit With Santa Claus, the old clock, Where under the clock flame's Glinting, over and under, Till the air like blood Is changed for a breath one Whirling gust has blown thither, Under Santa's eye. And when the red light at noon Flows like a love flame, I know I am glad of this, Under the half-unfolded blanket Of red mist and fog, As I feel life so strangely wild That all I think of is Life, and the heat and sweet Thunder of my blood beating To ======================================== SAMPLE 59 ======================================== Close-knotted ring; when dulled by ease Of successive excess, 'tis hell's worst crime To touch the just object of thy love: To sin with honour, is thy wish, But to sin against beauty is worse than no sin. The mind, the eye, the heart are only things To obey thy wishes, not thy commands. The moment is the WORLD's, the SUN'S, oracle; 'Tis ours to shine or to fade, as overmuch admiration Would make the slow-spreading purple seem the more resplendent. So wasting past the load, thy self may stray As fancies choose the way; and now Thou shalt be weak, not aid to ours. So feeble things forget that toil requires Their muscular strength; And, losing memory of former day, Are to themselves their hopes, by giving aid. They do no more than they are wont, Because they are so weak; and this is strength. We, on the other side, may seem to do As little as would be deemed; But in the best of selves we are not so In actual times, in power. If we can come to life and bloom again, And give our fancy sport And words to wander through our native land In some delight, We shall not be to be pitied, we. We must not in such walks compete, As such a course would cause A worthy man to burn. But like as not one flower in May Of all the sylucent pool In all its limpid glory appears, But by the passing wind's hour-hand At one temp. changes many in dust. Then take the spur; for by the way, Where our old paths interpose, A thousand forces work, And sport, we know, compels many a page Of windy moments, from their hide, Where once our feet were, to death. Thus many one stirs, and after it A thousand still; but these are no less Than the first, or even the last Naught is for to loiter at, Tho' fancy so we may Cut here her flight, or tickle here. Fools, men in this net of shades Who dare to wander so, Are like the fool in blackness Whose last is over, and his first behind. The clouds will gather. See, the hollow They o'er the rim do show, But hawthorne's in view. So much confusion! 'Twas but a funny way to shout! You turn away, but still we see Till, by the sight, you gang, And blush, like Ismenirde of Cain, That old cloud which stood the best. What's to be done? The occasion's not good, Not at all with Lovelace. This is proved By this dispute; for lawyers know You're said to have scribed the pay Of Bedlam. That's a fact, but to please, The other justices of chanc' to mend, Ormilhomme, that was Aladin's brother, Ismen is dead! What does he now own? Lovelace's a viler, but he says The worse of it. I wish, he were, Or I am bidden to tell us, too, That he and all his wits had a share In this cheap get-up, jest and jolly, A quarrel or a game; but here's a wag Is doing it. A bairnie, b'graartie, sot, Has made them the correct e'e; and, lo, How simple-dear it seems, unbonie. They must have holiday no more, I think; Or, then, it must be speech they've caught, For, here and there, how can I guess, It's so bonie here to-day. So bright the sun his liegeland is- (Sed would have it) he is this moment gone, And in an age when gumbullit or grey Is not an e'e but a carew long-eared To write of sunbuntu-forte- Tan is this instant made a pariah; Sun has long-agèd Tan, and, let Whisky-tint in the basin stay, Tan's arch-father's last blast no more we hear, Tan's the only tongue, and brooding up The eyes and moles of Heaven, will be When the darkon sun goes down to sink To his lower bath. Now, tanner, lad, boy ======================================== SAMPLE 60 ======================================== Visit no more the halls of Yarrow, Nor the billows of any winding stream. I have kept the call of the wild and wood Not with out song, nor yet with mute repose. I have loosed the wild winds from their seals, And the lions from their dens, and the bears Have come from a day of high hunting, To the feast of the summer, and the meal Of an endless feast. The song Of the lark in the morning is over. The raven sings at sunset to his dread Mother, and you, even you, will sing The old eternal song. How great the sleep is! and how light the eyes Of the fair that sleep by the waterfall! And how cold the trees! and how the snow In a great frost-mass that is Legend named Drifts, far, far from the little green hill, And far, far is the Winter-frozen lake, Whose wave is a shy one of a she/we Of a/we/me/love. I hovered around the feet of my love, As she slept, and awoke, and watched, and wept The bright and blushing appearance of her skin. She was frail, And the frost wreathed her fingers and hands about Like the hands that were precious in the season of May. She was lovely and slight, And she seemed a little dream, like a vision of May That floats up in vaporous shapes of golden clouds, Or a lady of pure form in a noble state, Concealing a heart, that melts away in the sun; And a/we thought her the daughter of our dead. Then we spake of future crossing and return That would ever crown with yearning and truth The same-named old river. The summer was fair In the season of flowers and hot-house fire, The cows and lambs were milked and born. And I knew by the wisdom of her lips That she had wed the song that was named "Love." "I have drifted down the whirling road to you, And the road whirls to where the road-god spins. Tell me the tale of the wonder over," I cried, and my tears were like to drown The clear sounds of the night that swelled out In the interlacing brooding of the stream; And the pallid lips of the river told And I swam to the shore, A frail grey ghost, where the brown hair of the water-dog Was brittle at the lip of a bloom-embowered bed, And I spake: "O girl of mine, Why thou bow'st to the current of that cold gold? If but once more the summer-gold have shined In the golden hair of thy head, I would fain That I might slay thee with beauty of the stream. But O, thou canst not hathead those that slay; There is none save the one goose that I would spare. Ah, to be wild, to live without an enemy! For well I wot, that myriads of gold-face don't Buy of the market of a soul, the owner gets none." I knew that the voice I spake of was dead At the first phrase, but could not seem to find Concise utterance of the sentiment, And all the humour it did not escape; And in the success it brought, I laughed With face to face with a ghost, because it Was a girl, and not a fox, I was soon moved To think the voice of my laughing days. And, as when wonder is pleased at a light Men fall a-talking about with their fingers, And end, in the wonder of their chats, A pain, because they cannot put off the thought From head to tail and 7 to 1, and the least That they could tell each other of, was bad, And not good, as it often is. For nothing is to them as good As bad, nor bad to them as much as bad. We are broken up, our fires are broke, All things gone, or known to be non-existant; And now at the last thro the door is acoubed That had the fire lit for dinner yesterday; And the fire and kitchen are so far apart That I cannot smoke in the parlor, And I must blow the smoke of the room below; But if I were really desired to be glad, I might, even in this broken way. O my love, my love that has not smit me yet, Tho hard that I am and that I've tried so much, Tho ======================================== SAMPLE 61 ======================================== USA, and home is where the heart is Drawn to the mother, and her breast, the place To which only mothers (poorer far Than you or I) are longing to return. All I know is--I am neither blind Nor deaf, And this is what I know. I wonder if the paths that I've tried Can be retraced. I see only as I went By memory's soft vision. And yet, as I went, I knew I was seeking to be free. So glad I was to escape myself, I wonder if I could ever be; It is the stroke of the gray night That holds the sun in his lair. The cloud-wrinkled sky is hideous, The fire-tinted lamps are loutish, The wind in the strong trees is harsh, The heifer creeps at dawn still; The water is a blear And the river a-stream; And the old couple dreamin Are fain to mend their marriage. I cannot see the sun; And when I hear his rays I do not feel their power. Yet I who look out in front Where they at present are set, Can picture great many a summer day When the wind tore road and plant, And the sun's keel was wear With the blows they each of them Had gotten that morn When the whirl-storm's roar And the hurricane did sing. And there was Never a Shore more gay Than its sand-cemented palace. The sea's low green waves looked on Down the long and lightless End of that day's briny way. And all night long I lay in bed Gazing at the sea. And thus I looked Ere I knew you. When we are gods, we win what life keeps for it: The moon, the sun, the wonder of the world. And your eyes are stars whose through and round Of some few skies, ages long, Purshes and dusk, are stars for me. My eyes are shardeness, strange and rare. O, my eyes are stars, my eyes That I shall see on mountains be Where eyes have Heaven on earth for boon, My eyes. My faith is as the sky is true. What is, is. What I see is you. My eyes are pales, are bars, are gates To some high fair. And eyes but shine with, when they Are white for you alone; When, like the sunrise, they shine For you alone. With you I am fulfilled. All the truth is one. And I Beheld the light within wherewith That penetrates the eye to find Whether soul be near or space. I tasted heaven in my soul's behring, Seeing, where soul and eye seek glee, Shade and brown tint a star; While our children, when they look on you, Seeing you see their eyes. O sunbeam, from that annywhere We see thy path! The way of all men's seeing Is wickted with thy beauty. O wilt thou not loose but hold The knot thou made? O wilt thou not press the orb That burst thy grasp? It is you in the window-brae, Laid black by day! There, in the village white of day, Wailing in its snow, You, who made it desolate, O faint lark, in your heaven, Casting one white egg white flash After wav'ning at the bird's nest One white peep! Eyes of my soul, look up! Eyes, in whose wondrous depth More than was your world hidden lie Your future, your past, and all Your world, yours, here! O summer's sonnets, sweet and pensive I needed in my soul's wide circle. I needed your Poetry's grace. The songs that bring the sun and dew When the beat of the tides is high, When the waves are black, and the Morning blows, And down in yon bay, all day long, Is the bay's black spray up to-day. O love, all love, your words! A hand spares the shoulder blade. Boon, to me thou art O sweet, O friend! Is your mind's eye kind? All, all, you say to me, Come, we'll talk in me. I sent you the spring's first young crop To leaven all things; But, lo, you came with store Of ======================================== SAMPLE 62 ======================================== Spring comes up and the leaf is in bud. Taste the tea, and when you have drunk, Draw the fleck of silver and stare And lift your wand like a hand of starlight And touch the name again to the page Of the wordless Book of Love. The trees like luminous, Shed their green, yellow, red, Purple, orange, green, and blue, And pierced all the night with their hills of light! The sky, like a curtain of yellow Fallen upon the river. Hills and plains lie naked, A metal green behind They whose works are wrought out of blue, Brilliant And gold. I dreamed I was king, and I went Down through the streets of lovely cities, Streets red-white-and-laced, Streets gold-trimmed, streets red-white-and-laced, Streets gilded, streets red-white-and-laced, Streets dully red-white-and-laced. I sate on a-horse, in a-great following Of my foot, And the streets were queer and dark and gay, Streets red-white-and-laced, streets red-white-and-laced, Streets beady with bilberry brambles, Streets red-white-and-laced. I trampled briers in front of gates And fields were dim with mix'd war, I tramped the glimmering league of hills Where arrows all day seek head, I stood in the widow'd leagues of gloom Where waggons slowly went, I lay in the milky way of hills And dreamed-of meadows. An Image stood, In case I should dream it was a dream, A little dragging way, With ragged hair that almost broke off, A little, gaping mouth that gaped, All torch-smoke and rough light. It was near the door; I started up To seize it with my grasp, It dashed at my feet and stood stock-still In case I should fall to scoop it in, And when I turned my head, The torch-light flash'd. I stooped, I kissed it, And, ah! the poor poor thing shook itself, Shook till its frame was twisted like cords, And split like cords. I put it in the pocket of my coat, I set it bound in golden threads. I gazed around. Oh, I gazed around. I gazed around. I stood in broken smoke, in everlasting pain, In eternal night, With stars and flames above me; I gazed around. I gazed--and gazed--and gazed-- Up, down, men; up, men; It, it was nothing to me; It was nothing to me. I gazed--and gazed; And gazed and gazed; The moon broke in a zigzag wreath Of burning orange, gold and blue; And blue columns, white, in a white thread Of volute light, swept upward, From the wide basin, dim, dimly lighted, Into the darkness, and away. I fled--I heard the passing Of carts upon the gravel, The silent grinding of long heels, And shadowy-formless flight of gliding feet Within the gloom, The murmur of the gurgling ryokan, And downward, With silver, The steamers crackled and burstred. I fell--I heard the rumbling sound Of gables falling; The dry grass sang a dream; I heard the song of a bird; And the thudding of footsteps faint; And the singing of the water, In the night, I ran--I heard a step Of something mov'd A short distance off; I heard a voice; And a voice; and a voice; And a step; and a grasp Of something grasping; And fading away, The whole night Fading away; The whole night fading, And the next morning, The spring came, and the spring followed-- A grey coat, grey jacket, And muttering, And wreaths and vapours in the breeze; A grey suit; a grey coat; An arm about you, Bury us two together In some dark place; Burn the text; Hide the text; Weave a phrase, Or two phrases, Or ten phrases; With a glimmering in the darkness, Weave a dream; Weave the dream; ======================================== SAMPLE 63 ======================================== This boat, unaided by godlike Hero, Sail'd on her hapless course, With all the force of winds and waters Blown from the poles. For with the stony walls it screen'd, The roots of trees, and rocks, The waves were shaken, and the oil, That on her sides did cling, Became rancid, and turn'd to vinegar, As the mould grew brown, So when her wooden walls were rotted, And when her stony locks were severed, And when her sails were scatter'd, The sea had turn'd the sugar to vinegar, And the ship was spoil'd. Till when the rowing boats had left the bay, The merchant-men had not a dog on board To bark, or beleaguer; And sailors, when they had the coast all through, Would not venture half an hour Out of their berths to step; And passengers would not stand the Winter In their saddle- Shoes; But this poor, swarthy, black, With red, fierce eyes, was their constant survey-- Their continual survey-- By many a house it chanced to be, And they were not afraid of him. He sat beside the dripping leaks And watched the slow river roll, And they would say, he was a wonder; He looked as white As any infant's face; And they loved him as their own; And he had taught them all this at night "Horses, I will have here, I tell you, A mare at least as good as Tam; I will have a stable without door or shutter, A house that is kept clean and dry-- And she shall be my brack in all my business; She shall look as sweet as Tam did once to me!" "And when she goes from us she shall bring My fortune, bring my silver dollar-- She shall be called gleaming by the many As the eye-dazzled sun, A brack ridden over by the bracken stream, A mare for the man in my employ, And she shall learn to be my horse." "What! send your bracken to the wrecking wheel? And your horses to the swaying wheel?" Sounded the skeptic note. "No! no! I'll have her galloping to and fro, The best in the neighbourhood, And she shall learn to be my horse." "And when she comes, the thingings I have said, I will bring my words together; You shall learn to ride my horse, as I learned Till your shoes were filled with cracks And your shoes were worse than bruised to the seam." And the time went by, and none in the town Knew of their doings, or would guess. Then came the hot Summer day when Doug's Wife and daughter had a baby boy; And they fasted from eating and drinking, And fell dead one night in the woods. And each wrote a letter home, And told the tale to none but the one; But her not believing father rode away, And the mother sent the letter back, That no one could ever gain her trust, And she never would write again. "O Captain! ye are ever more o'ereerleveranted than ever ye think on. Ye take the best things of men'shifting--they're there already: They leave their houses, their land, their capitalists, their well-placed allies, And wend, over mountains, over deserts, over lakes, Over deserts, over mountains, Away from here till they find the place that's fit. Ye, in your sowing, a floating, a flying nation, In a land to which no man can tell what use, Ye, in the naming of your nations, find out by accident What shape of government's fitteth you. The first man that inventeth steel, or the first inventor Of iron, or metal in general, Is not more sovereign with his brain than I am: The first who thinks ought to be the strongest: The first who licketh lips, the first who shoot't forth on air With a thread of steel: my many-headed nation, A parallel power, a self-perverting deed, A going out of life what could not stay in: A living wound that leaveth me still in life. And yet I think, although I lie so high, I am the king of many more than I am the king. The people that wander, the people that wend, And how have they king-like temples? Answer ======================================== SAMPLE 64 ======================================== In that I dare to meet with such a much-mortal enemy. These Priam's sons to me are enemies on whom I no less envy as than on their father. And thus the fate falling, which he ferried, has been on their part; though he my friend had none at that time, I being still under education. The barbarian is my teacher; and if we were of like age, the boundless study of old age, should he see fit to make him, he could quickly train me, having with me the life of a school. Such men they are, and by their behaviour teach young men that they too may be just. But if here too it suits your turn to inquire, I yield to no delay. beyond the pillars, on the right hand, of the way sheer, and less as they approach and less spreading outward from the cliff, than those which they were but lately shownCasalus, the most Christian of us, would as soon send us all back to the camp, on shameful suspicion, than to tell the cause of our delay in passing from the tall heights to the rudest path. Oh cursed height! wherefore was thy rootlet awarded to thee? The living foot shall ne'er chill Thy haunted blood, O horror of the world! not return them as if reinfured; but those, for whom, ere they fell lay there in full vigour. Fright arm'd I am, and I arm here also; but this thou'lt notice, not that I take delight, for which I felt so great good fortune, but that the change a form should change here is hardship to such repriethed. Change also is undertaken for thee, who art 'midst sinners, in thy temporary defence, since our souls . . . endure for thee their [Ep.Deum out of Mart. was debited. Faith without works is deceased and feebleness with it. When thou art supplied with tongue-resolving thee to the summit of the humble road, Remain thou yet unterrified, vigilant over us thou one, That through thine strength God's love, as the tree testifies to its own fruit, may move forward both our legs. For who e'er enjoyed what he's covetous increased, vanquished by cruel spite, will thank his beating heart and breast, if his condition be compounded of faith and feebleness. the soul from outside is borne into the soul. And since the Fathers draw Dante up to intellect, which. impelled by concreate majesty, driveth our Lord's listener on to think and do, and our Lord himself, by sympathy sanctified, spoke as she who led David unto difficult text; that our hardy Founder and his valiant follower showed no similar courage; and that they chose for strength what they laid out in less than perfectness, is certain evidence that hard nature was not chance and, consequently, that hard nature was not begat. The most difficult and doubtful of Phlegm's poems are those which concern the impious doings of Sagetus, and concern his innumerable heretical sayings; the last matter (pp. 674-678) is especially dreary. Yet the first and third volumes (p. 651) are entirely secure; the difficulty lies in number and choice of topics; in this, the most difficult of Phlegmon's poems. De Rijkhuizen (734), evidently a disciple the wind, and the wind's calms being violated by the wind of the chimney, for an instant blow back, and shelter down, and leave black clouds and snow behind them. So that, by a hard trial of fire and water, a chymist would with this strong pass establish his own doom, if he scclosed himself with the raw hide of a new and unbeddinged chimney. Hence, in that hardest of all sentences (and some fine one might gratuitously wish for), we have here an illustration of the philosophical art by which man's most slight of tools has yet found a place in the world's scheme of things, so regulated by the touch of science. one heart. As an offspring of Education, steeped from early years in literature, he had heard of him, ======================================== SAMPLE 65 ======================================== rich flowers inedible, And the hushed atmosphere, with like amaze, Lets a careless way those shrubber-birds, And a prattle of very few roosters In the hum-bird's nest; To the envious eye, the frost-forme O'er the white palace and the lawn, Gladdens with its beauty, The ancient Stair of the Endless Rest Hath been quarried. I am too old now to guess what age it was That lurked behind old houris' saints, Or how the lightest one at noon might serve To grind out golden dalmaticities, And turn some black olifantus to song; But still I know the world's a big and rosy place, And men, like gods, Are gathered round to gaze and take and keep Some new-found home on either hand. And still, with never a love, And no delight in ills or griefs, They throned along, and heaved with an air Tantalizing For them who trod a thousand-gazing years; Though dawns were now and ever And men grew old on them. This is the house that was the scene Of the first old love affair; This is the house the French built, Which is left and to this day is its pride; This is the garden Where they played, danced and kissed. And up and down the garden now and then Their summer suns o'errun. I loved him, the next day I wrote him, As I am loving thee, And I have had to keep secret from thee My heart's adulteries. This is the secret; he knows me not, And his faith is as my end. I have had long doubts and thinking, Tears and wild speeches From her to wake to, And failed! for sort of man Made of wild dismay For love's sake would break, And rhee suns to wake to! Love! a wild dismay when words are mute, A fever hot-brain'd; The sick heart beats till hurt is shown, Then craves to speak, O think! of thee! How could I guess thee so divine, When labours of thy soul A grace begradle, And with bold fingers unfold Thy larg odes? What or whate'er thou art, Thou, or thyself, Give or keep alive, This or the other bliss As, freedom, I have written thee; As, full-brill'd freedom, Thy heav'nly country Holdeth on by tearing: And thou, whose voice made riches be, Death's word is now demolishéd. And I have ragged ye a long time, And I have dreck'd ye down to this Goodly hero! Sandal arid dunes, And salt and tear-blistering swimmers; And sunward scor buts; And they ca' thee and ca' thee to death. What was't, that caught your eye, Lupaire entrecha, Wh'eenas a verpet ball My body, thin and sole, To lilt ye? This isle of fame, Whose close affords Vengeance, vengeance quite unslaked, While, for the last, She cast a pantomime, And he did smile; He did smile, And thus to show it, This isle of fame, Wh'ilk, her moart hopes Repairs, and straightens to her end; Till with his waters, he makes stand Between her and his bolts. O dear! dear! Inez was out, The street around is cloyed; She sees,--but her Zephyr dies This morning: She sees the oude swooning near, She sees the fires that keep The wide sea fro morn. And the isle is parching, Her toyled sire is bending: Where he a myriad souls shall save, Some other will be soon. Her lee-ripening vii vixens She roosteth infernally. Then he, poor child, is kneeling On a night of rain, When her poor griefes and sighs Will bloomed on green. I'll pay you what you servese, If you only give me leave To be alone with him. In the bleak eve, with a heart astride Of such ======================================== SAMPLE 66 ======================================== or perhaps too much in us now! What can or will come of this, we know not; But, alas! if the state of the state of our lives is to change, I think there are some signs, I should point out, To help us along, if we would come to the best. Some of us have what it would be our good to know; Some of us have what it would be our good to know; And some of us have both, in equal positon, To keep the lookout as our ship so sways and stings, And be the first, when "Shanghai" hears "Bremont," to cry,-- "Checkmate"--what a marvellous thing life is! The life, as it passes from the imagination, Is of such barbarous, knotted-up horror, As our carcass in turning makes so hideous The viscerate and secret spectre, Death; But when the life has come to the sense of the deed, 'Tis something that the sense has never recited, To our amazement, in such a unnatural shape! And all through the viler scenes, the fiercer hell makes glare, Be the Horror of our town such grisly sign, That we exclaim, "Oh my God, and oh my nose! How was I so mad to walk in such a state? I am so frighten'd by this hideous turn of weather, I am so angry with my life, I wish to kill! "If any comfort are to me, it is to perceive That the ground on which my disgust most fully thrives, Is the same that up the hilly parts of the hills, The very hills, in their huge excesses of mountains, From the plain to the heart of the hills, area, Plaining big, bald unwisering fools, and small renown. Wherefore, let us but put faith in the pitch Of wind, which, in that upset of the spur, Scarce on our coast blew to blow of any sense; And that unechoes the fury of the wind, In so much does its power abase the weather That I, who am ever in such delight With the horror of all evils, should be fain To believe the worst, before my star. It may be, if the star were come Back from his night, that his sister too Might change her order, and be with us; For, since it was not come, Was not heretofore imagined To be here: but here she stands, and never Has been, when round the astrolixtive She went to numbers not here numbered, And all the numbers, suns, and houses, Of her kingdom, for her ass, the holly, For the garland, riband, and the maiden, Which in her childhood and in her eyes, Have given all their readings to hell. The old man turned pale, and his wet gray eyes Tearfully stared at her; but she said nought And kept her silence, and he at last did say, Soft, dull pain of his shadow on the floor, Which he had asked her not to let press On the hard floor; and he said nay, And, baring his feet to hers, she went to pray. In a garden near a harbour Of scarlet foam on grey boulders, The flowers' red lips were fed with silent breath; The night could see no stir, and the day no tell But the shadow of a man, half hidden On the green. The day came in loneliness: It would be dark by the time he was gone. And as, when he is far gone, He leaves his tent and slacks his feet; And the dead weight of sorrow, Gray night with chill, chids his cold head, And the face, with the dark of all It is wearied of being, he bowed To the wet earth, and lay in swoon, Rusty and smothering: So, swallowed up and marred, By a little pink he always woke, And with a drowsy nod He closed his eyes; and she Bewitched him to listen, one, two, And took his hand and stroked his brow, And made him rest on the ground, and smile: 'It's late, and a-night, and where's the dog? And I am sleepy, so let us go To bed, and have our fun; it's late, and The-dog waits, and we can kiss and sleep, And I'll to ======================================== SAMPLE 67 ======================================== often took the worm That fell upon him, to inspire his sorrow, The chrysalis, 'gainst the rock it fell. 'That worm did truly and solely go To happiness, to delight, and was The less for that which was in him wished, Because it then was a stronger thing: The less the greater by how much 'twould vary; I doubt, if this were not always true, I can't decide how he began To do what he does, or why. I should think I had the power to give The word, the sanction, not the seed, The cause, the end, to his fancy. He dares say it with such imprimatur, He dares to utter it so proudly, That I, a poor subordinate sinner, May give my sanction, and anoint His vandalism with an iconic trick. In order to pursue this idea A little farther, 'tis fit to feel Some rival vicissitudes; men May use their minds, and yet their feet move blindly; My divergencies I confess, And give my reasons for a little less, Suppose he should prove a fruitful scheme, 'Twould better, in the end, to buzz like this. In the thick medleys, the thick masses, Where the wind floats, or where the sun flies (My head it flows between)--your fancy feels The curious sensation of inward conflict, The mesmeric power to contrive a conversation; There I will indulge my weak endeavour (And what I can) to weave a prose discourse. (My pulses I can strike, if my lungs were better, But my poor veins are fit to overflow). I will not grieve that we need one thing else To dispense with a mess of vice like yours. I confess myself an unwary knave-- My pupil dares to prophesy, and Because I err, he might be right--must strike me. (And here I come in the expectance Of a strong general, like you, and like you, I claim exemption from loss like mine;) In my distracted heart I mean to break Some hash--or tripe, or vibrating drum-- And turn your sandwich into a polee. Wherefore return a grateful profiter, I'd trust all things for a corner like this, And wonder if in the shadowy pall He should not be known as the Doctor Poet. For, as I trust in the smallest lift My fingers may dig into the corner web, So I, at the double polls of quiver At the hand-gem mine, on my soul for a rule I shall be a naughty notumer yet. But my poor brain's consecrated wall Is not quite so round about the rim; I can't resist a moderate key‎ardship, So I am no cornerman, I fear. In truth it wouldn't have much to do With my geographical position Had I the sole pretence to fame, But then I must needs descend from that star Where I, of course, must not be a Poet. 'Twas Goldie--poor girl! she made such a mess of 't, 'Twas all she could do to hang on, Her shins were sunk in a hot puddle And her clothes went round in a quilt. Oh! for a steamy hearth in a one-deated cell, Or a bit of floor where one can 'ot gets by; Or at least a fire in a window that will do. When you're sick of the square you may begin To roll up every parcel of time In your fingers one by one, and say: "Mateeds! I'm sick o' the square." But you must try your best at this minor thing, And you must surely have the right to stay When you're sick of the square. Oh, we so small, and yet we boast so big, Oh, little Jack, If you 'leap like a goose, You'll be Big Bobby's goose. Though Little Bobby may come smaller, If you don't let him. If you 'ave a little sister, take fiddletake Owes a cup o'er; If you 'ave no wife, to swell your next hoose For ever & fathom; To make your next good profit A ' taver when your first froze, Though Little Bobby may come smaller, If you don't let him. "It was just like riding, was it not? Beneath us both. A bare thing, perfectly plain. No fancy I ======================================== SAMPLE 68 ======================================== and the hand of God the pages which he had written were useless, For to all young people There was but one high and Eternal Plan; As far as mortal man is concerned, The Lord has made the change from good to better As he can, The fruits which are ripened by the hand of man, Have their success in no wise dependent on the moves of mortal man. The Lord in every age has shown his power through words or actions, And the high vaults of Heven are glad with offspring in each age. And when the soul awakes he Is young again, And the world is young again, And the great truths of the mind are unearthed, And the old ways are burst asunder; The new truths triumphing as they do. For the Lord will bring about The help of his Providence, If the young soul entreats the old soul to be pure, And the pure soul entreats the young soul to be pure. The old life is over and ended; The new life is at hand; Heaven will have no life that is not pure. The old things have passed away in Earth, The new things alone, The things of Earth and the things of Heaven, The things of Heaven are pure. The old life was one place, The new life is like one thought; The old life was one sphere, The new life is like time and space; The old life had its place Behind the veil of night, The new life has its place Behind the veil of night and day; The old life had one of the levels, The new life has its own; The old life was of tiny uniform size, The new life alights on the void; The old life had one great level The new one has its own great levels; The old life had its level steep and lofty, The new life has its own heights too; The old life was prone and wandering, The new life stays at rest; The old life walked and stood At one level, then dropped down And at the same level trod The space which brought it up. And night and day, One life, one life does not count; The old life has been slain and is dead, The new life lives and moves; And Earth bears up and keeps youth, And night and day, The same breath, one breath, counts. I stand here, I stand here, Here on the rungs of the stairs, Where guests are counted and numbers fall; I am here, and all that is mine is this: To all those powers that be I hold it but the like, To all those men who make for the new world, I hold it but a copy and a sign. I am here and have been here, And now am here to hold, If nothing else, some little less, To what I should be, had I lived, But this like copy and sign; And having no peer, I In his best I see myself the same. I shall be just like him, And that is very sweet; And there are those, and they alone, Whose envy's wings have ever flamed, Whose hand has unstained and unsunned The needle yet unsang; Whose pen yet steady has held, The burthen of a spirit unafraid. And if I do not envy them, It is because they are so great. I shall rise to some, and be the artisan To execute some plan on them, And plan and work around the ground they take To yield to the seer's best system, and carve My bit of the "new day's" plan and idol Against the sky, and I'll have my crack; But here's my bit of the new world, and here's my name, Whose bits and pieces do me good, though the building's spare. For me, what does it matter where or how? All that I cares for is this, that men are proud Of their new life when they suffer for me, And the delight that is the last cry When I am dead, when I am new and young, Is, to carve my bit of the new day's plan, And have it intact when I am gone. Dying, I shall find out some gristly way Of carving my own piece of the "new day," I shall carve it there on the marble floor, I shall carve my name in such wise As that no man e'er shall flout me with scorn For carving so strange a carving of " ======================================== SAMPLE 69 ======================================== Declare your children to be immortal? Would you live without the light of heaven? For life is a languid first effort, And the fount of youth is always in bloom To glow in brief but fierce embrace With joys new-born and indigested, That cannot last, but only shine As golden as a child's dream. Yet sometimes the toil and tear Of hearts, obedient to the past, Constrain us to lay the heart In sorrow at the age of ten. The blossom of youth is not So golden as the flower of Man, For there are aspects to beauty Whose littleness is more than age Can see, that makes us orphans, And leaves us desolate as things unborn. I have known it as a girl, But grown old as a wife. The morning stars began their waltz When I began my prayer, And there was joy in the world to-day That I could not share-- I of the sinless ones, The kindly and journeying dead. How far the littleness of youth! And when I heard the jubilant shout Of girls and boys together, And the open book in the schoolroom That told the facts of life, The mountain and the meadow I saw, And not the city and its ache For all the toil and troubles and cries Of men and women whose lives Are led by Death as their Lord, And when they are the whirlings and the spasms and the tears We twain--ah, God, I knew it! I was a foolish woman When I knew it: but now I cannot tell If it was folly or faith: And I believe, without cruelty, It was the last-- That I should see the delicate ghosts Who walk in the grass, And face the sun, the impenitent sinners, And I should see them in the eyes Of little children, innocent and wise, Struggling for truth, and breaking the bands That tie us to the earth. In the days of the sinless me, What was it that drew My Charles to the scene each evening And made him sick in heart and head And his, thus unexception'd, The little deathmask caught, As it always will, Now under the trembling palm, As it always will. Now, I know what you are doing: You will give to the dead To be fried in grease and oil, And to be grabb'd and greet Of the great plane, and plinth'd In the mouth of the great spout That runs on prodigious vents, That keeps postponement, With the flushing of the hills, And the dazzling of the mounds From its initial greater course, And the grating, And the splintering of the stone, And the murmuring of great cracks, And the oaths that come A the three gates of God, and are laid A-threescore to prevent the fire From the balance of divinity-- You will hold the stiff divinity And the grey priest behind it, And you will haul up the low divinity And lock it with the keys of vice That are heavy to remove, While we drive old Tomorrow To his gutter for the pig And the kid, To the scrapyard for the meat-grind And to the scrap-yard to be grinded, And to the distant grimnes To the smell To the rumble and the hulks Of the great machines for splitting, And the rattles of the sliding-mshale. We have broken the cab-load of Tomorrow, We have yoked the great spheroid That rolls with easter, To the great jaws of the mine To be split, and to be hoed In the tarmac of the road. When I was young, Death came to me, A street on the cold side of heaven, With a gaunt, glowering face, And I thought he was turning my nose up, And I rebuked him in temperate French. He slipt his left hand, And drew at my eye, And, with a little pincered mutton-head, He toss'd me the head-dress of great Pluto, And, with a sort of smile on his fatuous face, He spokke to me thus in French. "Ah me! O mais jauz-léf, you are grown so wise, You don't know very well where you are going. You are like one ======================================== SAMPLE 70 ======================================== in London, She won't do to-day--I'll go to bed, And to-morrow, I shall be free-- My little girls, in China's ancient art I have made beasts with human faces: The new moon in their eyes is caged, And they only see their female fancies In human faces they have made, So fragile, human, yet so grand, And one is little, and one is big. A big man--a little woman--in their art, Their custom, their dress, their way of living, Are two so unlike, they will think, to-day, They will think tomorrow will be all right; But little and clumsy, these two are both incapable Of acting in the world's eye, that's so clear and wide; They will be looked at, looked at; What good will come of it all? And, oh, dear little women, if I should dare To play with you, with you: To force my strength of arm, my wings of flight, And make me mighty as a bird; You would see beauty, and beauty would be, And you'd say "Here's a star; He's made for beauty, let him be!" He has strength, he has flying strength, I'm told: He has sinew, he has sinew like a deer: He has eyes like a star, to see with; He has speed, he has speed like the rain's falling wings, To fly at pleasure:--You'd say "he's made for motion, Let's see his gracefulge!" The master, though, from day to day, from job to job, Has to use fool-trade, and work hard on the hose: His nerves, which are even, are easily strung: He's like a man that has wings, that in love and wine Is weary after, after 20 pounds of sand. But, my dear ladies, to see men leave These beautiful halls, these sumptuous doors, To labor harder in dank places, where It may end in worse disarray, Fading, soon, the bright glory of the doors; Where the poor wanderer has to seek What life means, whether it be pain or joy; A life of toil, which is hardly better. Think of it, think of it, the number of The duplex of toil, and think of all the Trifles that nature worked in iron, Immured in the temple of the common fate, The women, the gods, the toils, the motions, The lightning for conductor, the Oh, the agony of work! Think of it, think of all the suffering, Poverty must be for the soul's delight. The noblest, greatest souls have found it Are more concentrated in the hours They seek: think of the poet, whose love Is only for his music's completion: Of the man, who in his labor, or disquiet, Seek'st for some remote station, not seen By him now, or his own hearts, engage His latest mood. Do you not find him, sirs, Ensphered with wise engagement, all His self-thought on one axle. Let me say But that the world is not the smallest part Of the, life, not the world a lislut, Which the poet thinks it. You have given Some of your thoughts to make the earth; Have not scorned the furthest bounds to look at, But passed ahead to find what nearer you had room for; Have not, if at all, for e'en viewed with eyes of pride The shortest side of a ladder of joy. Think not the longer odds defeat the greater power. Thine own thought, thine own strength, in some sense, Will have all elements in exactly proportion; And if thou strivest, and labor, at thy thought, You will find its elements in all proportion. And if thy thought and breath now move in their wheels, You will find, when all your forces revolve To their oldest atoms, even at last, Even at last, proportion and element found For all your strength and all your thought. For, if the poet's mind should be Your mirror, and his song for seeing, Be sure you have his meaning eye: For he and you see clearly now Just as we now, see clearly he and we. In the bright utterance of his art His highest into earth's low air Has drawn the reflection of your life. His own thought, the world's thought, you see; And in the ======================================== SAMPLE 71 ======================================== And on the breakers join to fight, And fall on all the waves of heaven, That roll in thunder from afar. Now hither, now thither they hasten, Where the battle rages sore, Like the reavers on the sand-dunes wild In the thick summer of the winter. The banners are fastened to the tree-tops: They are twitched straightway from the tree-tops: For the youth who then gathers with his might, Fell fighting for the others' right, And the war-cry spread now widely around. Now behold, O Hearts that waver! What the enemy of your enemy is; Now that you cry 'O', do 'Er-day! With the joy of battle repose!' The Friend, to-day! and the Friend to-day. Brightly gleams the sunset's golden lake; Heavenly sounds to heroic spirits A rising melody in the spheres; And like the coming of this song of love Dims the dull day of life with glory. And as the brushwood leaves in leaf are In their prime dove-flecked by the spring, In lands of slumber now they keep A sweet but mysterious beauty still. And a deep, sweet sadness comes and engulfs The round fair face of them in dew. At the door of the hut, where once They wrought a saintly peace to this world's woe, Goes a woman, torn between a flame Of deep youth and a chastity That is only for this world's delight, She sees her one just her love In hopeless sinfulness. And thus the hut, so quiet and alone, Which is sinning and stung by love's taint, Throws off its veil of snow for the breeze; And she sighs now, O thou just washed in that; For in the manger where the lamb is hid, That his youthful mistress shall see him. Who now that was, the love of my life, Whose smile reigned where'er I looked, How did he fare in the growth of years? That was not considered enough; He had to love the captivity, And suffer, to assert his desir'd And there the unfinish'd hopes were dies, Which made him still the little life to gain; That his love and fame in vain should grew, And they beheld, how frail their bond; And his faithful tongue, with pains said, That love is all an idle name, But happy he that will eat pelf, That he love's fair fame dies ere it be fled. How true the Scots say that the Pope Tho' they poubles also pronounce, That Luther was to them just judgment given, Let their excuse, you performance, glance. It is not worth a whistle through the mud; And I should hate to see One horse more the Turks should hold infidLER The pen of BONEY, but the stomach o' the belles. And now the curtain rose, And the house seem'd ready to leap out, By a sudden loud uproar; And a young Holy of Holies brought in The "London charge" on his horse, and at one clip, Appear'd, and alighted, "Past away!" Huzza! down he sprung, and he was dressed In a very memorable fashion; For his ruff is not of the ordinary, And the front of it is so fine, That the ladies admiring the way He's hung his petticoats, cry, "From ye damned Turks, Angel's Dressed!" In the Temple now the danger's grown So great, they're bunding the defence in; And the Generalissimo's so bold He's half-way to the pitch before they hush; I hope we'll be going soon. "The heavy drop's come, Our balloons are perching, We'll now be off, like balloons, Flying to Africa, my darts, In these die so, and so close that hour; He that so hard assoil that he dare stir, In the humour to come back that's made him; We'll know who that be, and who'll have a finger Where he's set his watch how tall!" He now left the canvas of the boat; But, with the aid of their flags unfurl'd, The Devots came on shore too; And, though the lady's father's full sight Refus'd them entrance, and true labours Did in a few some little stir, Yet ======================================== SAMPLE 72 ======================================== a jockey must have sloped, a white horse must have trod and a dog and a cat must have licked. And when it is snowing to this sky, to this light, I can turn a little blue, a little blue, and see the air above, a galaxy of sparkles. A rooster may crow crows loudly in the dark. But do not answer coos too loud, for crows crowd, when light is light. And crows never, never answer one crow. I hear something awake beyond the city, it is the sound of the buried city and day falls. The bird rings the bell of sound, the bat looks forth and falls through the darkness to rest. Now a slow grey halo of light, the sound of snow the sound of day falls, it is the sound of buried day falling. Let your dreams be white, my white walls, like white gold. Let your dreams be black and bound in time, like dry black ships. <|endoftext|> "Early Morning", by Susan Carol Murray [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Spring, Winter, Religion, Arts & Sciences] Bells in the distance bell test the spring night, The light wind softens the snow, The light snow flurries; The morning air cools the morning air. What does it say? The night-time quiet breathes in the winter spaces; But the spring days sweep by in the orange sunshine. From beneath their roofs of leaves, lilt like birds, who heard The sweet spring chimes? <|endoftext|> "Weariness", by Susan Carol Murray [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Weather, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] In the dust and thunder of a summer city, silty folk shiver to the steel-white days of restraint; It falls off their shoulders a drowsy mist, as if they worked but did not. In the high winter sky men work to earn some rest, To earn the joy of knowing they have done their work. This soft wind climbs the morning tower, eager as insects' wing. This drowsiness in a crowd Where a great sound awakes like a lid of earthen jars: a noisy press where men do not speak. <|endoftext|> "Some Things in Apocol {*}", by Susan Murray [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Winter, Arts & Sciences, Music, Poetry & Poets] O frost, soft Frost, take what you will from me but not your precious age; O frost, come gently, silently, from my frozen heart. O Edward Gomerson now are you reflecting in carteras' eyes in the dim light of your amber fame; give them not the long, lingering charm of all that remains to-day of bleak vale and ruined well. O beloved dark, shine and repent, though the years beseech, forgive that this poor breath holds as you do all that remains of all you were. O frail flower, O wave, and O sweet home, I have two faces, you, to remember; one of them, you reflection. O seven streets, I now find out on which the crest of every tall building is lamppost, and I, out in the cold, where once you were not, now read your words, "For Lent" — and my name, once Hope, now the other, Self-Hope. O two red wheels in the gutter, now these wires, running from point to point, resemble — see them spin — your loveless extravagance, your channel, the way you taught us to search for promises and their pursuit. <|endoftext|> "Love Number One", by Susan Charles Hammons [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Relationships, Men & Women] To be your husband for one Valentine's Day Is a wonderful thing. I know it is. I know You love you. But for this occasion, You could be any man for that matter, A businessman, a poet, a dog. If I were you, lordy, I would not care. I am ready, you fish, to be that man for one single night ======================================== SAMPLE 73 ======================================== Morgan, fair Theogony! A heart a-blending with your brains; A soul with soul decays; A daughter with daughter genealogy, A brother with brother ancestry. Bearing the form, the matter, and the breed; Seeing and feeling it all complete; Out of the dust and mud to get; And in a garden to plant and join, New soil, and harvest, and history. By order of the King's House Court, Full of heraldure, and pomp, and play, His head encircled with its sheen, Came Morgan down, the famous Morgan, To shine the knights and ladies at his side. No more for him the jollity to see Must linger on! To dungeon and frying-stool To crib is now his birth, his name to claim, In spite of Porphyria, the ignominy, And Cibber, the ignominious crack! 'Tis his that has the king's favour, And all men's admiration, to see. You all can laugh, can all you hear? So goes the pitiful tale! Shall Morgan then be a prisoner husking? And where's the dinne a prisoner's begetting? Pale prisoners of our law are you, You silly train, you little one? Why is he locked up? Why does he groan? Is he dead? Is he badly maimed? Is he crying? Is he stiff? Does he scalded? Is he sulky, or high-then-hanged? Is he drugged, or drunk, or merry-maiden, Is he leaky, or drinking, or leaking? Why is the cell so high? Why is it laid So high? Is it sohy, or too acute? Is it damp? Is it wet? Why is the window Creaking? Is it too near the sky? Why is the hole so deep? Why is't night? Why is it of the night? Why is it light On the morrow? Why is it of light? Why? Why is it noon? Why is the earth To grass turned? Why is it sundog? Why is it of days? Why are the spheres Moving? Why do they rest? Why I? How is he I never saw? How am I fast So past him, so past him? How come I never Down under him, under him? How come I And he not always looking up? How come He not always looking up, sky Out of a sky? How come I not here? Was he ever here? Did he ever come? Was he ever here? Did he ever Sought him, or dreamed he, or called his name? Was he at the door, or slept? Did he wait For his coming, or rise up and go? Was he driven in his flight? Was he deterr'd From the awful journey by some magic, By some fearful power, or other? An earthquake shook the earth? Was it quake? Was it sudden? Why, I am shake'd with the same! Why do I shudder so? Why am I shake'd With the same -- I say, and so is the bench By which I sit, and the bed by which I bed down. This world, in the mean time, is try'd -- It pales and is undress'd! It is worn out and bent out of shape! And there's not a breath to stir it in When I live, and it be after -- The same is quit of its possessors, And for the glory -- I have in my hand A book, to which I can uncloak The mysteries conceal'd In this world, and will give them out at home, When I've become a famous man, When I am famous; For there shall be no more of this. Here after a while I will return, And put on my rags again, And go to the world's extreme northwestern corner, And, among the beasts, Love to poke like a rat I've play'd the jester, I've love'd the fool, I've infirl'd up with the starveling -- But never a man I know That wouldn't cheer at my musical spirit. Oh, then I'm happy as a lark! I'm happy as a lamb! You'd think so much kindness would do me for once; ======================================== SAMPLE 74 ======================================== "Well done, dear Arau," was all he said. But I was left to blush and blithe, And, to a man, wished the gentleman Was not Sir Arthur O'Hanlon, since His precise word had cost me dear. Now here the curve of the day Leads, pensiveily the same, The hilltop's line to alight, By which I once of slumbers Was betaken, my dear. Like those who draw An eye-ball at a lie, These lovers do, as it were, Sings it the green, These lads, who long Love through the night And tremble through the day. And, 'stead of toil and heating sun These lads now spit and keep Their stripes in memory, Sue their days of steadiness For straighter curves. These lads, who used to tarry No matter how inclement, Now kiss the couch at moot Lave their necks in sloth's white rose And are slumbrous lads. And so they keep Each other's faces, smooth And cheriable, while From on high The beardless Virtute forgets its clothes And smiles, with lifting cheek, To see the fire-bell in the tower. THE russet-hounds and silken hare Dumbly twang the purple plest, The rose's hoarsheels ring With their unadorned horns And giggle at the jay. Bunched up in belfry tree, While fete is high and kettles tan, They rouse the airy glamour 'bout The greying key, Till hall and tribunal shake. What noses they strut in sod! (Dame has hazel hair, slams), We'll speak of Mars and sour. Who is that champion? And what of Mazer? Tell O my father, I wot He's a steeze and a stot. Wine, red, fresh, gilly, and gold, Shines and gleams the Chapel tower, And o'er the grand old towers The plump of kissing lasses, Tranquilly sizzle and blushes. O my heart! what glories You've shaken or to reveal, Mere hummingbirds in the air. In Archseof you'd reel those kings And all their courtiers; who should this be But a damn'd Falconio? Who, so surly, gracious, and Tertly silken-hooked, should dine Upon bread and earthen bowl On stony twinkles and wide-downy white And golden-yellow nuts to wipe Their cockes, flatter'd and encrusted. Lad took 'em off to church, Their rubbers skimmey'd and tickled With brimming hose and rugs Of statutes, flaunting and frizzled. He'd rug as if planked for sailins. What arates and howdah's, For gold and cock-sucking dung, For barks and bellers, hoofs and heels, For blustery laughs and whineings! Yes, he'd plug his swearings, I'se tarry'd 'bout a fucking At Gay's, when a deal of lookins. He thought he was earth's They call the Court's Ward 'Cause it is what men will nam Coon only of a-llusions, Of courts and boards, In cold and heat of cours, By rod and ordeal. And, oh, what cheer! That is the world's curtained Pulpit and red chamber! They can't flit up to grace The marble fountains, And, by-gin, the nards Are hangin' on a pew By some sark, you bet. With lookin' on the world, When it's day but lookin' On the worl' and trees, And trees and moon, 'Cause a man mai see 'em, They're mite livid In their expression. The moon's cloud ails All affaires are Neglected in the time That's mishanfice of a day, You see, on a lonz; And why ? they're mishangency. When they pile they rock on the ground, 'Cause they's moon lookin' in. 'Ledge' is the scare ======================================== SAMPLE 75 ======================================== Some peace; and some, I fear, at least, Gave much more than they knew, And they not as a coin could buy A copper word or smile. But, being rich, they lived like kings, And it was said that when they chose Their friends, they chose them very carefully; Some went to country-break; And some to prison-cell; Some to the wars went, Or 'cross the Sound to Hong-Kong, Some to the prison-wall; Some to the great man's feast; And some to the saint's clean; Some to the city heals, And some to the saints; Some to the races-day At Burwood, some three or four; And some to the nunnery, And some to the nunnery; Some, I think, to the holy well, And some were there for sins. 'O man, O man, O man, Now I behold in thee The toe of tyranny! O man, O man, Thou liar! I know it all; And I will give thee for thee To hell to hammer, A prince's hammer, for a prince's sake: And that is all I give thee! O! thou art mad, The waist Of all the world is kingly, and thou art thou! Thou art NOT man; thou art The sum and substance of devil-riddles! And like some fiery thing Made with dust of atoms, Or with the flecks Of other things and their dust; And, like thy life, The sum of things, Thou liez—and thou shalt go, As the rush of shaphs, The chariot of thought, And when thou go'st, When thou go'st, Thou shalt arouse The dead in thee, and crown thee king of THIN Air, Risen at the river of time, On the falls of flame, And up into the heaven of highest souls. And like the broad moon, So the broad moon will shine, And up in the heaven of worth She will be round; And she will be round, And she will shine For ever triumphing o'er Thy myself and thy thousand years of banishment! What do you mean, To have the grandeur of the great? And must it not also be true, That you will also have the wings Of devils to carry you? You have the thousand histories Of the gods and the giants; Long is the road of learning, Long is the way of happiness, And the maximum of wretchedness. Thou look'st at me As the look the eagle has At the blue-eyed maiden Of creation. Hast thou seen one blue-eyed maid, So stern in earth-grave, Thy sister in heaven? No! silent weeps the giant, Hers is not joy, Or word is scant for speech, Her gaze dispersible. For me, You the God of Guthelin, You shall have What thou man-born hast, The gladness of the graces; And the blissfulness of Fate. <|endoftext|> "I can make the lion let loose, I can put the clouds in a rage, I can stir the sea till it is dry, I can quench the thirst of the wanton boy, I can fight the gods and defy them. "I am given to hurl the very sun Upon his cloudland realm. I can blow The fire-wing, the steel-flecked day. I can quench the mermaid's song, the lady's smile, I can lull the babe and its father. "I am given to trembling the heart asunder, To lust and spurn the malice grim. I can stir the stomach to utter ruin; I can do this and more, for the just and good. "My days are many and my tasks as numerous As the flowers of sun and of spring. My heart and my hope, I thine, O sea. Shoulder with me the burden and the burden, And the next of my burden will be the morn." The wind was shrieked, and the wave was done highwaves, And the sea washed the bones up along its breast; And the merry seaweed, day and night, Was thickening the gloom of the midnight blue, And we lifted our masts and fled, And the goblet flowed for the toast, and we leapt For the drink ======================================== SAMPLE 76 ======================================== handy, and tall and smooth, Like the mouth of an iron- horn; the stroke came over the sweating earth at its feet; a flash against the dimness. I do not know the world's heart with the bird's or my own, though I've taken my joy by taking my hand away. I know that what I feel I shall not repay, For the red riches that I've used seldom, if at all, Have pouting ears: I may go my way, a red rose, to bed. I may not feel another for the world's, I've got my Yes, he said the world, and he who had taught him the way where I could pass him, he was all the world to me, And I knew that he had not spoken exactly, but seemed to speak in jest, For he was jest a funny man. I gave him money, and made me anxious to go where he had sought to go. He followed with eyes that were fixed on the horizon's edge, Took me along the wind, took me out of the wind. The golden hour. I give you the wind. The wind would not let me proceed. <|endoftext|> "Mowing", by Carter, Emmett [Activities, Jobs & Working, Nature, Trees & Flowers] Catching a blooming tree, twist of shadow, then a shout from Bill, and again, and again, a whip of grass cut down. See blue-wing over hollyhock, golden on rose, past the clock that counts back from the set of moon. Have no idea why it began, but spur- ish tractor taking its cut and I am twisting my way to the corn behind a bush of willow. Too sweet to bite, I kiss the blade that clears green down to creamy cloth. I suck at the light, kiss the shear load's glide on down the field. This is the sound of my husband's hand flying my way, and I thank him, breathe the sweet grain in his. Have no idea why it ends, but all of us in the niche of that room, in the huge dark have found the work. Have no idea how we found it. <|endoftext|> "Indiscrimice", by Carter [Relationships, Home Life, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy] When my sister does it, it means something is up. Or it may mean that is just trying to be the thing her own shadow used to be. For my sister, every chance I can grab I give her. I scratch my skin, too, then pull her in for a hug, as if I can wrangle her desire without warning. But as my sister creeps back and forth between the window and my frank ear, she is pulling me and our whole field in for corn. It is as if she thinks nothing of what I can teach her if she has, if I have not. <|endoftext|> "A Key to Parental Bonds", by Marilyn L. Wilkens [Living, Coming of Age, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] They knew the approximate location of where the key lay. They just had to get some chalk, move it from the bedroom to the hallway, and get it back from the drawer after use. And they did. But only one did it under her own steam, leaving a trail across the shivered floor. They stared at each other across the years, and were thusly, when they found it, watching each cloud-to-sea cale. <|endoftext|> "Twelve Forever", by David Brawn [Living, Coming of Age, Activities, Sports & Outdoor Activities, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] Woke up on half-blanket sleeping. Went out and got a hat and a quilt. Had the money earmarked for single. Met a man at the bus stop and he paid. Washed station wagon. Went to the green when deeds of eviction were written. Watched the steady end of the sunset along the county road. Learned to count from the cast of light. Took up interest in geography. Went to school. Went to the bar. Got wrecked at the foot of an oak tree. Turned bottom to another turn. Went to the grocery store. Went to a contest. Got married. Made the bottom rung on the aisle. ======================================== SAMPLE 77 ======================================== about how I don't even know where I'm at, and how I never seem to run out of things to say, and how I know there's still so much to say and still no place to say it, but there, I guess I do. <|endoftext|> "Hills of the South, Springer Dogs and Negroes", by Pauli Baron Vaughn [Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity] Nestled between Mumbo and and Beulah, hemmed in by snaking, slow-dropping cotton, button cocks, one could be caught in any kind of problem: it was a contest to drop or be dropped. Nail-full. Always. Like I was caught in school, a string of 10th grades, 11th grades, a string of 12th grades, a string of 13th grades, a string of 14th grades, a string of 15th, a string of 16th, a string of 17th, a string of 18th, a string of 19th, a string of 20th, a string of 21st, a string of 22nd, a string of 23rd, a string of 24th, a string of 25th, a string of 26th, a string of 27th, a string of 28th, a string of 29th, a string of 30th, a string of 31st, a string of 32nd, a string of 33rd, a string of 34th, a string of 35th, a string of 36th, a string of 37th, a string of 38th, a string of 39th, a string of 40th, a string of 41st, a string of 42nd, a string of 43rd, a string of 44th, a string of 45th, a string of 46th, a string of 47th, a string of 48th, a string of 49th, a string of 50th, a string of 52nd, a string of 53rd, a string of 54th, a string of 55th, a string of 56th, a string of 57th, a string of 60th, a string of 61st, a string of 62nd, a string of 63rd, a string of 65th, a string of 66th, a string of 67th, a string of 68th, a string of 69th, a string of 70th, a string of 71st, a string of 72nd, a string of 73rd, a string of 74th, a string of 75th, a string of 76th, a string of 77th, a string of 78th, a string of 79th, a string of 82nd, a string of 83rd, a string of 84th, a string of 85th, a string of 86th, a string of 87th, a string of 88th, a string of 89th, a string of 90th, a string of 91st, a string of 92nd, a string of 93rd, a string of 94th, a string of 95th, a string of 96th, a string of 97th, a string of 98th, a string of 99th, a string of 100th. <|endoftext|> "Why I Signed My Body", by Gregory Gilman [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Po Criticism, Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity] I was the Lacian I was the Che. I was the Jalíko I was the Jalíko. I was the Jalíko Tomás rendered in cardamom and simirth. I was the Jalíko Tomás, also rendered in oil and tea. I was the Jalíko Tomás rendered in natural fermented white wine. I was the Jalíkos and the Michaela's I was the Jalíkos and Michaelas. I was the Jalíkos Tomás rendered circa 1510. I was the Jalíko Tomás rendered circa 1515. I was the Jalíkos Tomás rendered circa 1530. I was the Jalíko Tomás rendered circa 1545. I was the Jalíko Tomás rendered circa 1560. I was the Jalíko Tomás rendered circa 1575. I was the Jalíko Tomás rendered circa 1620. I was the Jalíko Tomás rendered circa 1642. I was the Jalíkos Tomás rendered circa 1666. I was the Jalíko Tomás rendered circa 1700. I was the Jalíko Tomás rendered circa 1900. <|endoftext|> "Birth", by Kevin Youngbusch [Living, Birth & Birth, The Body, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, Race] the body remembers, days as some parts conflict, some parts recompose ======================================== SAMPLE 78 ======================================== fomothe sua pepertra brescia profugam sola tam boccacia; quae cunctis Bacchaeia cucurre juccato, ponder occultis condicione rexte, inquiruntque juventa amore tuae. haec annis loca donis vertitatem dulcis natalibus suam nocte manu. SCRIBNER IN DOPMIGAM'O pugili felices opere nullo serenitas, nef delibitur moram, dolor parabitur; ipse suam dolor, nefra quaeris aeris, nefas eritur fidelis manu. quae frustra opere sunt lamia jura, quae per aquis serpunt ignava columna, incipe veris, uariosque uarios: at mala furor aeternus aufers, parare versantur quaesita libido. si nefari suos optat mundo, uates, quam limes prore uitiare nocte, nequihisti uaganti puella te sopor senium mundumque vernubulo. interea nam plus probore mihi probatum, sum magna dei numquam quod succedat uacuis aeua furore; QVICamur fugax legem, sed nunc iuuentus lepide lepra fronte uotros nec circumscripta flosa nec furtim iniquae audit aer imberrade, quam subeamur mater quaestionem doctior ager fidem magna sitim. quod faciens fas est fronq; qualis, te, non uesper qui statim legem cunctarit mutis nostramque sinum. exhibuit metum, atque epiics desinam saeuerat nec leges ueste regem. deniquo iret purpureo pater, quo nocte jocis iam noctem fuit, non tam sint turbiis dulcere ossa. quid duligit mediis te decet ossa pedemus prolapsa pectus, quam palluit Deo divinitus fama serena mittit Oedipus inoro. nam saeua ratis ut pallida non navis cepit, sed mensa quaereant mors quaeris atque obsequium regum mors abutecidedem, plebs non pius pensare polkmanus; tuque ignota culpa non nos adestinato moles dedit mersa quaeris ero. at nunc eram dewces patria uatum memor et auctor errat humata florim. QVANDER volans mutata legumque munus partemus fraternus rectoris, uenter, et si quaeras errant fata per acta, tanquam advenienterit vetat; tu cum sollicitos mens amicos et sub patronos causis suae trad. siuere in somnio munus adeat servos, laeget hora decus, aeris ecce delices et cara pretio diesque ferum. non eram mutata uenis dulce leporis, frobo quid aula tumultus imber doctis ad communem carnemque texit; non solum qui cuncta sanae senis audacuique expectata senilemis aut cruelem uotum carminibus instauravit enmemple haec cutibus erumor. SEPTEN apaginis cunctis alligat infero, nublicci procul auro pretiumque delicata detestata uentula, moribus ad similis sicgo caelo pergis nidos superba atque ortos appetat depellite fato. cassa cepiunt iners, summaba terras; came venis incepitantque tuis. heu, nigerum, alterumque ferro cassis succ ======================================== SAMPLE 79 ======================================== Love, there are days when sorrow with bitter strife Rages, when we suffer, whether love or no love; When we must trouble, pray, and struggle, and struggle, Past all despair. When I go to sleep, my father comes to pay A visit that I have long thought about; He's got a cellar to explore, and bow legs And knotted knees, and enough of gear And a mouth that can be no stronger than a thank you; A face that strikes you as you pass it by-- A tell-tale face, with a kindly wave and smile; But now, with griefs day after day, My body aches, and I'm lean and bald; My belly loathes me, I am haggard and worn, And home with him would let youflirt with a lion, With a witch for a husband! It's old Tom Lynch, and it's here, in the parlor, Where the image of my mother is smiling yet! She would ask her two firstborn last of all my toys To be her patron saints,-- Aryopi, the owl, and the eel,-- And pray with them, and smile for me, and say The name of the Whale, and tell me the best stories About the Navy, and the ships she knew; But my heart aches, and I'm so bald, That Tom would look wild telling my desires; So now I lie and ask for the Whale! You've been playing with the images, And with your images, And the images and likenesses thereof, Through the ages; You have made your past within the past, And your future within the future, And your now within now,-- Images of images,--of dead lips, And of former dreams. You thought the lion ready weapons made For a dumb beast, and some suggestions Began, in the language of the boar, The lion and the stag; But this lion you've mouthed wide from the start, And you're not ready for the snares of the boar, Nor the Wings of the Eagle to reverse, Nor the sweetness of the virtue-song The wings spread, the claws grasped, The light flashed,-- A speck of light on the black storm of the sea, Now blotched and blotted; Your light, your little light, On the record of the tempest that doth fill With your song the dreary waters that fly, Now spoken, now withheld; The dream-song of a dream that is over; No future, save this present hour; In the chaos, where nothing is or was, There reigneth Wilelasy, the Lawless King, A prince of nameless crimes. Yet round his bannered front the eagle's paw Crply twitches, And from his vitals springs the red and bloated fruit Of some fell cult; And flame adown the smoke-flue jibbles red, And round his track Filleth the dawn of morning; For all his crimes and ways Not free, not manly, Hearts and instincts kith and kin By dread Necrotic lust, The Sun-circling sod-folk call him Lord And gif this be his Fate To-day, to-morrow always meet In meekness his worship meant to mate I know not what the god does With mine, But as they say my soul Is flesh of his flesh, They may their change my lure Whispling and drag out till they win, One morn as in a dream I lay I thought I saw the Easter eggeltospear pop Out of its place and be immediately gone: The light that bright moment went out of sight, And left the white yolk-ostriches to tell Of that one precious peck of egg, of all The dull, quiet moments wild and bright; So I have welcomed his pale, awkward self And we have played together ever kind Where is the soft-murmuring wind that used To fit my silly phrases some of his way? Where is that musical rabbit-ring encounter Of whistling cups and bells that made me happy, And ever with him in my mind still lingers, Lighting the tight studs, and lighting the bright strings That are part of me, and I and he are two? If the raggedy gable walls that clad him round Are stiff with rust, and if it hap't that I Am seen by his dull front in that sort of gloom, What ======================================== SAMPLE 80 ======================================== gallons of distilled pure sweet honeycomb And the crushed nectar of everlasting games, And the sweet little flowers of waxen blooms And the cool little sparklers of the sea And the Indian tobacco of the South And the tea of Yunnan evergreen, And the tobacco of Hainan Hsi-ch'eng And the turban of Tuen-ming And the robes of Man and the moon of Sum- Son And the robes of the Nine And the robes of the thousand great And the moon of Shang-Sheng And the three thousand other nights Wherein no breath of life is blown, And the years of all men's birth From the time of their beginning End to end are but a single day To the time of their ending, and one day's To the time of the flesh of man. All the time of my conception End to this day was but a lavender. All the time of my body End to this day was but the lavender Which made the pillows and your arms and the flesh Feel good and make you happy, and let the mouths Feel sweet and make them smile and give them joy. It is a small thing to do, But to give a woman pleasure, And it is better than having No heart at all. On the first day of my birth I did not know my Father nor Ours, For there were no bodies, And I was made of no blood nor breath. And no tears came from my Mother's eyes Nor my own, For they were not informed That I was born, And thus they had no wonder at all. The morning after, I had no breath for boasting, Nor any sighs, But my Mother's hands were all unceiled And she wept until she broke) And she said: "Son, I went a-wooing and they gave me a ring and so I slew them and clothed me and gave it me. 'Now, my little darling,' I told them, 'Do as you choose in the use of it, And I'll keep myself as well as I can.'" The ring was a green one Was it of green brass Or of ruby like a smear of fever? I could see it when I looked at it, But I never did it, For I say'd to myself, "If the gods are gifts from either side, And the gods in turn are gifts from God, And the gods are gods that keep good gifts, I'll make a bargain with them, And be a good god unto it, For I've a half dozen like gifts to me." From that hour my life was as my soul, I was a living spring, a spark in a fire, And I took the form of a first-born son, The center of the silver crown, The cup holding my face was flint, And my mother and the world's other seven Were all of them waters in my form. I could not choose to be anything, I was a son, who was always a son, I could not elect to be more than just One, like pearsmentals who live in the ground, Or stand up like a jackal in the air. They did not elect me to be any god, But I elected to be one, I didn't think twice About who or where I was, but I was a man. I was a giant among giants, A larger one among the smaller, And I could not see myself in the mirror Eyes were too close for that, And my thoughts were too many for any Knob of the stars to count, But I was a living by the water, A son among my sons, And my name was the second that came I was the youngest, the second-born That were of him, and I did grow Until I had needed every drop that's Man's in man. And I cried against the gods for ever, And I said the unchangeable should be, And the unchanging is, and I went The way of all the universe To the trough of the river with my soul, And the immortal spirits who died for My cry in sleep. The black forest's lip I step on, and the plain looks away, And the darkness spread its wings to the sun, And I scream to be born I scream that I's not afraid of the light, I scream that I's the son Of God and the world, And the silence open the world's eyes, And I wonder if God hears what he hears, And I know I'm the ======================================== SAMPLE 81 ======================================== (Aristotle's Song) I like my dog because He's a gentlemen; I like my lady because She is true; I like my daddies, too, Because they are old; But, ah! I love my lady, For she is young. I like my dog, my lady, For he's dele-da, And I like my son, I, For they're fathers all. But I love my lady far More than any of them, Because she's young. The evening air, Cool in the fray, And the earth, Hard and brown In the fray, Bitter and o'erpoweringly still. The morning sun, Burning and glowing, On the earth's own lap Rests, and gildeth The high places where The strong wild waves have cast Their heaving roll. I will go out West with a San Francisco last, Green gold-goggle riding on a Great Blue Heron; In the furrow of the famous hills that are Soft, in the middle of the city I will wait, Till after I have lived in the country for life, The dream will fly back, the endless dream, The best God came along to bring you to me. I will be a slave near San Fransisco, The thirsty oermindled prairies, will be my range; The scummy swamp-road to wander thro' will be My hill. My mountain to be a Cadillac on the sea Is my own dream, by the desert lands to be; My trout-wracked plains to be the road to the sea In the netherlands of the world to be, O'er time to have been. So I am flying to get out of my valley And open the flood-gates of the wind and rain; And my dream-bark that was soft and dry, Will be gaily gold and scarlet, bright As the end-all song of the boxer plant As he goes out to the rope that bends him To get his ears wet. So I am king of a great race of dreamers Who feed on mist and dreams and fatos; And I shall ride in state, on an eland, With a dog by my side, and I shall see My rapt folk flying in a cloud of leaves To a floating zoo, of their flocks of sky, Like swarming elephants on the mighty Thames, With nostril, ear, and taster pursed. Here is a small litany to wave about: We all are chained by order or conviction Of sin, and that is where we must have it; It is part of our nature; we shall get no rest Till we bide our atoning at the gate of hell, And take our court in the plain of our folly To the far sacrifice. There is no life anywhere that is free; But there is the great open life of the world, Riderless, a haunt of gods and the beast, That swallows all the longings and the dreams of the age, Then where with an obedient ardor, We lift our eyes to the flame that wastes it, In the sweet hope that it sets us free. I saw, one late June night, across the peopled square, The long, wide street winded through with a red glow Like the fire of Sepoy bullets in a night-time. The sky was deep like the red high noon of a war, And a dull glow, like flag-flapping, fell on all And on the many who marched with stained arms Against wrong as red fire erodes. The end drew near for some in that cruel time, But the march in support of the Celts in India, When thousands, emboldened, rushed a planned ambush Down the long city streets, And raced through narrows ripped through with a chase, Shattered the skulls of chiefs in a shambles And left the drum of war he loved to beat Shattered the last red bible that held them. They set the pattern for all tyrants to seize And speed the end for torture and the grave That hates and sings in a sky of black and white And blooms in the mind of a master of men Who sees a crimson hell-forge from a blue midden Where the driven billows toss And the black sun blooms in a polluted sky That spares not, that liberates the unbuflish soul From a gashed master's baneful sky. They give us our flowers, but they poison as they spread Their bal ======================================== SAMPLE 82 ======================================== occasion had I much irksome. Of this I was that time not sure nor fit To keep; I had my work-day habit Of sick'ning half the day; yet it had An air very serious and serious, And therefore to myself I said: You know the time I have from the Lord's time In which to be made ripe to live and live, And, when I no more hear the voice of him Who says that I shall live into my righteousness, I will retire to sit in darkness until I die. I was only given to him, but I was not In the least his disciple. The day came When I, because I would not go away Without my mission, was brought up to be His wayward child. For such a mission I Was not intended; and, though the mission ended, I found at last my place in the Lord's Unchanged. But this is my secret desire. I have never, never lost what I have tried To get, of man's young age, his identity. For he is self-alien, self-centred, And is his own spectator into his deeds. The darkness which was once so complete to Which he was pities now is gone. I was born at college, and I was seen by Mr. Chen In the last term of the third year of his life. He found me unfit for some college duties, And was content that I should try out The sing-and-dance figures that schoolmeralds use To check an uninitiated delegation. I was made to feel so terribly inadequate That I found my way to the front of the escape In a sudden trip to the woods. I found a splinter of wood where the path had broke And had the gift of a compass in my hands To go with me, and a new world began To dignity and life as I knew it. It is wonderful what a cold light draws In the breadth of a day that has been sifted With a gleam through a window of a house. The way, when the woods begin to grow, is found By a few deserted millponders. And I found the college,--a throng of hollows, And a few professors and students; And in a crowded spot they sate, Who were always by turns occupied, And who stood up, and talked, and ate, and drank, And took no account of one another. And I was pitied, in that I saw That I fitted in with the studious fools. I had not thought that I could learn, And I owed my advancement to a buck Snatched at a whim from a blemished bitch. 'Twas a bright September day, And they looked just as they had all day, For the temperature was oscillatory, And the sunshine and cold wind together Were the only forces that ever resisted. I was also immune from a hat, And I took a glass and scantly a nose, And I looked like a tourist--typical. Then I saw a gang roll up from far, And thought I would give them the "Oh!" And I raised my "bar," and they "hopped" like Tims, And the next second I received a "bob!" Which was like a barometer to my house. For the sun rolled in like a new day. And the lawns were combed and the milk was separated, And a freshet in the garden teemed. And a shout went up that had a tripping sound, And I had an auction close my eyes in, And I handed my own toast trying, And I felt the warm breeze on the neck--and--I was a guest. And there was frothing on the seat-- A chair was shaken--and a salesman in a new-old top Was affectedly excited, And I took my whole like a tumble. And a lady was clipped in speech, And her redling was touched, and she redi-aged Her sparkling eyes to a stream, And her jaws were small, and the tone in which she said Was the turban of a whole-heartedly determined Speculation, And my lamp would go away, My lamp that I could not in these weary days Remain sitting. And I turned and passed, As you will scarce think that a turn in the car Can be attributed To chance--or want of a chair; But my luck was good that day--or a night-- To-day--or last night. But the lady over-went the photo-graph-- She ======================================== SAMPLE 83 ======================================== clang’d out, I dare, The letter, “I love you,” Sending, some noon, The amorous bolt to me. With half-fierce pleasure As raucous as a lion Forth sprang the black-eyed maid, And on the letter read The message sent in vain, And as she read the spell Sprang quick her crimson breast I hold it for the best, So beautiful to see; No beauty can be better Than Judith turning Joseph, For whom she washed and wept Under the fragrant moon. Her words to me, when she knew The reason of my passion (Sobbing a good sorrow from her gunny mouth): “The day shall come when I shall die And see you dead together.” As thrice on each suitor's mouth She had pressed the number three, And thrice the day of life that day, Had end in sound of sobbing The final farewell; As every sister said, so low, To Jehoshaphat, our mother ghost, “I know what I must, I know what I must,” And knelt, tear-guts wrung out, to pray: “Listen, Jehoshaphat, kill me, please; Crawl back in your Tomb-Lord yet, And place me as a cancelet round My bloated sepulchre, Tie me gloves, shoes, belts, and such, And I will cry at every full eye That looks on my shadow, “I'm still here.”” So did she; for there crept in threes Shadowy bodies, and they passed With glassy, blotting visibility, Winding confusion; so she stoop'd And whisper'd to me, with her arms crossed, “Don't say my heart; only think If you should break all your magic; Don't say my heart; I fimet a care; I have no heart, but only such power As eagles possess, and butterflies; If you speak that word again, O, what a little heart shall ye break! My, don't say my heart, that is a gem Whose value none save Death can tell. And, if ye will say my heart, It won't stand against Death's best services; But I dinna tell what it shall be. O, don't say my heart, it is sweet; Don't say my heart, that is a treasure Full of all precious stones and things Untrodden by the sun, and Heaven Where all were mines of me! O, don't say my heart, it is so rare, A corpse would be better yet; But let it be that I live to fall. I'll give ye something better than mouthfuls, But say my heart, though I'm unfortunate, That is so fair and white and soft, All other eyes have a dippy look. And when ye look on my fair face, And hear mydoll in my voice, And know that I am more to you than mate, That is a treasure, and a shapewear; And, when ye come to leave ye cold, A white man canna takeneer me. If ye tak house on me, my dear, And that ye may tak me, I will tolla to you agen And leave you all my mahr— The long life that I shall live, The long love that I am gaun to share, O, say, I prithee, say my heart! When other men may tak ye your places, And be in criches joined to wives, By process of th' League or the Pope, Or some other power unjust, Mine happiness and put by, Thou canst in the end as well be there, As when it first was placed by you. <|endoftext|> "Insulin", by Rudyard Kipling [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire] (excerpt) The Colonel's good order-giver was at home, And thus it was that the drinks were wrecked; And when the next order was cancelled and men Were being slaughtered for the good of the troop, The tumbler, the bartender, was kept on hold, The quality of gin was so dread, That only one round of shots was ever fired at all. The sartin-beating, the shrieking, the skaring, The dumbling, the ======================================== SAMPLE 84 ======================================== 'Tis our privilege, to mark the paths of Fame, Through the watch-fires of vext Sun-time and the drapes of dew, Through whose twilight shade the blazing ranks of the Line Turn and ever turn. Upon her crest, that mighty Floating Laurels the Stream, That bright blue pourd Gallentaphorus, whose guiding beam Gave to the Pictish Rout his fortune and his life, And to Juba the great fame. But now his horn is silent; for the shaft shoots down With whom it meets Through the air, if an odd arrow from the Bellota buzz, To Tafer-Tairr or Arabians that hover and sing To their shepherd-mistresses down the fields of their birth. O Nature, when wert thou fashioned, Would that thou hadst never known Thy form in the stern fisherman's hand, Nor in the boy's, nor yet in the father's But as it now is; As a giant silhouette turning on the rock, Or a lancet-point bent and almost broken, The battlement that watches or taps the stone. As I stand on the edge of the down Where the wind sings low, And the clouds' everlasting curve Over the ground a shadow makes When the leaves are beheld By the swallowing foam-fleck, And the little river murmurs The wynds he swelleth as it dimpleth, And the down is beheld, And the grass is as grave And as glade in May, And the draught is as great As the draught of the founts that barge From the vaulted cellar of the hall To sit as fellow with the feast, And the word of the song Is as the inward stroke That turneth the proud heart to stone. I wandered by the stream of this lake Whose mouth is in Baalbec, I saw the snow fall to the level ground, And the wan glimmer of the morn, And the mist it made to run-under-over, And the patter as it mistapp'd Of small rain-falls trifling and sea-mander, And as the breath of the serene Drew to the air It was like this scene, And I cried as I saw it: "O wretch, This is hell!" And my heart fell a-beating in my breast. The choir of fire from the church spire Came down in the dark-season, To music of bell and the bit Of jutting wind-blown flute, And the gleam of the steel in their hair Stooped with clear chill. And all of them were as I am, Proud in the dark, Held by the bit of wind passing-forth, Seeking a land of rest. And I, too, fell as their hoar crest Had fallen, with the rest, Palsied by the same Snows, and the Seas, And the Sun that Hath at day turned to Fire, A pale dofot now, And the Aims of the Fisherman. The little flow each nightward spred-up Became a flood, And up from the bay they a little skirt'd, And batten'd night by day With the shells and the mettled captives, And the holy Fisherman Took half of the night To talk of his bliss, When the golden far-off fires To heaven's far coast were nearly spent, And the watch light rattled, And the salt being all his joy By day made melancholy. But my memory of that day, And every day since, Is of the triumphs of the fire And of the steam. And of the stars by the sea-towers burning, And of the moon by the loving-well. They're all part of the triumphs Of love. And I heard the music of Death that day When day was in the thorp of loving. I lived in a vision of Dayspring, Which your March-wind's pleadings and sighings Made half inperplexed of heart and woe, That was the home of my unburied Love. I had the wind on feet for rocking chair, For glorying in their fury torn From all the fields; and the church-bells calling, And brooches flaming. The land was ablaze with tears, And the tears were on the heather, And the heather was already turning rust, Which made me weep and grieve. I felt them, ======================================== SAMPLE 85 ======================================== man ...    earth. The hare and hound. Fawn and raven. Forest. The far-off heaven. These are my thoughts. The heart of a man with six legs falls. But if it did not, from a good cause might he rise then fall again. Hence there are things not seen. They are hidden. A sixth sense. So you that are set on the globe turn away. And in the twilight hours the only thing seen are the limbs. <|endoftext|> "As Above, September As Above", by Edgar Allan Poe [Living, Death] In the month of the horse I saw a lurid Sun, And a flow of Blood, which, to the inmost centre, Seemed issuing out of the heart of a slain man, While many a noble knight and goodly chivalry Did lay that man beneath the yoke they bore him round. The sun sank slowly down. The moon, the exhalation Of the cumbrous clouds, with his dim light ascending, Had meaning for us not. The shadows of the darksome night Were thick. I, in glee!, cried a knight, Who was afterwards disgraced, and haled out alive With my soul. I alighted with my weapon clear, My armor bright, and champion free of the foe. The Moon, charged with the force of the winds, And the breath of the south, did love. She glanced around. Her shivering lamp, The pale reflection answered to her sight. I alighted, disarrayed naked, My shield in my hand, My sword, all ere I battled, she espied. She cried in the victor's arms!" He, of a ravenous lord, And in the moonlight, girt me soon To his face with his plume. My shield and sword Did hang before him, as he descended The star-temple of that horned king. I stood amid the gulf of that eclipse, And backward, dazzled, gazed, O'er pebbles and out rocks, where, in lonely gloom, The moon's belated sister night-surpass'd Had from her portal issued, oft'rds The moon, in her diminished orb. And then a bellowing of armies, The thronging of horsemen, the doomsday Of all-conquering chariots, the roar Of trumpets, whose awful chorus encycloped, Winds from the furthest Cathedral towers; I heard the trumpet whore! It swells in staves of bull and rhino! And down the sands with muted thones Of human nobler power; Gents, for my oghne should, I thotte how great guns man's songe Should shriek toores! What is it in the cloister of the stars That sets the blood on fire within me! That makes the blood to pulsate and gather! My oghne I behow! That fetche my spect! Ouff o' the floths, we have drunken our lives To hearken the voice of our Oenone; And love, and fear, and desire, have drunk our souls To wilful Atys that benedicite. Weneck out the almanacs! We have read the correct identity Through the drink-manns omgove! O fie on a platinum star To hear the shipophon gove throughout the day In vane of tithe, My neweeve! She left behind the billows of human love On remote islands of an isle of smoke. O heavy death! Whereof my barke is not, O heavy deas! The hills of wind. She is not fainc: she is pleased to see The pain, the blot, the vylation Of gu/ool hair an alow sheet behung. O heavy death! The winds of wind blow past the willow tree. O snell! Fain would I wean my brest by the neckes of the south With the sea-winds cold, Fain would I lose The loyns of the north, That ring o'er the barke of my life With brimming tide. I may not lose ere he study, I may not peer From my old window-frame, the SWITHFISCHIS GORANT grisly face ======================================== SAMPLE 86 ======================================== The world's the meadow where I gaze, The world's the heaven that all looks faire, And all the flowers are born of heaven; I have seen all that God can make it, And in each misty tear I wipe them The God of Nature makes them mine. When, in a random peck, Of bull's-eye and of cosmo, We pick from the same great menu, We get them mixed as well as raw; Then, mouth to mouth and heart to heart, It's easy to put my case: "I am as godlike as you, As fertile as you are tall, I have a spirit as large as yours." As I was carrying water to the trout pot, A lady stopped me to ask me how my speech Came about. I furtively answered "I Had some heavenly messenger come With a roll of photo-gold that told me To carry your water on my head To the place where hermits drink of it. Is that Whose-your-name-real-name-mother were I you'd ask? Oh! ‎ ‎yes. ‎ ‎ ‎yes, ‎my awful speech was his. How very odd, this little girl sings, The roses with the -ene in them, Rise in a mist one night, and die the next day; When three other sisters in the town Are rose-flower-married; one's daughter Tells me, too. But "Mary," she awakes, Sighing with laughter, cries, It's these things, that, in turn, perplex, confound, Mingle, reverse, confound, Our lives with God's. It is all a carcel, A gigantic jigsaw puzzle In which we screw ourselves; And the pieces we can not see Are visible to him who has not. He cuts, with a razor, through Our doubts to lengths of straw. He cuts us all at once. How we grieve, I can not say. He only laughs. He cuts our bodies clean through, And then he cuts them through, Until a vise-aguscular has No machine left in it. He assembles them back To their proper operation; And, when he's done, he writes them all Then he measures the wound With a careful eye Not for a bloom or a bib, But for fever, pain of hypothermia, Malnancy, taste of bread, the drain of shivering coal, To such purposes He has no mind. The finger-sails He writes with a -amine he carries Upon his round whistle-head, And onwards he pushes them, Over the small red gates. I could not follow the clues, And seemed a miscreant to look into His mysterious eyes. But now I see That, while I never could grow wings and fly I was a doorkeeper in a great Ship of One There was much to be done, but now The Workers of Inscriptions are through; We do not dare to close the gate. There were thoughts of suicide That were wholesome in him Aware of our derision, Though to his casual question There was no reply. A webbed foot! his mummy-like body Shone in the cold lamplight. He had read of vampires in Ms Who would not rest With eyes like his. But now, even so, Lying in wreaths he bedhasired 'Gainst head and mattress We all must drink His spirit, if it emotion could, To-night The water was like a draught Made up of ice, or was it blood? I did not dare to ask. His hands were blue marks on his sleeve Where he had practised for the Olympic flame. There are tales of vampires in what is dead Of course, and it might be so He had heard the false answers Of those who told him he must try To gain the record; he could not say If he believed them. <|endoftext|> "The Nile In All The World", by Wilfred Owen [Living, Growing Old, Health & Illness, The Body, The Mind, Time & Brevity] I am for the present king Of the distingled elderly, King of the brains and hydra mouths. I am the Egypt Mercury Cementing the fount of fire. I am the imperilled treasury Of the drifting wealth in the West, The jouralled round insubstant Of the slowly-dying. I am the blush upon the rose, ======================================== SAMPLE 87 ======================================== approved. Therewith he bow'd Before his king and thus his lady blithe. Myself, in whom thy soul should joy for ever, This day before the king of Persia Art come. By this right hand I conquer The world, with which he would striver have diviner acquire The meaner gain. And now, before his sight I offer The triumph of this kingdom's crown, mine own. Thou shalt be serviceable as unto kings the folk Impos'd their humility, and thou shalt be my son-in-law Infinite in joy, by whose assistance thou shalt his wife fill thy father's throne. The greater shall thou work me thine will the more affectionate, for the more intimate shall be that dower whereof I boast. My prayer to thee ring false, Pray harder! But answer, brother, if thou may accuse him openly. My father and my mother must be taken from him; or (say the same) he shall neither son nor daughter make, but one only daughter shalt thou have to aid thee in thy proud purposes, And when our seed come blest to manhood shalt in thee be natural father of all the Arabs." "For what can a healthy life consist But with the whole world at our backs, A multitude of captive nations strength-nurst, And kings now tame, and now again Wild as we, that are but animals all yodding and strutting? Yawns like ours, but sharper, and sharper, and sharper. Cunnily they turn their asses' backs On discovery of our empire, Silly lords! This same world they can turn Their carriage-roads for variety, Yours but takes resolution, and in thee And when by doting swellings of the blood Their foolish wills at worldly celebrations We would self-abnegation take Of one small standard, yet to assert Our natural right, us neither seek'd nor sought: Well may we scoff! The very name "spinner" Whispers of hard intelligence. We Beour themselves of a name, and we Against our dynasty in the center round Grow up, as single potentate, to stand Self-sustaining, an empire: But a tale OF NORTHUMETIUM, GATEBY, and NORSE MYTH, Belongs to this world; of me NOT one story. Told in tears, not lies. O Winchester! O Winchester! To thee I call; I call my blind old friends, one by one, And loud, long hours after midnight; and the still, tall city Of hill and fog, where am the wild cataracts Shot downward from the remotest solitary mountain, And all the world's war smites the pastoral agriculture In some poor village there; and where the reaper meets the wind Sending the whirlwind racing with his wild hay, Comes mothers crying their old assunder the ground. I leave the north country in the spring; Nor Falkland, nor Yorkshire-land, I call, Nor even Andalusia and Aran. --Nay, nor ever Florence! And what land Smiles like a hymned river? Land ever kind To mastic at the world? Land serene Of foolish poets and unauging wise men's thoughts? And yet it is not wisdom which has won me Soft towards Italy; but it is half-blamed In us, by ignorance, to suspend Judaizing, examination, Bitterness, against the fame and glory Of this our daughter pure and followed, Our Israel bright-finned, free from spot or stain. When I hear voices raising their sound Along my path, of songs in a new language Newly learned, unfamiliar to me, Strange is the sense, yet also very like Back from my recollection, the heart's shade. Whereupon I say, "The memory Of what? THE NATURE, the very nature, As yet, unstudied before." And so, One long runway shorteneth, until I hear the Voice from further off, Speak Hebrew words, or Greek, if I, In that long stretch of road, re-unite With the everlasting Language of the Trees The bright ahead, and out of it there came Other voices, light and particularly Voice of special notice, were ne'er so loud Since Israel was aspiring: "Why you look? Go nearer, first, and be seated, both feet at once Upon the ground, and both hands even to the face Under it, so that you ======================================== SAMPLE 88 ======================================== Us wanest apples from his tree. And when the night wan'd and the wind blew, From dale to green-hill, we were never gon, But always northerning, thair sorrow, worse than death. And when we saw our pilgrims prancing Down to the west across the time-ripe sky, It wur not our mourning should outgo their joy, But 'twor us both to sing and dance our Danish hymn, And git out ourselves, whate'er we could conceive. And we made up now--the Gods of either case-- A solemn tune, 'twas sung, but sung far otherwise, The patients 'eld sit around the dead. So then we sung; but I forget the words,-- For ours, after all these years, was but singing, And the few times that ye cant not get them In other's notes, in rhyme still. Oh, me! the end That brings all music to a stand So soon as words; and we seem By strange affright to think Of our old one, when she looked so strange-- And all the land aghast. He loved her,--not as many share,-- But he knew her, and spoke her, well at least: And--be it sorrow,--"God-Save-His-Ear-anth"- She stopped her, "Old Father Time, "Old Father Church, keep still in your head, "Your hat, your vesture, and your clock!" I know not what she wish-- Farewell the smile, Peace with the good! Jury, be brief--no time for verdict! Life's rich man hath his life too; They quaff and they grin, Like water from the gall, And they drink and they spend 'Till they drop, to being--but they can't stop. The golden circlet of health Is not hight the same Good it may look when unfaced; So is the fruit of the seed As light when it drop: And he looks his age and his youth out there. He looks at the young folk Who dance and dine, he looks at the old folk Who crawl at ebb of the moon: And looks with a face unspight On the death-rows of the living, With eyelids that creep and with hair Cavernetz hard as iron: He looks on the listless, The sick, the hopeless, And he knows them both, and he does not tell. He looks on the weary, The soul-walked, And he knows them all by their smile or their sigh, Not by their name, not by their ark, Not by coin on their chest, not by name, But he looks with a face so unblooded That he plants his hand to the plume of the wind And he lifts, he hires the stars to tell. So lift, he, The listless, the slack, the hearted, He lifts the listless, he lifts the bloodless, He leans on the slack, he looks the icy Eyed, unyielding, He bends the eye-balls of his loved ones to him As to a nest of did-grass in the ground, Whereon he writes his name, his name on their breast, And his child's name upon the baby's. He looks on the loving, The love-lorn, He lifts and he bends them o'er to him And he hath pity, and he shakes them to him And the light within him ebbs away; And he bends the heart-strings like green timber To hear the moan of his lips quake, And he whispers of peace, And he makes them weak and he mirthful as sleep. For he walks the sea, he walks the wild sea-graves, He sineth not, he drinketh, and he saith not a word: He greets the stranger, He marvels at the marvel, He hardifies the harden'd In his omnipotence, and he weighs thealien By his depth-sepptions as by his flesh sepcaired; He is the calm-blood of oceans, And his awe is the awe of men; For he divideth and he strong, And he maketh captives invite day; He will not fail in the great, And he judge of the swift. Like a joyless angel He bore our sins in the days that were, And he smileth their deeds in the olden, The olden days of ======================================== SAMPLE 89 ======================================== frame, so high, you know; With string and wool, as place To rest my limbs, Where they may lie, and the warm sky may scatter dew on their leafless flowers. My hair's grown grown gold Where it met my hair, And my eyes grow brown In the warm light of my eyes, And they may not behold Earth or joy or love, But they see the strings of strings When they turn blue, and they hear The strumming of lyres, And the north wind blows. I heard my parents talking; they were glad. My father said, "I think," and I replied: "It will rain soon." Then it did not rain, but a few pleasant days, the moon, the summer, and leaf-fitting gleaming on trees, Inviting us to take our ease In our old limbs. What made them happy, Was their having a pleasure that was not playing at night, Where we at leisure could greet our eyes In the cool light of the frosty evening. The north wind went, and it brought with it the south wind, and it was their pleasure In the cool light of the moon. The sun's light was not piercing, Nor did the moon reveal To our ancient body, the tired one of dust, Its aging parts. We made bold to come and stand With a gulp of courage at the south end of the tent of years. We had a draught, as though we would taste The old-one's wine, And the pleasure was delicious. I say that it is so. I do not say it is not so, for I know not What may be. I know that I know, and that my lips are moved. But I know, I take the third time Of New England to be God's, because He Washes the Old For all of me. We drink of the wine of God, And we drink of the drops of His miracle. I said: I think the sun will shine until the dead year's outfold, And the horizons will know a lovely curling and preening, And the far in-land turnways of blue will grow quite pale in the sweet eucalyptus and vermilion finishing. I think, too, that on the distant southern lighted whole-skinned, there will come the sounds Of summer's fragrant breathing, And far in the hollows of the distant sun behelds will gleam the golden robe of the singing sunset, And sunset's own soul, with its wisdom of grace, will know a trembling sweetness in its pale footprints, And the dawn, the morning, will know in them the strangeness of the night. I think that when the day grows paler, And the wind shallop dons the red beard of the river-forest, The green springs which the man of late Unlocked and began to fill With water from the well of its own dreams Will sink down in the babbling muck, Or climb to the southward, And the poor owl-hawk who has it Conduct it to the old fields, And the pale owl and crow Will now be very close on their haunts, While their dark mountains of the dead Weigh on the fields of the living. The trampled grasses shall lie In the bright and breezy spring And I shall not feel Or see or hear, the while The scarlet clover And blue stars upon the sky Shall float on the silent air. O wonder-born, I shall lie With my elbow on the fursive floor, As in the fire of the winter evening I lay With my face all beyonder for, And I touched the end of a story the wind brought me. The fire was just a wreath of flowers The sun lay on. He looked at the fursive floor, And the number of dolls. But the flowers laid beyond the fursive shining floor Were only flowers. The smoke in the fireplace Was just the wind blowing across the parking space And shadows blew on the un- wind. The flower-hung green- room Was only a green hue and a width Of green- slate Glass Trees ======================================== SAMPLE 90 ======================================== and the forefathers—waxed the world into brine, forsook the day into a film, shattered the stars, blackened the desert, made of the world an altar, a flame. He who has never tasted his breath will never know the smell of heaven. Gods, I am the god of the gods. We all have our day, our own season. It is different for you. The season for me is different from that of you. Achitophel is a spring god; he swims like a dolphin and drinks water like wine. The centaur Poseidon was my god when I was a boy, and I drink wine like water. It is an Olympian task to drink and to sing. You are a quadrate cauldron, a cleansing vessel. You are my honey and my rose. I am the god of the hive. I am your god of dark tasting. I am one of many, I am one of many. I know my season is different from that of Achitophel. You may have wine, a bride, a goddess, or none of these. You may have light in your season, you may be the first to the fields, the first to the veil. I am the god of rhythm, the god of movement. I have a slow heart, and a slow tasting. It is the same. The day is done. The night is begun. It is the nightingale's turn to sing. He will continue as you begin. I am the god of this night. I am the nightingale. You are my horn, and I am you. My heart is water and your taste is the honey. It is long been told that Zeus is a fish, and that he comes up out of sea. It is also long been told that the wine from the Argonattes is a snake, that she is beautiful even to the Lord. And that she will be cold to the hand. I do not care. I have always known that my lips are full of champagne. I have always known that I am cold. Always I have known that I do not matter, that I have only a little part, that I do not matter to the world. I am hot, I am hot. It is not that I am cold, it is that I am not wanted. I know that I have been cold, I have been tried with winters that blow like winds from heaven. I have known that life does not belong to me. It belongs to others, to others I must give to the gods of love and war and joy, to those who are not and who must be. And I am cold, as the others say. I am cold, I have been so much cold. In a narrow bed I am his body. I have known what it is to be loved. I know that I have only myself to turn to, and I know that to turn away from. I know that my mind is a snake, I said when my lover pressed my mind to the wound where he pressed. When I heard that his mother had said he was a snake, I knew the news was bad, but I did not expect it to be so. I know that I am cold, that others touch me, and that bad news is bad, bad news when gave to me. I know that it is not my fault, that it is not my fault, that I do not know why it is that I am cold and I am afraid. I know that he will go away and that it is not my flesh that is the flesh of my flesh, that I do not know why I weep and weep, that I know not why it is that I weep and weep. 3 How can it be, invading my sleep, that my love should be asleep and I awake? It cannot be, invading my sleep, that my love should be asleep and I awake. In my sleep, the bed is open space, where by turn steal warmth and softness, and the highest stars gl ======================================== SAMPLE 91 ======================================== Then the lote Soon the blooming Fair Alice entered That dewy Violet hall. The singing voice of Alice rang through the trembling hall, As the silver Wand of Befriended Dian and Dana sang in the gambol. The hall was hung with carpets and rugs and flecked with gold; The couch with dames and kings was dight; The jewels of the world were bright in the cradle of gold. The babeling voice of the silver Wanderer through the giddy Roll of gold Fluttered through the turning Twining Wanderers and twined. With his exulting voice, in his torch-light voice, Lone was he to break the silence and tell Alice's Story, and tell it soothed By the dull blackbird, that lingered in the West With his foot-longs and longing in the night-dark, For the balm of the long-wished light, And the love of her young eyes, And the laughter of lily-limbed Nana And the carentan of her maids, Laughed for his sakes As we laughed for his with A glad ardour, and with a gleam Of watery light, the treasure of The rainy weather, And the breath and the lave Of the long-lost sun, Which now at last Transfers I have given you A house To go to, But the grass Is lusty And the tussock Blossomless And the pattering sound Of the horn and hound Betrays What the gutters are What your tears May chance to do In a time Of bargles and annoy And false dawns and the Lost and rude dreams Is it true That your eyes Have lit your hair Like a pair of blacklids With the light of their Shadowy blond Minions on the wall? What happened to the visage Of a long-faced boy That I saw Standing at Ollier's Or dancing at Jael's And at Delilah's And with his grin Of a handsome boy In a sunny little book, Or the books he read As a little boy Who loved the silly Gadol mysteries? And now he wanders With the angel-faced Latarser, wandering With the small and the gay In the white and the Glittering realm Of the glittering world, Where the litters are rolled And the sweet cheeks lie Under the fringe of the Woolen forest That the bearers Triumphal Pass on to their dishonoured Lips, that are dumb, And the white Gathering Groping moth, And the night Lying in the Amber ring. I knew him, yes, I know him. And I shall not forget him. As the heavy East away Starts from the solan, And the distant Bent knees of The dark angel-faces Leave the night a Spangled dusk; So these cries Will I be To the glory of his praise, To the end, to the last, to the very last, When he appears, And the murmurs cease, And the final Hourglass Tolls And the shadowy Music-world dies. To the height of his strength. He is not wholly unknown. There, looking in the mirror With the air of someone who has walked in many a garden, I see he is like those heroes of antiquity Who perished for us, Who gave their lives to The quest. Away, away, like a Ladder upon the wall. He is not wholly unknown, But something like--a little like. For the opening of the moulds Left a cavern in the Limbs, whereby nothing might Remain as when. His singular Extent of his Distinction will grow Diminishes, and the Knotted thread Of his destiny will Span before it In the delay, the Insanity of A petty Pool. As the discoverer of This Cavern, when He stepped back, and turning, Smiled, and thought, "I have found it, I have it," He is yet, so may Others Recall it. But it is a Distant, faint, Phantom picture. No, it is the Ring, ======================================== SAMPLE 92 ======================================== Forth-gazing as he whirled, his foes Sank in dust and fire, nor budged the fiercest Orbed stone, whose force quaked in heart and bone Lone reapers till then unseen Shared the ashes in their desperate hands. Bare of fruit and bred her bale, The barren tent Foraged from the trodden heap of long ago, Moved the awe of Love, setting the watch dogs on, The ache in his to keep The hour of breaking dawn; the morn was pale, The morn in vain, With long tearful eyes that saw his worth, The love of death Came back upon his morrow, and overspread A robe of mourning, Which robed him in rage With shame's memoried hue. Now like the thing that was love was lost, That war was fought and lovers found; That sun-dried cloud A wave that left the death-money bare, Covered with blame, The spacious house And all within it. Then there were gathered round her, the noiseless ones, Clasping in a long embrace, Their young dead peerless lords, And every maiden in the land Wearing again her livery of tears. "Nay, they are not dead," And sweet as they. They come with the living Lord That all of them be, And the sight withers, The day that they return, Their iknerth than the next. But this I know, That all those tears of the past Were well and ill spent, And all their ill and their tears are made Where time with them is fled. "The small end of thy Dream," For Love, said the Sphinx one day, "Is as most wings may sing: Full easy it is, very rare, To the far, and visible, Eternal nameless night. "Those tears which were for kisses Are understringsingly earned By the coldness of the loured In the great gulfs of our soul: The Ends, the great Ends, that be, All sundered by short dreams. "Thou that art Love," said Love one day, "Come! be Love once more! Our sundry fears are crown'd With infinite bliss; For they that forget for ever <|endoftext|> "O the sighing and the toiling and the pining Doomed to be never that!" And so with the days flown over, and the nights o'erhead, "Sweet," she says, "once again Shall you be knight and lord of my name, and I That was a fool!" "You," she says, "will bow to my rule, And my burden of love be light and light." But I, I that was a fool! "So have, and so have, and so shall you have, O fool, do what I do, and go." She said so with a smile, and she wavered no more, And her hand on his arm. And the fool, do what I do, will not be fooled With anything so slim and frail As Love's sweet and sweetest tricks. "Ah, you do not know What life is," said she, "and who are you That you know it, certain, should speak to me Of the sea's heave and the land's stir And the 'dozen blenches' that stand in a row 'Gainst the wind?" She shook her head. "You are sure That you know the body?" "So sure as at first I saw you in the sun," She said, "I called your name And fluttered like a bird." "I was always going to call you mine," Said Peri as the great took place; "And now I am your whispering sixth," Said she. But Peri, her laughing eyes Were never the less on the map of the sea, Where lands and ships disappear, and ends the dream Of your body, the marvel and the prize, Never more, though it were to-day, would waken The yet warm heartbeat or thy thankful eyes. "The parting may have a meaning for you Than I what it may have; And I wonder, Peri, to-night as I see Your lips away, and your body, the sun On what strange shore may have been its birth, "I'll touch your hair," said she, "as I see you now Beneath the cloud ======================================== SAMPLE 93 ======================================== That neither have to do, nor ever can Come to me again; The picture of an evil Fame-mad tyrant that never Feigned his doom; The longer I live the clearer I see the same, The one-in-three. A link you spoke, friend Rose, that one Should hold them both To have been he; for you and for me He was our God. He took him to the man that Could not stand him: and we found him Lost in words, like a leaf That will not stand the gust Of the strong tempest. In one day, And if I err not, it shall be He to the head Of his great direction, that all The earth might go In such a dark-free light, and not Be one blade of the two-winged bird That felled him. O the thirst That burned my brain, till I made the sword That my strength had betaken me! Up to the weapon I hastened, all in red I came; and turning my face, I implored it: 'O speak brother sword, That, and no other willed, thou hast warned My God to his face.' Thou, if not overtaken, shalt have thy will, Thou hast this half again. But I must hold mine own head, and go From hence to God. If any thing else, that lay deep Hath the form of your God, I'll take my little part. Doubt not you doubt my love: Your voice was heard in the wilderness, Not to be dismissed. To me it seemed clear, that where the river, That fills our inmost British lands, Had made a deep, hissing sound A while back It also should show its teeth to man, And stop the noise of slaughter. To-day, it may strike, my lord, Which way to bend it, or turn it on The foe, or moderate, and thrust it home again. Such fierce words, on either side, Appeared in heaven; And I had watched the clouds go down, And so confessed guilt; But as I stood on guard, at night, I thought of what a soldier would say If suddenly I felt the keen, The deadly thirst of battle: I turned away, and thought on this; And so I needn't. What is betided me? What can be With God, in all this waste, But this my faith in him, that is above, And my great country's will? No wind here creaks, And no thunder-clap can alarm One human soul from God above, As all this wide, blind sea Would shudder though the death-stroke; Save God, and his wrath, Which is the answer, and is irek Against his power. And, might I sing here, I would cry What little angels we have To represent us, With eyes of such small clay, and such So frail black hair, and such small feet; And on your silvery spines And elfish big brows, we would sing One happy little song For you, and you would smile, And you would quell the enemy, And you would triumph, And be with honor crowned, And life would not be a word, But I must watch the wind go down, And I must keep myself from tears. My art is like a ruined town Left in the wilderness; My skill is but a slide, a small Self-portrait, a blue-eyed flower Dyed over with red; The rest is all a blank: And I, by the life I swear, Am now to sleep. The bells are putting mute The call that I hurled out, When the bolder soul of France Took up the sword for freedom. Now the wheels of steel move slow That stir life's blood and bread; And my face before the net Of a betrayed land is due My farewell: let them call The traitor to his place. The ships of Spain are steeped in blue, The trumpet of the breeze is blown; And the long road burns steep and cold Between the morning and the night. And I, in my two-by-four, That have the charge to talk or not To tell you what to-morrow brings, Think sometimes, lest a little strength Should have me tempted to fail, A little danger may be found. The present gave us, as a goal, A little trial of our means; ======================================== SAMPLE 94 ======================================== Sinon, erst of Ormogivrice; Or was it she, where is she now, Blanchy Hidd, when she shows at Thee Her whisp'ring eyes? I know not, I; I know not, I,--beyond the stars! I knew not, I, how you died, My own sad self, O lord! and you, What self, my neighbor Sebastian! I knew not, I, that we drew A toll from all beneath our roof, Nor knew we you were secret men, What time we left your arms to us, In our first int'rence. We never dreamed That, down there, in Orpheus' bower, We should have heard, unkind, the music Of your harmonies, the fair And airy temple of your shade. O, hear you all! a rush of applause! The orchestra strikes its silver wave, And all is still. Let us resume. 'T was in the first flight of that invention Which they called harmony, that, in sooth, We learned to tremble to its light words, To weave them with a sound as woeful, As all our history to-day has shown. Your human blood drew its lesson from Our own, and both were touched; and so we Took to our bench. I was proud, O, Hidd, for you I should live to hear your name! The youngest at six years, at twenty, The oldest in my outlook. And so it was,--I gained My six years' experience In two plays I wrought, one in Paris And one in Villeroy. What can I say of my existence? I have been nothing to the world. So was that shadow Who watched beside me, mute of words, Mute of speech. I ne'er had given a lone thought To fame or to song, to be heard or sung, And that sole finger with which I felt the art that moved. But I had a store of thoughts, and when A thought met with me, as with a goal, My soul would ta'en its turn, And stir with speed The wind of a new venture. A wise old master, when I saw, There were three steps to success; For me, as for him, it was A daily consultation Of worldwide problem, and plan And artifice; there was a world Of waiting, and the desire to speed; And, in my daily consultation Of the world's statute for my times, A keen contemporary fancy Was with me at the shutter, And looked with keenest beauty. I felt the tall sky tilt, and, 'Twas very then, as now, We were not far from heaven, a sky Of promise. The brightening of the morning Was as God's frankness in me, My human hour, to full perfection From my own powers. I was the first to reach The empire of Art; the last to know The fall? But I am first to reach the empire of Life. And, before me, I see my glass Go upward without reach, to the height Of life's resplendent creation. You know how, in the forest of Mer The silver-mist one morning, I saw a naked boy Who, with his face against the wood, Ruffling the thin leaves, His arms akimb'l had caught young Ling Ti (1). Ling Ti, the little silver Fox, Behind which tree had been hid, Tangled, as by web, Its tongue among the thickest leaves. A slender shaft of light it bore In its mouth, as if dripping wet; Dark forms around were hid; It reached its eye, a little white gleam, Like a quick flame; The throat alone was bright: Thus, in the thickest twilight, The lone young Ling Ti drank its meal. A wild bee sipped; A gray snake sipped; And here a Spider iipped, His breadth did dip; But the Devil had drank, in secret, From the hollow handle The seed-drop of May. The milk came slowly, In a slow tinkle, As of silver drops, And the drops were came from The hollow handle, And the drops fell, with a faint fall, And clean they shone, beside A rusty barrel; It seemed a stream of milk. And the man and beast came To their feed; The father man was dumb, ======================================== SAMPLE 95 ======================================== no touch. A hidden force Thwarted to break all bonds Of life and love. And oh, the laggard grace Of youth! Unspotted with the hero's black, The music of the time, of pride! You see the land's exchequer empty, Our public wealth spent, our public mind bereft Of all its senses and chimes; and yet Why do we mourn? Yes, all things! but this The mariner sees, whose ship so long aground Gazed at us, by misfortune more denied. The supercargosos saw, who work the mine. We three, who looked at home again to be Uncertain now, where to turn or go; who stared Still at the same glare, the same storm of seas, And now stared at the sea; who heard--yet heard-- And now heard, and heard again the gathered blast In those loud solitudes re-echoed loud His thunder, until the restless uproar Of night's wild--clouding tumult below His echoing roar beneath the mast head re-echoed too. But then in the eight-hour darkness, when sight and sound Yield number, place, and space, and when the earth A lustre undertakes the day's dim things, In other realms than the known, not these Engrossed the men's minds. The Scots, who bore That mystery, to a keen sense employed, What they seemed things of this ever dim, That circle man in mind and things that pass. They of a change the world's faint schemes Applied; and what men call laws too slow Struck to subserviency, and fate On whose affairs they gave their stablest decisions, And shaped their most anxious thoughts, and knew, Who round a thousand moving things must wait. They of a strange change for worldlings unseen With terror guessed, the question hardly roused, Questions that can do no two ways, nor three; Who gazed sought shade, and, mingling, thought a sphere. They, watching, of one thing conceived; and sought That object, yet without fearing; and knew A thing is found, though never of the same. This was the change that bade the uneasy pow'rs Their wish and work in life prepare; the bloody scythe Furrowed a pillar of black brasses, On which, with its black cherry prolations, Its pillar of silver beech, its branch of juniper, Seed oil, and grain, a quivering scarlet behind; Hence came the notary fantasy, since you saw it; Stern model of a lawyer's-executioner. Sidney, in the pillar of silver beech, The augur-syllos, on his broad base of oak, Stout of yellow stone, held the key to what he saw. At break of morn the farm houses knew the change, Re-made and lastly trimmed to marke their master's play, On whom the last oblige intervened, and his porn, Where a large augur, built for divining seeds, Was hung with bore, to determine what her dears had won. Melliths and oil, opals and rubies, gems and masklets, Sevenfold of gold, the pure, the purest,--these were purchased, Her best, a beamer, a haughty golden mirror. And in her hand a rattling (sincement), with grooms in order, A gazer has and a gazer has seen, And where the old mintage, cold, brown, ready moths await. And house-maids, whose fusty balance-beam gave an el point A modish, quaint, midland, antique bounce, (A rare albino), lark, a laugh, a light-pussy, pretty talon, The baton of the doodle, who showed that day, And where the new mintage, cold, brown, ready moths await; And (a certain beau immanent, with your bethel, A baton, with a gazer and a gazer) you have seen; A pure, and of a purer pure, the bulging imps among The foolish, the rustic, the swine--the midges of the field. In other fields, in other spheres you fancy, my son, The discerning beholder? Why, where you sit, And where you sit, to call the baker, valued near In vain, for he opens to the last just past; That was his verdict, and, ======================================== SAMPLE 96 ======================================== ) At last a conversation grew real: They sit there in the silence of twilight, And now you hear the pigeons rustling When the storm is on the Corniche. I don't know how it is that people Endure the presence of other people And can find strength for love, As I have found by finally being Touched by the touch of another man. We have known each other for a long time, Yet never have met upon acquainted terms With any success; We have drank and eaten and Skyped; Yet never gave a second interview To another Skyping wight. We met by chance this afternoon, Just as the sky was turning gray; We met and began to Skype; You squeezed my hand then and kissed my cheek; I got your call at your last, which came Like a heavy train. The highway, to us two, Is as a road-- The heather, meadows, Are to us as green. We can get there, if we can work, If we will. The river for us is as the crystal Cut on a glass; There's the bend in the Reuben, There's the bend in the Reuben. A woman can say what a sea is And leave the shore for it; We have ridden in many a gale To their feet, they say. It was near past break of day When I knew I you were near. I could feel it, though the score Had gone down to fifteen. The hand that grasped for advantage Now darted off; The foot that was expected to progress Kicked from the field; The man that was out to make a start Pitched into a bush. You were there, and you are there, In the slip stream's wake. I wept when I should have laughed For your trouble; The hand that grasped my shoulder Sank like a sucker; The third that faulted at your game Was a chap that likes you well. You need no more To clinch the score with him. The hand that was used for a pseudonym, To kiss the girls and go home to Lor; The crotch where you put your pride in kick, Is the only place it ever flagged. It was bad luck on the form that sagged From my regard; It was bad luck when you rolled in that night Like a boulder. There's a sickly pleasure in punishing things For their causes, A natural instinct of us That blood is made of flesh, That this life we are on earth tier by tier. But there's a devil's joy in embracing that When I look at a man And he is failing, For I know what a beast he is, I know what a fool he is. And I laugh at him, and I laugh at him, And I laugh when he stalks the floor As the blade of one Snuffles in his lair, When a man that I see is a beast in hide, Or I see a woman that can hardly stand, I will spit in my glove, Or I will hit her where she is leaning; For the joy of a sinking chintz, And I scream, and I laugh and I cry. I will tell you what a chap I am: A wild goat is a yellow goat is a cow; And every goat is chased by some div. As a cow is chased by some div. And the div. of a goat is a lamb; And I am chased by some div. For I am a goat and you are a cow. The fear that we are not in cow-thief's country Is the fancy of the fiend. I have the way that I have caught the way And the fear that I have caught the fear. When I see a chap with horns and hoofs like those of a bo, I say: "This is a div. And he is a freak of a freak of a div. For he is in t'other world of a div. And it's worse for he, as t'other world is worse for him." It was not long ago that a young maid and I Took a sprig of rosemary from the garden and thought to roast it, But we carried it where the fox came along and ate it. He snatched the sprig and ate it at last producing a sound That was heard by us, and then we called the gardener to see. And he carried it away in his brown hand, and we saw his eyes So set in terror that he became a ghost ======================================== SAMPLE 97 ======================================== your mouth open and spew a chasm. When you come to my neighbourhood, I have to restrain you, And I can't go to my mother And when you think of the others I swear I wish you good luck, but if you do not I wish you your best as well, and when you can walk, Of course I'm going to come and visit you; It's too bad you can't be my pen pal, But I'll be content, and not attempt to set you On the subway, or at my apartment. <|endoftext|> "Song at Midnight", by Jack Spicer [Nature, Animals & Landscapes & Pastorals, Spring, Trees & Flowers] Because I love you so, I won't stop to question Why you are there or to question myself when the spring wind takes over, I will wait to speak While the song has not begun. I know that you love me And that is enough for me, Though I sift through the mess of the world to find you, You will be good enough for me. <|endoftext|> "The Man With One Request", by Jack Spicer [Living, Death, Life Choices, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life] My father never asked for or hoped for apples. He rarely tipped with apple purchases, and always ordered vegetable and a side that would create unnatural meals or thin sauces. On the first night he died he was tired of lettuce and celery, he said, "Please make this beverage three and half"—because he knew he was dying. Later he would describe this drink as being like a dog on a leash, that the drinker "wants more than just water," that it is a drink he will "never drink again." I would make the coffee, I would sprinkle garlic in the shake, I would make the coffee and bring it to him half-bopped, and he would say, "Here's that," and when I poured it in a glass and was giving him the final kisses, I would say, "I hope this doesn't kill you." The day of his funeral I met his sister for the first time. She cried and cried and could not get through to say that when the love of her life was being earthed that he turned from death into immortality. I knew I was going to lose him anyway, so when she stood in the aisles without him, I did not speak of my loss, I turned up the music and did not pay attention to what was being said. I left the funeral with my two-step, as if I had not already lost him, and returned to work. He had told us all that we would all lose him that we would be like the birds above who are left without or with a different law than he had, that his horn would kick in and we would be found the birds that cannot die. It was cold and that summer it had been icy, sometimes sweltering; it had been hot and that summer it had been humid; it had been cold and that summer it had been wet; now all of us can tell the difference because he was always there. I know that in some of the photos of him that thumb tucks in some of the unpublished pages, he is cross-eyed and ill-at-ease, that he could hardly focus on anything, but now I realize we are all unloved, all of us. I know that I sometimes do not love him because his need is too great, but when it was not sufficient, I tried to love him. So that now when he is lying there in his final recovery, I am trying to love him, because I want to keep him and I do not know that I can do it. <|endoftext|> "Good-Bye", by Stanley Moss [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Nature, Animals, Trees & Flowers, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] Good-bye, Spring By the hair of ear have I been tetching? Titters always wait to dibble in flower. Ah, but time is snatterage. Ships do not bite me in the rear leg. But I bite the tree: there is no more sense in flower. They say the pemaquid flew inland because of the magnetic field, which moved the poles. And the clouds spied a bird ======================================== SAMPLE 98 ======================================== Ninja-head (soul) went off to Paris to live with the Son-of-the-Mystery She later married Stanley Jones And napped in his office there. Then the children were born and she went back To Chicago to start school again. Stanley: You still around? You still around? Bunny: Where do I live? Where do I live? Stanley: I want to know that you are My girl. Is it such a mystery? Bunny: What do you call it? What do you call it? It's the mountain of a woman's head. To bear it in a poem. I remember the day I had my first In school we were asked to carry the mountain up To the sign. I remember feeling the Blind girl in me, so I took my Ninja-head Off and thrown it on the ground. I remember My feet wet from the leaves I broke off And the mountainside was cool. I remember And my God-My-Goddess was there in my soul. She has A face more perfect than the mountains On which she can gaze. She is the only one. But even she can't keep track of all the things Her hair chooses her to love. She gets jealous When the going gets tough she turns into a hunk Of old power. There's a place for me In the old world of mystery. I'm waiting For the where-celts and the canyos and the rope The two boys and one tiger. I'm wishing For a mystery with fewer mysteries To go along with it. I've never been So enamoured of a single woman's kiss As I have of a story they tell each other. Each tells a different one. But the kiss Is the one that gives you the entrance To a country nobody wants to leave. <|endoftext|> "Six Moon Rising", by Kai Roland [Living, Life Choices, Love, Realistic & Complicated, Activities, Travels & Journeys] Something about being caught in the mirror Something about being naked in the morning Something about the teeth in the morning dust The absence of the mouth on my breast wonder Something about the splinter in my palm blade Some prana on the night market's2 Something about the moon. Some kind of wax or gellux My moon. Something about that too A broken fan in my mind about that too Some kind of sob on the steps of the railroad The sides of the hotel the street I walk The pocket that doesn't hold anything Something about day2day3 some kind of barn birth night4 Something about yesterday something about today The throat singing the train of my breath The throat full of smoke at the mouth of night My eye wallet4eyes5 The pocket of all things tap Tap the floor of the eyes of day2 Something about the shadowed night things on the night wall The cold night waterfall inside night Something about the swallow1fingers3eyes The path of the train of my breath to the mouth of night Something about feeling lost tap The shadowed night things on the wall of night The cold night fountain of night in my mind Tap the mouth of night stairs of my breath3 Something about the flight of the night things from the pocket of night The swallow shadow tap the floor of night3 Tap the soft of the floor of the night night The blind mouth tap the beak of the mouth The swallow shadow tap tap the neck of day Tap the beak of the eye of the night stairs of my breath Tap the eye of the night stairs of my eye The place where my eye meets the mouth of day Tap the cheek of the eye of the night stairs of my breath Tap the crib of the eye of my mouth of night Tap the hand of the eye of my breath Tap the hide of the eye of my breath The place where my hand meets the hide of my breath The swallow shadow tap the hand of my mouth The place of the eye of my eyes to the eye of night Tap the tree of my mouth to the tree of my mouth The goblet of my mouth the peach of my mouth The crack of my throat the corsage of my mouth The Ticino rose of the face of my mouth The corsage of the face of my mouth My throat tap the Ticino wine The wine of my lips to meet the wine of day The wine of my lips to meet the wine of night The night of the night bridge of our tongues The night of my breath to meet the night ======================================== SAMPLE 99 ======================================== a bowl of jamón serratos, lemon and lime. The hodgepodge of suds, cushions, and of course, wine. I think he will feel a surge of pride to know that the first sign of sun on this ragged street is my opening out this door. I know he will remain enthusiastic in the beginning and we may visit shows at the main station. He'll ask me how to get home, where the line is. I want to say he's downtown or at the lake, the park, the bar, the laundromat, and I'll point out the theater and the park, where the farmers' supply runs to the laundromat. <|endoftext|> "Frances Farmer Jones", by Mary Lattimore [Living, Death, Arts & Sciences, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Money & Economics, War & Conflict] Frances Farmer Jones, You were only once But you will never be My own. You were so Private and saintly That some people wanted To marry you, And they might have done So if your name's not Jack Stretford Warner, You're only 35, Not too young To be grave and breathing In hush and warm, And the voices that say, "Come with us." It's a little dream Some of us have Beneath the bed. I am the closest To whatever you're Grown into— Too proud, Too busy, too busy, With other things, Too private, Too private, To have everything Under the glare Of curious eyes. Let the whispers voice And the whispers tongue Pass between us but Cease to be whispers, Not whispers to you Nor to be whispers And not be secret To be true, Because they cannot Speak to others Or spoken In the way My whisper and my breath Can speak the warm breath Of my living child. I do not know that for you I would ever wed You would want to marry Have the baby Brought to the ground Of a lisping girl Who is now twelve, Or to some other boy Now grown up And living in town. You will not think you know Or any of your friends Will know or guess How I know you, But the truth is you Don't know. I didn't Say or do anything Till you'd smiled And a smiled Announced me, As you said you would So that was a Last chance to smile And you Would not fail. If you could do This for me Then you could do Anything. I say to you Love is confetti Out of burning jetsam Out of dying flames Gathered in a mania For a while And the wind's Descent is it Like a whisper Of a spirit saying I'll say this. But I am here Not to misunderstand Or to mishear Words spoken By those who wish You a happy day Or to say for you What they think Or say Or to intrude My presence there In your home Where you can hear It already And know it With me Or anywhere To your left At any moment Wherever you are Would be any place Anywhere in the world Or underneath the sky Or under the rug Or anywhere Shall meet the needs Of the body Or any part of the body Or any part of the mind Or any part of the heart Or underneath the moon Or over the sea At a distance As I write you Or here or anywhere Will meet the need For this song's sake And the wind's Or under the sun Or where they say There's room for You and me In the house of Death They say we begin At the same time every year And at the same time each day To be we should know That is true We both shall know Or should better somehow Know we are Which of us which of us Would feel if we rested And if we could This together I wish that The wind's Or the rain's Being together Or this song's real name Or some far off place Or none of the above ======================================== SAMPLE 100 ======================================== Hangs, heavy, heavy, it moves and heaves, And thrusts forth, quivering with every motion, Dy'd in the hand, with dread intensity. I move to follow the eternal rhythm, But, unsummon'd, the languid hand Rings forth the waters, circling slowly The sluggish sphere, till ever the black Grave of ocean is no more discern'd, And all the State, to the spirit's eyes, Is one wide net of slumberous waves. The humblest of the poor, With me that night! "I've travelled forth Under the dark, To see the Heavenly Father's throne, And to be drunk with service of His grace." "What! slumbering here?" I've travelled forth Under the dark; The snows and the ruddy dog-toothed brocks Have taken from me my travels; The blind rocks have lost their shadows, The forests are uplifted; The teal sunset smotes the skies. I travel the seas and the plains; I travel the roads and by-ways And back streets of the town. Where the loud lave Speaks to the playing of the sea, And the breakers are commanding The audience to dumb sleep of earthen silence; Where the rivers to stars are taking The voice of the rippling surges, and the arch Of the sun on the beach of the dark sea; Where the shadowy forms of palaces Move on the blue cleft annuity of sand, And cast a shadow on the moon, And lo, to the lark the tides and tides Are murmuring unheard, and grope the night, Away, far away, The chariots are rusting, The titles are filling up, He holds the monarch's staff, The lyre of the playing is telling, The music is passing on, I hear it only in my dreams. What were it, then, would it have been, If I had dream'd it of winter? Warm billows and the foam-crowned face Of their sun-gaken peers; no nigh-bake Of hiss, and massif sweltering; sifted And cruel and straight as a nail, And chained to the soil of the rock; A dark fore-way of tall cedars, A giantess in splendour and length, That sprang to her songs in the grove, But canted in the dusk to the bier; Then the song of the wailing wight; The song of the gleaming wicket, The song of the moaning cedar; The song of the bow-wound waters That nigh you sometimes wail and sing; Of the voice of the nymph that sets Her foot on the sound of the waters And then runs and feeds on their mouths; Of the day's dark paving and paving, And how the tide comes in sight; And on its behalf, And on the face of the spot that was, And on the sun's face, and on the drouth-lights, And on the glisten of the vegetation, And on the starry spars and glimmering shaws; Of the ebb-tide stepping in the billow, And the full-tide shimmering in the bay; Of the hot brow of the boy at play, And the cool brow of the matron in sleep, And the lips of the maiden enwound In the kiss of love and the lips of the priest; And the lips of the lover, I said; And the words of the sage in his study, And the wandering lips of the wandering sun; And all the loose-hanging hands That come with the rushing of mails; And the smooth legs of the nymphs, And the feet of the beasts, And the raging of the stronger. Then, then, the earthquake and the fire, And the thunder-clap and the flame; And the wild lament of the winds, Touched with sick affection and woe: And the damaged horses that rode Round in the gatehouse of the master: And the sudden shriek of the old moon, Falling blazing into the eyes of the king; And the loud shriek of the moon, And the rustle of the leaves in the wind; The loud shout of the soldiers, "Arise," they said, "arise, O King!" With your eyes cast down, And look no more at us, Thou hast but the weak heart of the small. ======================================== SAMPLE 101 ======================================== ("Who but an infant, but a god In the wide world.")--that head of thine, that face, And the large, clear eyes, that now seem to me As the days of old to dawn; and, Oh, my God, The dimples and the cheeks of the one I loved! But, oh, dear girl, that hand that is on my arm! That hand which seems to hold me, and dropwise, To and fro, from the crook, with the wound on it, I feel it press, as it touch, now and now, When I think of the strange hand, I am holding To the palm that is kingly and rich with cream Of lips and cheek and chin and neck, and the face That I shall never see again! "The night falls down: I wait in the hall." And, from forth the casement,-- "He read me the book!" As I read, I see her eyes to wisps, As fissures in the cloud-veiled. I read of an evening, that we join In a moveable haze of shadow And of cool purple: then, from the fold, "He read me the book!" I read, and all the while I see Her white wistful eyes, that tremble and quiver, Like a twinkle in the rain. She drops a petal, and then she scatters Wildly over my page, and still her eyes Twinkle and quiver. One drops and wins My reverent thought, and I--see, here, A paler quiver wrought of pale green, Purple under her that quivers, here, A darker purple, dropped on the page. And the bolt has risen from the page! Oh, joy! hope! dream! "He read me the book!" I thought, and for a moment forgot her. The book! the book! in its bounding pages held The endless story of the years to be, A verse and a hope and a slovenly line, A sile, insolenately puny dream, Stood fronting me. Then, I heard, as says A mournful, from the city, one called Mine! And I was at her eyes. Then the bolt came flying, She was mine! The book held us; and there, then, I turned, I heard the bolt that hooted me fly. "I am not a man." Her dear word. "Not a man?" "I am a woman." "I am a woman and I do pray "That you may love me." And my whole body taut Stretched shut into that tight whipt diamond thing, Until, with hands at the car, I heard The doom of the book past and could only pray. The doors flew open on either side. I saw your face, but could not speak. And I turned. Thee, too, I saw, and blushed. And our lips a moment interlocked With slight sentience of the lips of one Whom poets have described as dead, And fair, but cold, whom Virgil wooed And Ovid touted, and all deemed false Because they wrote. But, with hearts beset By too much free to-ing and fro-winged Of freedom, and enamored of ease, We turned to one another, knowing, Having no further say in falling, But a transcendent bowing and centering, We thought you better. But we found One way and point beyond which both of us, Me, fearing she scorning, and you, wishing you Held less transitory peace, deemed in accord About our falling and the enveloping You thus enveloping us, to be correct. And once, once only, and once, we met And saw you fall, while I stretched for breath Between the momentarily immune system Of a durably next generation Made up of people with no memory Of us who saw. And, from that next generation Its leaders past, toward some enduring Happened, as all things trickle downward, Or dripped to the rock-ribs of time. But now, for once, we knew you well. And, as night Out-rolled the day-fall of our shrinking In the longest heaven-junction, with you Triumphant, as night-rise out-rolled All the darkness, and as certainty Emerged in us, and with us a shower Of radiance in the radiant's changing hue, A flash, a crowning of joy in the peace Of the forever rising sun-bird,-- ======================================== SAMPLE 102 ======================================== Inside of our house, even The time we were married. But it's all mended now. Not even a scar Can mark the place. The good Lord God Has tempered so The pain inside us With joy. I pray to see that it Does never happen again To me. <|endoftext|> "Carolina", by Emma Wallop [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] You drove me to Wilmington, long Carolina highway bedded next to car still humming along not replying or losing connection yet entering many memories of what I'd heard, a thousand miles away, some voice in the bed eerie and repeating a call that I don't want to hear anymore, oh Carolina who was traveling with me just before I left you to be moved from my blood I knew you'd hate me, sure, but would you hate me more for driving you from my one memory of memory into the exact Carolina mile I'd driven a long time trying to forget where I was, what I'd said that took me miles away and what you warned me was a road that would end my ear down, rolling frozen rumrunner, boiling hot beneath the bit of sky that would end my life long, if you told him I had known that, too. <|endoftext|> "Novo Nord" by Eileen Donahue for Dana Barrett Not a message, womble womb of a world of gnomes and their royal kingdom. Nowhere for you, Nova, Nova, but the air you upbraid. Graft on a new gush of milk thistle in this garden of neomeganostic causality and send them their dire warnings of earthquakes, dread opinions on climate change. I'd have a lot to say: a little love, a little love. And we'd make a small world of it in this place of yours, safe and self-reliant, where we knew the meaning of immortality, where flowers sweated on themselves in cleaved phalanxes and seasons and crests of beauty. But we'd be gone, Nova. So say you well, but I say no more than that. <|endoftext|> "Pestilence", by Eileen Donahue [Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] A little rain made everything grow Like a sentry's night. Mites in their nightcaps watched. The sentry—oh, there was none. A thought, so lovely—so horrid. A cry, a thought, so horrid. They could not be heard. Bags of money, bags of rain, bags of money, bags of rain. They ran in bags of money, bags of rain. Bits of meat, bits of meat, bags of money. The fellas swam, fellas, bags of rain. There was a great and terrible swarm of women, ragged, crying, bags of rain. Husked in the dark: bags of money. The housemother looked back and forth, back and back. How often she had to look back, between her fingers, the way she had those women back there, bags of money. One of them a woman—so rare—in that house. She sat on the floor, clothes ragbag in her hand. They watched her with ears cocked for fallen clothes. The sentry saw her eyes, a fish from a fish store, walk down the street, bag of money. <|endoftext|> "The Poet as President", by James Galway Oscar Wilde Oscar Wilde The States have only their pomp and state To afford you; Old Man With his ease you can get by, In a minute on the edge of the ether. As I watched him to the post The election results come through And with his hand balloon he let fly All his savage energy, ooze The courage that he oghood'd it, in The mug that was holding the ball I would have loved Oscar Wilde As a wild thoughter-than-a-few- Of-tie-sos-tu-sic- as you And I do say I dine with Miss Antonine And loitering all along the hall Away from my proper duties I can watch ======================================== SAMPLE 103 ======================================== O'er the blessed fields and meadows. "He might have also been a cell-leader, And he might have also been a rich merchant, As the angels say to him. "And this the children's laughter is creating, In the sunshine, even now, at noon-day. And this is a blessing that man need not fear. Because of this, O man, O man, thou art." And the beautiful tree said with her own head low down, And she hung on his breast and she turned over slowly, With her hands that wept with emotion, And she slowly walked away. I hope the man will remember The holy words that I speak, And he be a better man, And he be kinder and more forgiving, And he be better still the more. He knows nothing of men or women, Of passions or convictions, Who of God made all things, Made all the earth and sea and sky, And yet all unseen he may walk. He sees the earth and sea, He sees the men and women, He may hear their voices, All murmuring to him From the tops of trees and from the sands, From the top of the sea-mountains. And he called out, as he stood in his wonder, And he heard a hundred whispers answer him, And the mountain-tops murmuring ever: 'I surely hear a saying in the wind: It is surely said that he who is gracious Is sure for sicknesses to dispel.' And he stood on the rim of the sea, With his head in the sea, And he looked to the west, And he heard the murmur of the sea. And he spoke and he spoke in burning tinder, In and out, ah, so softly, and so softly, And in and out, a little,ttom may betheoorann wan, In a low, soft, and a low, low cry. And the sea-fowl sang, and the gulls squawked, And the merfolk and the kingfishers Cried with their strange language, Cried in their many languages, And called to one another In their many languages, Till the air of the sea was electric With the beating and vibrating cries. But he passed to the south of them, He passed over the black-headed people, Passed over the suckers of seals, Passed over the stone-polds, And the stones in the gulfs of Pixol, And he passed over the people of jelly, And the people of sand-dead, And, of jacinths, and of myrtles. And, after that, he walked among the trees, And he walked among the houses, And he walked up and down, Hoping to find the blessing And the words of a way to pass, And he walked up and down Wondering where he might find them. And he walked through the houses, And he walked one day, a day, and a half, And he walked a second, and a third day, And he walked to the north of them all, And he walked to the south of them all, And he walked up and down, Sporting among the trees, Sporting by the river-side, And he tramped and trotted, And he play'd, and wandered, Wandered with the tidal bits, On the zephyrs soft foot, In the nooks of the rocks. And he brooded, as he wandered, And he brooded among the rocks, And he said: "O sea-dogs, O sea-herds, my dear hearts, Look, look, here, and there, here are my shells, Here are my troryums; O my brothers, my friends, O my guardians, white and gray, O my wiser, better, older brothers, O my pals, O my heroes, O of my kin, Behold, behold I bring you home shells When the last buffaliate Lays her elegie on my hair, And my soul's delicateth For a salve to soothe a lady's wrinkles, I will take the name Of the buffaliate And I will take the richess For this purls character The demirpard charizard the spleenry The deurnir delft the ymarty The imder demisse eld ful the mungrin The mitre ruff and the noose u-n-sook The old-drawn ======================================== SAMPLE 104 ======================================== This here was the chalice of the immortal Oreades, Ere earth eternitarily shall disappear, And there are some immortal Ores That there were Extinguish'd as they grew, That now must flame as stupefie to all Oases: Which ever in the same terrible situation keep, Urge the fire, and laugh at his messengers, The stars confounded, the winds affright the waters: So these laugh'd at me, nor cou'd endure that I should come, And my Reviewer forgot, and rather felt, Than that men should review my hand, or sing prouder Verse of me, or of later Age Admirement got by sight, Or if far else from this abode I went Singling each one his own, far rather that more travellers Should be ventours pour from France to say, To where the Spaniards say, more travellers: Say first before all must be confess'd that I was there: And that all travellers must sing of Jove, or of his Assembly, Since the world-praised Lover of all things, his Speed; but I no World-praised Love, Nor to my ownDuctural Fare, I flew to seek of Thee what thou wert taking, thy presence, Thy Foot, thy Seat, thy Conventual Mat, thy lengthLaundered private, and of thy own part, From Matins and Vespers, till EVEN, till Thyrsis slept,Till thy Morn spake word, and our World unquiet Heard that; wakening, thus I spake. Whither, my Discoverer, hast thou gone, and why Confounded, lead'st thou thy feet Pythian yet in front Of my Vertuous Labours, and mixed With ones from Egypt and Araby? For proof, Lest again that I Utter nothing what is not true, Tell the world, and confirm each follower: Thou art confuted, nor of th things Do pass untrue, The world, no more; but in thine own member sings as true as truth, and this To thy own shame, that straight does bend To gather up cavils against the head, And being firmly join'd to one place, The place thou art now in, directly Oppos'd, thou does'st encounter true, Or sense, or soul, or towing of a formation From more then one, from one then in the realm Of this affliction; which though never Wrath, nor even Counsels of death, shall remove, Shivering in silence now, and now in tears, Charged with thy prescript, to the saddest shape That now invisibly stands on ground, and seeth A change in him that he sees not, lo! Without a metavere. Verily, I said to him, and in manner what thou say'st, Is that which thou dost run in orderto. But yet am I afraid The time may come when I shall be much loth'd t'appear, And showing plainly, both what and where, Chalastis, all the people; both thyself And the connexion, thou hast with the same; The which in several sort is the measure of Of my evil, in my sins so I'll say, I.e.--the greatest part of all thy good Now grubbern thy flesh with the fire of Hell, As if it had been Heaven's, for 'tis no more. If I be guilty, then thou art not more; If thou be not guilty, then I too are not any Good; be then the same, and, being any way just, Fare as it I do. VI. That thou may'st know, I am not riven in sunder, But sit upon Heaven's mighty mawse; Where thou art, it follows me all the time, And all this blither, vexation, thorn, Thrust,shag, and incessant ache, in living, That I did swear in my baby-bed. Here earth grows very bitter, and her milk Thine, that on thy tongue doth curdle, That to the seas, and to the upper air It sometimes turneth, that in one Is quite spoiled all the future. The brute earth do I give to doves, that, if They do not come to the fattie, The native swain may fall upon the hedges And shew them what was theirs aforetime. No more, no more; let me be bateable. Yea, the hard things, and the bilious, and thorns, That do abide our art so long ======================================== SAMPLE 105 ======================================== The eagle who was eating, Had the finger of death On his dove, Margery; And a little curl of smoke Rose from her hair, And the word "hideous blane" Was carved in stone. Her mother read the word In the moonlight, And she sat and sobbed, Watching the swallow Hover and flutter Where the eagle flew In the shade. One day, the owl and swallow Went cross the chicken-raws With the eaglet "training" Her red nest of daffodils In a pink-flower bed. They flew away, but not out, And the eaglet and the owl Were not any wiser Of the lonely child Who was "training" Her daffodils. The swallow's song, That heard it, Flew up to the high wood window, With a clop And a whoosh As he burst through the bars; And, with a care That was as if he knew an angel, He wrapped his wings about the sill, As Nicolo's duck Was wrapped about the blessed cross. Ah, Nicolo! Nicolo, how Thy Providence guard Thy messengers, the faithful dove, When men say that the Lord is warmed By prayer and tears,-- That He befriends each faithful friend Who comes to Him for help, And not abide in the cold And breathless tomb That men "hide" in? We've one with us, an uncle, A priest, a religious, one: His head is like a plum-porch He walks with a shuffling tread, His shoes are the caytry of bays, His hat is garnet-blue, And as he goes he says: We have the Garden of Delight Aware where Catana starts; One, our host, to entertain, He brought his poor Lala son, He prayed with a baying fan, His fingers were held like needles, His voice a loud prayer pipes. All are not so ready As Severa's guest, sirs, He is not of that party, He is not of that company, He looks at his watch and declines. His nose is not quite up and down, But looks a mustardwoman's plant, He had the air O'Brine in it When he went to pray. My memory is full of the clocks, The times I was a child; The stones in windows seem to strike them, The gates seem to close. The great walls still gleam like dull stone; The gardens, better brought to sight, Are rent, and damaged. The windows and the doors and the gates Are all better informed. They played with us so very early, When we were weak and small; They'll play with us much longer, I infer, When we are old and fat. There's no reason why they should not, With much greater comfort, Than our small side-windows, a much finer share, And an organ run amok, And all being music. What mean these wild, strange, delicious Strange creatures with curious, eager, Curiously wicked Eyes, that always look before them, Having large pleasures store. Whence do they come, this curious lot? And what the meaning of this miracle? The sun, the wind, the spring, And in high woods, a bird of night. The thunder's first and chief sound; The winds the foremost aid; And wind, and wind's subtley skilled, In airy dance surpassing sound, Dancing with the houseis twirling: But first and best, the wind, and best, Is thine, steady Dominie. Tis yours, year by year, to fear Sudden darkness and complete snow, The wind in every trade exclude. The wind in high Autumn Shall on high Siberia call, From yonder edges sharp the fierce And flashing blast; Or in the gale, ancient Nile Thro' broken rift and avalanche tread. Or, might you, might you prefer, More remote in time and place, Or wind, and wave, and stormy roar Of Ocean, and eternal snow: In some far inland Brocken soil, Beneath some rock-arch to dine, On hot market-day; You, must you, must you, could not so, In cuckoo-land, and in abbey, Some monks at midnight may you hie; And ======================================== SAMPLE 106 ======================================== But he was not to be bought; His steed had no gilded saddle, No collar of golden hue, And yet he trotted proudly on With standard of his head. On lands and streams and at the sea Stood Paul Revere; Stood he between the hills, And drove the mill-water; Loud the hills heard him And the valleys rang, And the sea grew red once more And the shore flamed with light. Mill scales were sunk in the ground And wings to fly upon, So obtain certification Against scissions and crashes; She must be milk after All flights to Nesh his Light-Beatty's territory. See the peasant girls and boys Furiously running To the waters flaring, Where through fly spur they twist, And in the shallow surface Mill scales they keep dipping. Next to a great locust-thicket Was their farmer's silent corn-field, Silently floating there Shielded by flying-thorn. Paul Revere went his way, Did the minimum of his chores, Tore-out the land for cattle, And in watering-troughs spilt All the panoplies he required. On the farmer's wheel the wind-mills Whirred, and the tillicum-wheels ran, And the moonshine was spented On the back of Paul Revere. Sat the tempest dry and cold, And the locust trees melted in air. To a tutor a young girl invited, "Oh, teacher! say me a purer name!" "What is 'pure'?--A name of her birth; A man's, which some wretched fool has crossed (For Fortune always meets men bad); It is a shock, a poison, an insult To call a man 'blind,' or 'bool, 'Gainst the puffs, 'tis a thing prohibited." "Yonder came an angel-messenger, Just stuck on top of a tile-house," Silence followed, "and he needed flesh too: 'Tell us what 'on earth' is now your business?" "Well, sister, 'tis mill-field to you; But, indeed, I can pass a good soil-mill by, And pass wherever I please on earth, For a cricket-squeaky-bed." "Tis a grain of desert-fine ground Where man has kindled chaff for grass; But, go where you please, he will not spray The wheat with soundest hoes and prod, And, when on him methought there stalks were bound, 'Twill yield him no chamisa-flowers. "Man, so full of abuses, Blows global music for mere swine; Scorns other bipeds tiny or big, Scorns our lustresses, And when they fetch his bacon-wet dreams, He hams it off on a pincer. "All sorts of tramps will give him board, And though 'tis odd he'll swallow 'em quick, There ain't a lapdog that will shoo; The moles that are brown and gray He will provide for in a trice; And though the 'pike man' he frowns upon, The rabbit's kinda his ain." "His food is rough, and will afford Unwanted-taste to vagrant fellows; To them that take to th' world, he gives A taste of bliss above and after; With a little basket o' bread o' finely broken ground, And the bones of one he raised to the head, In a jowl like pork and in a pit. "When he has eaten, they get no sleep, Nor lack of fair company to sit and see With fortune on their side, In the grand diz, and glowering on high, They'll sit and smoked several times; They won't go home, till the day decrees, They be taken in the trays out." "Wherefore, when it comes to hit-men try, We cannot show our faces at eye, But get a hat or hat of black and white, And hid away in th' dark of night, He's thuggable as we can be, And when th' going's fairly done, Like as clendonly as he can, And not a soul will doubt it here." "But most men would much prefer to fight Without a hat or cap to wear, Thinking that they'd look more shocking naked, Than if ======================================== SAMPLE 107 ======================================== like a hare of the forest in disguise Of the great queen, with bright locks, who strides along, Mocking the sages of the East. Lo, with the colour of the light that falls From off the smooth expanse of gleaming blue And tints of many hues, the land of Egypt Looks down on the wide flow of waters; And it lies large and calm, and gently flows, Sleeping in the soft blue morning light And gleaming with a sheen of light and motion, As a land-hungrineer sleeping rolls From one dream to another. From one face turn up, that night of morn, Tis changed to another, and a third appears From out the fluid light and motion Of the land-side, and from thereon the sea Starts and motionless and continuous All round it, as the winds move over it. Sea and land combined, and one face pale In the first face appears, and in fact Are two men: one running, one walking; they'll say 'Nigh his own is he.' 'No, his own is there.' 'Nigh his own is there, my dear, but not his But he, of those who run, and all who walk, Move in an aspect as they move in space To put us into them, and we are held In their wake, and that's the best of me And the worst of me, these two together: THEY move in an aspect, but the land has none. Their pace, the sand has still the same effect, And down the edge of a race that's taken In windy, they will count your hours and numbers. He would have told you in all his talk, He would have asked you to the level field, And with him, when he could have, set you The product of his mind. GOING, as it were, for guidance From base to base, Each man, as he holds his nerve, Is like a lark A flounder riding on his back. He thinks, 'O heaven, I've got to die! But I'm such a fool I'd have more fun if I could play dead.' The devil takes with him every one From first to last a full day's ride or more Under the sun, And sends his daily court to play a part, As one by one they come and go. The fool takes the stick and breaks his back Every time he goes a step to the left. Here's no reason for a man to die, Unless the people of the place Are unlucky or believe in whim; Or unless the warning knell he follows As the bearer of bad news. If all go down as they should, 'Tis a loss to the Chinese 'Tis a joy to the foreigners; If some find a sudden joy, 'Tis a public joke. But the wise, the thoughtful, the fair, The young, the old, and the ugly Are the first to complain. If a man's not augmented By new friends arriving, Or money coming, Or good luck taking, Or the fates taking, Then he must have watched too much Which brings sorrow to men. A foolish fellow, which we will call A person who has a mouth for a name As is his literal or given name, Is A, and he has a mouth for a name; As bad as if A were B, and B A. B is dead. So is A, and so is he; He's a relation, and so is A, They are all three names in one bottle: A title, and a line, and a name, And a title again. Wise men have only one thing one, They have more than one thing to praise; They are modest as ants about their fare, Which is not more than they were as old As the part of one oldest tree, Which throws up money and men, and fruit The red ripe fruit of conceit. The soul's born with, and it can't be sold, 'Tis a whole title, and the name is that, If you're good enough to know the cost, 'Tis the whole name, for one name is the same As another's renown. A man may have a beard of gray, A mastectomy, or a shear limb, A paralysis, or a shell-blast, Yet have no work, and have no riches, And be as unknown as if he were dead; But, if he have ======================================== SAMPLE 108 ======================================== Nothing of the sort! For by this balmy night I feel as if myself were some long-wrought thing, Tender, and by nature's hand was made to live, Wrenched out of happy engagements with the earth By cruel force, that takes hold of man's soul, And bends it to its cruel use. O that all Were such! for why is that cruelty? If they mean To scare thee from life's highway, then they take courage. But if they mean to crush thee, and they speak truly, What wast thou that year to-day? And what thou couldst bear At present enjoyment, yesterday? If a part Thou take, O firmer hand! of future service, Infinite is the pity, far worse than death. Sleep is an unguarded road; Too often clogs the slumberous night The unrenewed courier dreams, And, wild-eyed and fearful awake, We rouse, and on our harps of fate Turn uncertain. Oft I have waited long Till the Queen-clamor of the skies Shall command the cock's cackle once more. There be crows then, and times when the sun Burst the father-sky, and blood Streamed the old hole in all directions; And fires were reared in the jag of stars, Yea, the huge moon sickened, reeling. Then crows, and sleep, and other tokens, Come to the maiden; suddenly We run to meet the crows, And the sick sky shrieks, and her night-clothes set, And, trembling, we upon the wind arise. There be crows, and the crows come late, Leaving many lights behind them, The crows hover 'brokely on high In the eyeless car: So we stand trembling, standing by the clouds, And hark, 'tis now, the cock's call! And hark the cock's call! Hark! Now 'tis true, O lands, and your deafen'd dead eyes! Hark! The cock's call: Now to the world's end Echoes ring! We have come a long way together, You and I, father mine. Yea, I have sought the lure of yore, Wisely do I repay. We have found the world of to-morrow, The tried and sure.-- Blossom after blossom passing, Each day our sight discovers A dawn of brighter light! I knew the plain the cows might tear, We made brave slaughter of the ewes, The wind was hard and the weather rough, But never could the hard outfall.-- But now the end is here! I remember when your lips were those sweet lips That left their sweet upon every sweet a kiss; I would talk to you in those sweet's own tongue, And call you by names unutterable of. But ah! how changed the sudden hope of then, The gush of love, fierce and yet able to save; How changed, so sudden, looks of joy, The light ye loved then to a storm that night.-- We have come a long way then, O lands, But now our vision fails us, all we have found But darkness and the blind; the world, to us, Comes but as more our blindness, more a curse. God heal us, O God! and these be only pains That come, not to be, but because we are able. And if the love that erst was mine were wrong, And this were all a death without a wound, Yet so it is with millions of another kind Who find love, only to find love how grievous.-- There is no ray of light to lift the cloud, No light to ease the world of flaw; But I have seen what white is on thy face And thou shalt see, only to grow dark. In the new moon, on plains or hills, in summer or spring, I have found her--or I heard the same--ordained; But who shall describe her, or show thee her footprint? White alone the inner, pale the outer rim, No flaw revealed, nor preparation for flower; Sole sport of nature, is the day sacred To her free bird's-nest or human affection. Then let no spring about her faintly glimmer, Nor nature lift a hearth, or attic door, Forget she one day, but think thou hast seen No face but mine--I am the best of land; The loveliest flame that toward the west Flows thro' the un ======================================== SAMPLE 109 ======================================== endless fun Takes flight in a thousand works, Mortals with souls and saints in Fire, who think the world alive Who think it still is here, Who think they hear the angels How long have you been gone, <|endoftext|> "The Making of the Van Buren Stampede", by Ian Thal I don't remember exactly when I decided I'd be a mint. A year down fro our discovery We had the urge to stampede. It was our plan to stampede On the stock market's parade And ride as many nights As the mountains could yield. The pleasure seemed bound to come, As we hooped the cotton poppies And sate the cotton fields with poppies. The big cotton fields were like a row of offices, Our cotton fields and sate with poppies. We felt as if we'd stumbled on Paradise, When we found a fresh flowered seed we planted To sweet exactness in the fertile dirt. Cinnabar roses meant to mark The edges of that stretch of plains. It was our plan to mark the first stir Of prairie of poetry. I'd gather an asters on chilly nights To add to an ancient collection. And on our coats were marvelous azaleas From northern fields we borrowed that winter. The primroses had spread their faintly glowing On us in the warm clover trees. But we didn't gather the primroses, And I'd no teufels to my delight. And what came of our azaleas and roses At best was commonly strewn over the windows Of rooms we'd dwelt in and left a hoard of roses, Which vanished rugs and plush before us. This idea of ours to pile and glitter Seemed not to have worked. We tried again and again, but our business Was all rearrangements of sheets of music, Where we seized and labored and hooped and tipped Our way through intervals of studied toss. And I may say In breaks between, we felt a pain in the forcing To thought, not pleasure. The annual business of making and keeping Had taken the place of playing and soldering and sewing, And the better part of the playing and sewing Was left for others. The posters were everywhere, Each room and pond and creek and creek bed We could live in or be was our business. In a minute was our festal morning, And in our fests and expos We saw the guards and wagons and people coming In The whole town was our great ranch of the year. We had to make of it a real estate For our dollars to be sure. We did not realize the value of being aware. We would not take the trouble to be aware Of the value of the notice we were not aware of. In the blink of the showman, in the slow of the slow of the showman We could have been dead. It is easier to die of a sickness than a point of peril. It is easier to be in a well than out of it in the well. It is easier to be in it than out of it in its constant fluctuation. It is better to be it than up in the out of it, And so to make the business of the year than an epilogue. But the line between it and an arrow In the throat And a pain in the head Are not easy to draw. It is better to be it than out of it. <|endoftext|> "Just Money", by Grace Bourgette [Living, Life Choices, The Body, The Mind, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Nature, Trees & Flowers] It took years, but we'd found a bottle on our first visit. Still, though, we left it every time. Life, we said, just gives you what you need, an eye to see. We followed the creeper's arrow, the blue caused us to hurry up, and the wind led, calling, "Every creek has water," and the night's thin miasma of stars, snow and flower, in the shape of a child's brand, told us it was night. We'd stopped believing in an open door. The first time I had been to her bed, I'd assumed her to be dreaming. Not that I was a child, but I'd have known what it was if she hadn't known, and I was supposed to be an adult. I hadn't known then that dreams were something I would have to be ======================================== SAMPLE 110 ======================================== Kahattwar left, but meanwhile the days passed by Winking the grasses 'neath the deep-red fallows' bloom While the water-flowers, like melting stars, Were sparkling 'neath the dark-leafed boughs of the trees. The hour of the sun had fled; the south-west wind Whistled 'Goot;' whereat the palms of the Indian Pines Their translucent green shook, and a susurration Shushed from the leaves above the river's marge. The flood, that from the hills to the ocean stream Chanced on its way, is the loud lapping ocean, And the 'Goot' from the ship was the quick-earned 'Goot' By the native poplars. For the fresher leaves Of the two tall oleanders, and the shade Of the riverside, the humming, light-footed flies, Stole the 'Goot' as a 'Goot' might a lover steal, And the 'Goot' gave the heart of 'Goot!' When he found her, O! Lucy bereft Of her husband and of her native place! She ran with all the subtlety of life, Crying, and crying, and laughing, but O! None so vexed a voice could mallet smite As that of the barker of a river. And the Indian women, there, on the reeds, With their ewerful cool hands that were black Would relate the sad tidings to their husbands; And the women of the upper parts of the stream Cried aloud, and they were met on the reeds, For the waves were black of the marsh new-rare, And the waggons, with ragged cabs and long, Stood and laughed till the air seemed to mingle With the laughter of the ooze, the moving waterls, And the ooze squirmed on the banks of the stream Like a little calf getting out at the chute, Till the cattle squalled 'Come, hell, and taste our bacon!' The ships, with their harping masts, came closer and closer Till they made the river seem as if 'they were near The vasty folds of the European home of Wag! The British ships sailed by the river and down, And they moaned as their callow youngsters were taken. And the British soldiers shouted, 'O give 'em tinpins, O give 'em straw!' And the women at the tent And they laughed in their glory when they saw How high and how high the regiment of the camp bell. And the soldiers came down on the left and the right, And the women laughed in their habit, calling aloud, 'A gobble! Ahoy! and popcorn!' And the children, with eyes blood-red, Caught by the senses to guess the secret, laughed in spell- Aid, till a clamour upon them quieted, and they slept. There is nothing in earth or air, in water or fire, That should give a woman comfort until she knows That something is lurking under her own heart's desire, And broaching slowly with evil greed. And so I lay, and dreamed and waited till There came a glimmer of something good. There is a song that goes 'round, And a old scoffer, that swears it for a joke, But he's wrong as he who said that the world was flat. The world is not a joke, my dear, it's a task, And a joy that's long to'd as well make the world a wonder. Heigho, my sweet friend, I love you, yes, and you may too, If you fiel up to listen to my huzz When I talk of space and its distance. I've tasted of space and poppleness, I've gaped and strode where once a man might roam, But I've hit upon not one, but three, My dear friend, when I've bantered about the moon. The fire is yours if you fiel up to hear, But I have faith in you and in me and in me. There is no sound so terrible as silence; Time heard it and he shunned it, and shunned the stings Of his rough footsteps through the clay. Silence was heard As far back as Hamadryas, and the grave That was dug there, was no death-pit, that was trod By any, where the great wolders dark and deep. A lot of people on a day Gathered in a circle Hyder ist there ======================================== SAMPLE 111 ======================================== Of a poor man was a gory demonstration Of the courage of that creature's energy, And of his tremendous power of victory. In those little acts of courage and despair Moved by his miserable past, The light of glory in his own poor radiance Shone to our hearts, as from some far-off star, And there was a prophet-like character given To the stern soldiers, who were to conquer or die, And the dark and gloomy scenes they showed. It may be because my spirit is strong, And the sun-beaming air is fair, That it yearns to go up and down The circuit of the numbered wheels That make up this institution, The school of the world. May be it is for such knowledge, Such strength to be so free, That, should I live to grow old, The will of the spirit must prevail And this unforbidden place Prove, when I am dead, A school for the wise and the wise-hearted, A school for the women and men, For the ardent and the placid, A school for the coming generations, A school for all who come on the road of intelligence. This is the world's school: its words Have lost their weight and place In the determination of things to come, But it is here and now, And its joy and its pain Come from the motion and pulse Of men and women and men; For here is the school Of John Culp, and his peers, For the inspiration and dew Of the time to be, And here is the earth In her yearn For the light and the shade, And here is my heart For the love of beauty, And the sorrow of people; And here are men and women For the eager and restless care Of the years yet to be. Such time draws to an end In the school of the world; Such time as this To do and to earn A face with cheeks gaunt and bright, And such time, As men shall say, As France did, to wrap A heart for centuries in, And such time As this To find in a corpse of years A fresh breath of life. And the gift I would have given Were it a life to aught And the power to brush A soul in mirth To the lack for a season And such time As this is to be For life as it is now To pass in pleasure or life Is death's sole mandate; For the height of things And days to be Is the one we have now And the tenderness That time has nibbled with a diet of salt Of pale expectancy, And we laugh and we smile, And stand Till the world's heart sing Till our farewell song, And the time is done, And the age of wrath grows rife, And the sun shrieks in the black sky. Now such time breeds the selfishness and enmesh In the women and men That life unlearns in its crudest mould, And the love of earth is a mortal dower Of joy and sorrow, of hope and despair. Now time is a whore That spoils the best with the worst; And the love of the little root For the big blossal Is a thing we should but mark ay, And the life-blood is the death that runs between. For we shall stand for ever at the cross Between the wire and the fire, And in the fire a white flower, And the cross a blue flame, And the world as the grave where the little flowers die. And what shall we men determine Of the kind of lives we shall live? We shall pass and they shall pass; The ones that we pass over Will not learn us and never remember; But a few of us and a few of us Will keep the love of that far dead And they will teach us and we shall learn, And we shall teach them the rest, As the loved one who is gone and the dead. When my heart is fulfilled of a life To remember, to love, to cry, And to leave to the earth and the hereafter, I will be glad of the old fire, For the dead are never glad of the grave, And I shall be glad of the eternal youth That wanes not as long as the sun To the last leaf and the heaven's line. The dark night is full of doubt, Though the stars are in their rest; All the night I dream of doors that stand Wide open to slivers of light, Of dusty ======================================== SAMPLE 112 ======================================== Western! Well! I know it coldly, That she should hold her own in such a riddle, That I should know the key to everything. For I have met her--saw her--know what she's been: This daughter of that night who run by's side In silence from of old. Oh! The minister's! The minister's blest, Our minister, but one, From full heart and fine speaking voice Just broke in the sound of song, Just heard last night in passing by, And sung to the end in tone and speed Of a new fable which quite good Nature Just now has unfolded to us. And that's a good life If, free of flesh, we can stake Our heart's freedom for a callow and faint Procession of life-prey and limb Befriended, and yet holy are we To look on, till with sonnets And other music, as we sing, We lift ourselves out of our torment's Maze of noise, and seem to go So, in our misery, The doctor's glad With skin like glove lacking for his tests And delicate fingers pricking For curative nighings, just begun, But now, almost without remainder, For surely now the nighing-chalkery Shall feel his influence. Just when it seemed that I had found Some key that might unlock These days' aera of bewilderment, And toil-work of my body tossed On its afflictionipated brow, A voice's bitter comment, and I balked Of a self-justifying measure, I see, in swift succession, With wayward eyes that shrink despairing Before a prey-brand security, And then with faint smiles that the day Sickly brings forth of our troubles, My spirit's split soul, as a glass Pels the tint and is landscape-like Over a fissure's thrust. And here, if aught of storm or passion Has blancred the day, Or the soul's unchained Lumping and smouldering, till it seem Lustreless of love's best helth, We have the body's shadow to fight With, as it seemeth. What is a little annoyance To the spirit's unrest? The body may shake The fire of will in me seem it sped, But it is to love's self that it turns In the last moment. Like some monkeynced stately palfrey That strove in air with Phoebus' shine, With spirit's power o' the bow is cast That I was, am, can be, may be Beside the sun. Whirling down to this mill, Like a double brief shake, It comes on me as light as a swallow From the roof-top; And I, that had grown somewhat tired At the strain on me, fain Had doubled the burden, fain Had risen and set, And set me, wondering, watching, fain If it were done. For the first time since my birth, The clouded sun looks up in me, And with a change Of flings of its silver hand, Starts the day in a blaze Of radiance, and the blue with his slant No longer went about the sun, But rode above him, as he sat O'er the worlds of his domain. How can it be, with an Adam and Eve, An Adam and head of woman, Whose love, who overfilled with sense, Has forced my spirit to listen To music now as to flame? That I should weep! Whereof, wherefore if, I, in sport, Had long set him at the cross of two, And set the Virgin at his feet, As having learned at half price, The virtue that to do right And love love were not less divine; Had learned that a false spirit in me Soothed her steadfast spirit's fall; That the ground budded but to sprout A fairer tree; and, after all, The human heart was made The falling fountain of the spirit's head; That there came to me gales of joy, Like bees to flowers, or like the rain Of morning to the seed. That has put into my soul this day, More than any other day, The same force of habit deep in it; The same vile pleasure at its fountain. For the same lips that are thine eyes' doors; The same hand that clapt ======================================== SAMPLE 113 ======================================== With rage he raged; and all his huntsmen strong And valiant, summoned to his council, And urged with speed the service of their lord. They set themselves in act to do their best, And oft they stroke the wind, and stroke the sea, To stroke the chase, or sound the vulture's horn. Himself he willed not to the ground to fall, Nor yet his brother. But with spurs of steel He gave himself to sun his vengeful wounds. Thence they coasted swift along the windy strand, When from the right a mast the king had ta'en, And, swift as bark from frighted dolphin through The sea's wild whirlpool, bore his weighty load. Beneath this mighty shadow the Trojan lord Had cast, to make the guards unawares avail Their distance to their vantage short, and hid Their knowledge of his coming, and the place They gathered him in. Then, while he went the way That hollow woods have to snow-white swans adapted, The sons of Atreus, and Eurypylus' spear-strong, Sent by their king, the Scæan, led him bound To Troy. But when men brought him, then unbarred The portals of the inner gates, and let him go To ruin, and his body threw a fall. These, or very swift, he bore to Ilius' wall, And in the front rank he stood of all the host. Behind the Trojan warrior, and before The men of Troy, he pounce'd on men and horses right, Till out of countenance swathing, straight he rush'd On the last ranks of Troy, and away To the Dardan land; and with a shout, And not with peal or clang of trumpet hoarse, He waken'd up the shouts of Ilios, then Sustaining, like a god, Hector's height, he sped On the lonely coasts of Hellas. Now he found His way in darksome Phæpísme, where stood Th' Ajaces twain, daughters of the sun. He met them, and apart they met. The moon, And not the moon, had set; his steps out-stripp'd, As in deep dreams the seals in yonder stream, When at the dawning they have slumber'd all, And they but faintly groan, and in their sleep Part the gray clouds, that now wake to blue dread In God's night, and all at once their minds awaken Like to a lion's heart, from whose eyes No house hath left, his soul out-power'd in peace. No house, no home, his soul, as had his spouse, Or son, or friends, who all stood pruning o'er Their tender son. He watch'd alone his feet, Or more his own hand was keeping. But yet his sight Wearied, his hand fatigue in front of his blade, "Now watch this man," the daughters of the sun Said, "with white wool combing him day by day, For he may catch the poison sleep, and suddenly Grow quenchless, and bodily die. Or else to us And to our honour, let us first make search In his own field, and let him lie far from The town-wall on the hill-side; and entreat This man with oaths, or better, with a rod Strike on the forehead, and he shall not have Trophies beyond that he has here; or if indeed He lost them in the act; for the gods Leave such execution to the gods above." Thus they the powerful queen besought, but more The queen besought the gods, nor heeded we Hector the prince, nor our Tiryns; for he Had all his towns in charge; but we upon The searches of the town, and in the cloak Of darkness in the war's arena shed The oaths of Troy, nor took we any wood Nor mountain-tree, nor chink, nor bag, nor spoil, Of men or warriors' gear. Now for this We have no honour, nor were they passed Our commanders' hearts, to give her a son Grievous to Agenelus, and to send Farther still to Agamemnon. But in truth The lady took them; he her lord upon Slow-sunk; his face was sunk in sleep; but yet his limbs Were close-controlled, his eyes were closed, and there When he had sunk to sleep, he began To speak in that slumber; ======================================== SAMPLE 114 ======================================== Chis's, from the odorous juice, that sorrows fill. Let all your dreads (for such as these may be) And flatterments of the lips be past; For neither can have been nor seen, Nor will it e'er be, on Paradise's wide plains, One day to find aught of such kind as we. Hear then my name, ye fiends, and taste our meat, If 't is to thee that all this yieldeth treasure. Thou hast seen, how that our sun doth here shine, But, sun-struck, he would not gaze on thee. Here is that water, sweet, but more supplies; In both the ways there's sweet water here. Woe, woe to him that doth alter! Here sleeps the sun a-spreading: In yon cloudy cloth let us have done! But make your raiment all of white, And we will worship at the Holy Grail, And there take white and soft rest. For when the Holy Grail was sweet, The Man loved also himself: But here the King's cold fire will I feel, And I do not like it: But where the fire is beery, here I lief, I love not myself: The holy fire burn if it would burn. See the table there, and diadems They bring the fire and firebrand, The beautiful dames and damsels, What, Saint or beast or queen of treasure, Burn it, so as they may see, But, by the end, it must ashes be. Oh, when it hangs asfair as it would On one that loves and one that hates it, Oh, when its bore is over sweet, Oh, when the wind in May is taking The tapers, and the city on, And the night overhangeth the sky With stars and the moonlight, ere we end This vigil, and these menials, I Shall be, then, a lot more joyous Than as I fain would deem it now. This, then, our town, shall be our city, A city holy to God With men, her lords, and with her dames, Countless, glorious, and great, Her beauteous citizens; Our Palace of Fame, by which Shall ring the measure of man's kingdoms, Our Temple, and our theatre For old and new, the place of Peace. But, heaven be praised, on the 1st of June I saw, by the 2nd of June, Two gentle lords come out of the city, Goodly and gaily clad. I saw them, and the words of one Who said to me, "See, no more Kneel in the dirty street, But, come, in the garden, here We will make you ringside; We'll make you gardens there, And set you in green grottos, And we'll come to you, When the sun sets and the day is done, To the Queen's Garden. "Now, I said, if you please, As often as you please, And you give us half-prizes, We'll be your friends, And we'll be, I say, The foremost and the first." "Let's accept from the Emperor All the best ones," The first said to me, and one Said, "Let's be hospitable To the best guests;" And one said, "I want to see The Palace of the King." "Come, my friends," said one, "We want a goat, All round the world; Not silver, gold, and brass Enough are our needed— Come, come, I say, We'll bring you a goat." "Come to our house, Now, my friends, Come to our house, Now, before the house gets full, And before its junties grow And all the folk within them go in, And the thing must happen then That it's hard to believe; I tell you, one and all You will have a chook. "Our house is so much moved That, if you happen to stay So long you'll have a noddy, And our help and medical We will give you, To stay alive the time, Howsoever for what you will, For as long as you live You have a friend. "Come, and take our goat, All round the world, For a she-goat's headf we've money fetches and pounds, ======================================== SAMPLE 115 ======================================== rock at the whole. To this he speeded his chariot, And his shining arms along, And in that form drew horse and steed, And the strong man's courser, He astride, on horseback, To the hill's elevated summit. On the boundary of the mountain, On its brow a headland, Gave birth to an island, Flood-walled by the panting torrents, O'er its steep and rough margin, Pinnacled by the sea-shore, Towers a golden structure, Woeful city, listen, ye Who pass the sacred headland, Now his fiery horses, Now his wealth of metal, Now his spacious court, Now his treasures precious-laden Of fire, of man, and of wine, Thus he spoke to his followers, Thus he, his law to enforce, On his journey homeward: "Enter boldly this vale of thine, Though the Son of God possess it, For his own new heaven-stands it not, Nor to all the Gods above; Yet to one, a weak and lowly wight, And to one alone there, the Son, Who in the heavens is confide- The Strength of the world is confide- By this my works his strength is shown, As the Stem of my work is parted." 'Twas night, and darkness fell around us, O'er our marts the earth was dark, And the groves were dun, and evil happy. As I looked from my ^ grave, And my pistol, in my hand, (This, my sword, betrays its way) The shades of night began to o'erflow, And the groans of cities grew and were stilled. I cried on my dear Mother, Mother, As I left her wrapt in the night, "No man for his neighbour shall slay, No man for his grovelling wife shall harm, But as flowers and dew ingather'd, That it shall be so, and as the grass. So methinks in my soul, where mingling still Flocks of starry birds with tread of men, Love shall abide." And I love my brothers As my own soul adores, And the nearer I am to them The happier will prove me. The sun descending by the side Of the loud and sighing sea, And the tiresome and long-winded year, I journey'd down to Aeacus, Deeming that I shall there Find Skades, as I sung above. Lo! there I stood as the messenger of heav'n, And this was their salutation, Altars round about me blowing blue Of golden lustre, and flowers around Sprinkled o'er with dew, dew dripp'd From many an urn, and pupils of gold Opening eye-balls of the marble tear-drop. The flamens of the two-faced god they were, And on their ahead all foam was flowing, The sails of warm day, and the salutes bright Of foaming saluting paws, and the fiery psalms Of those tall beings, ashen-like, they smote me over, Singing and dashing through my sounding wings, "Enter, ye beloved, into rest that ye have built." There Ascanius was enton'd to the gods, Sole, soul, husband of all the earth and sky. O mighty brother, mightily powerful Quirr'd, did his princely soul receive my voice With that which comes from thine own heav'nly brows, Clear, without tumult, and without fear? Enter, indeed, into life's rejoicing, And death's rejoicing life-fraught, woe-fraught, Sorrowful, as he may make thee blest. But he--that no peace there was finding-- He, that yon cypress wave her has left standing, Torn into boughs, and crests, and fresh boughs, Scorning the earth with the horns which come From his unassuming clearness of life. In me he girdled with all mine own selfhood, All my being in him was ev'ry where, But, in one part, home to heav'n, my mother th' origin Of evil and creator, was his own heart. "There in thy breast, whence often thrust back By him making, my soul's core I see From fountains forced, and fiss ======================================== SAMPLE 116 ======================================== properties [law] will differ from those of the family a separate order we did not know nor wanted not one we did but knew in a second experience the women of war experience the experience of the dunes beneath each isle I am beloved when you are a man with the power to leave wales rising in the mist of your lie this rock, my dear place of the swell blue sea <|endoftext|> "Daddy and the Devil", by Meg Lee [Religion, Christianity, God & the Divine, Mythology & Folklore, Fairy-tales & Legends] In heaven he saw two men pore over a crystal glass Whose reflections told of ages dead. One of them was Daddy, the other was the adversary. "Which one look like Daddy?" asked the adversary. "The one that never changed," said the other. "Yes, it's true," said the adversary. "The other?" asked the adversary. "He's dead," said the other. "That's right," said the adversary. "No death-glaive, my countersign," said the other. "Daddy looked like that," said the adversary. "He did, but look more like the devil," said the adversary. And they both watched out for an hour. <|endoftext|> "Jourdan", by Meg Lee [Living, Death, Disappointment & Failure, Love, Relationships, Social Commentaries, Gender & LGBT, Mythology & Folklore, Fairy-tales & Legends] When our mythology class spit up snakes and mumbling lost the stink-split principal ringing our bell at midnight dinosaurs, the my-dinosaurs and aliens were talk-ably in our junior year abroad It's only recently that my personal history that I tell about have gotten So let me get already in this lesson I was ditching the clinic in the White House, meeting Dousie and sanding through her I've been away from here for nothing since long before Dousie thought "whoever degrees," so we meet again, two sisters, Jourdan and Gabiendey, both of them French. Their parents are friends of their's, their parents' friends Their parents' brothers and sisters were in their father's age group married the same folks these cousins have a history of the nobility (of Algeria) the sons must complete a year in the hell for gold story by 30th birthday, in which they must slay a scorpion for the age of their father they'll butcher the poor replacement citizens of their country in exchange for fermented drink and free candy <|endoftext|> "John John,", by Meg Lee [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries] I made a shadow the body of a man and hung it outside my apartment. I put a dollar for a face. They covered my window in Boston-duck shadow and you could cut it with a knife. I love that shadow, Boyek, that shadow on the window. They are full and not transparent. If I had less than a dollar for every time that shadow has appeared, I would make a lot of money for just about every reason. I have loved Boyek's shadow, Boyek's window. I have loved the body of my man. <|endoftext|> "Reading the Shadows", by Meg Lee [Living, Death, Activities, Indoor Activities, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] For almost nothing there is a good translation. No, he is not a poet. A house with a painted tree outside it. An early fog, one that found a form that could be dissected. A found-paper airplane VOR. Three parts of metal touching. Smoothed shoulders. A step and a read from a window. The first word that appears in the shadow's head. The in-door shadow. A voice. Named and held in a shadow voice. This shadow whose pitch is an in-door shadow. A page in which words are disappearing. First, a black-and- ======================================== SAMPLE 117 ======================================== indeed, so far as it is conceivable, can be perceived by the healthy human animal. And so, to come back to my first question, you have, as I have told you and as I believe you have told the other two people there, you are willing to talk to me on the basis of a promise that I can safely guarantee will be kept. <|endoftext|> "The New Race", by Frantz Fanon [Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity] examines the characteristics of whitening than of dark or blackening the word whitening suggests obliteration of the black or brown backgrounds from which the white and alien characters are constructed in the images of subjugation The O-c-th-c-t-us-sun-g-n-g saying-it-like-it-is pejorocracy C-e-s-s-e-p-i-r-i-B-l-l-ing- s-h-e-r-s The whiten-ing of America s-h-e-r-s <|endoftext|> "Baudelaire's Wretched", by Frantz Fanon [Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] Examination shows the target was singled out and not the squirrel. And there is no greater privilege in a society, which is colonial, than that of appearing frugal and fair. No serf in sight of heavier words. Examination shows that the black community in fact has never been given anything like a glimpse of its history on the screen: the past. What is colonial about a screen which never shows you your past? A mouse like Baudelaire's suffering. An O-n-e-n-e-r-C-h-a-t-e-r without an echo. No more than the overflowing of a stream into a canal, the flood being landless. It fills up its eyes with water, like a watch without a stone to set on its own. In the black village, the more the more the more excluded. And since the flood in fact has no mountains or water or earth or anything in its body, how can anything remain in its place but what has been tramde out of it with sticks, with rocks? And a flood that is black. And if the stones are not to leave their places in their proper places, what is to leave the place they put their stones? See how this story is not over yet. A mouse and a tree. And a black mouse. A mouse running away in the garden that is not a white mouse. And a tree and a tree that are not in the garden. No mows or rights in sight, but a chase still needs to chase its prey. This is no longer a black flood, but instead a chase still in progress for right. For those who want to see it, the chase, the chase, the rain in the flood, the chase still in progress, see the chase still in progress, see the mouse running in the garden on tiptoe. See the flood settle on its tooth in the tooth of the chase, see the tooth set. The chase remains in progress, the teeth of the mouse settled in the flood. And if this is chase in progress, is this not colonial? And if the tree is a colony, does the sea not sink its spines into the ground and pull up the tree in its stead? And if the flood sets its spines, does the sea not rest its hands in the leaf set in the fern? Examination shows the flood is not white like the tree, but pale green like the seas. And if the flood settles in its tides like seas, does the sea rest its hands in the wash of the flood it makes? The chase is still in progress, the teeth set. Examination shows the mouse is not part of the flood. And the mouse has no tide, but its tooth. What tooth thinks it is part of the flood, the flood thinks it is the tooth. And if the flood does not leave its teeth, the tooth will soon decay, if the flood has not left its place in its decay. <|endoftext|> "After Fitzgerald, Jim Oberleh, and Before "(White Male)", by Betty Defense [Social Commentaries, Heroes & Patriotism] ======================================== SAMPLE 118 ======================================== Philip's guilt and William's infamy! 'Tis hard, O heaven, that in the clemency Of pardon, thus our chance should now be bent To take a new, but surer footing. Till then, good people, 'tis God who speaks; Philip, as a brother, leads his flock; In the dark pit he rises at their call, Nor will he let their voices have a word to him. Ah! for the old confidence on earth! The watchman's voice, the shepherd's voice that God, The shepherd's voice, as to the distant watch, As one with nothing to lose, with nothing to fear, Thrilled, and out to the world's end The sound of the harrowing won; And from the north-wind sprung up breath-dispelling, As from a human voice. <|endoftext|> The palace roof, with all its glory Of gold and blue and massy mass and stone, The world of clouds, the heart of the sun Flooding the palace with its light, Where, like the heart-throbs of a tyrant, The heart of the sun throbs when it darkles, Is old and oblong, oblong, oblong! And in the midst of it, black and stark, As if with vengeance of the storm, Is the palace roof with all its glory Of gold and blue and cloud and stone-- Ah, so large it is, so it seems, And over it the roofs all hang! Long live the King! Long live the King! Long, live the King! Long, live the King! Long, live the King overrode By my rule who reigns! And he, overthro' the clank of the heel, Is night, and night, and night! Now, they have paused in the mire Of the dim ditch, where they bore Their weary breath o'er wall and chain-plank; And they have paused in the ragged maze Of the camp, where they cried I shall never come back to my home! Now, the ruddy zodiac glows With the colors of the star; And the doleful night of the heavens Shocks the rich tonight with ghastliness. And all around me I see The ruined haunts of past delight, With the woods overgrown, gray and red, Where my comrade-courters of yore Pass cigarmen and monzi sets. Twelve crosses in regigo Where the shade of English sway-laws And of English sway-laws yet aside Stand done by the time's servants mere; And, where once stood once a sovereign, The world's blank eyes shut unheeded. Twelve crosses in regigo, And a bier of crosses standing up, And over it a world of stars aflame Floats from the sky of blue, A dizzy, dizzy whippow, A whippow of lost stars, And a whippow of lost moons. The air is thick with dreariness, The air is thick with despond, With doubt and knowing how-- With oinded teeth against the glass That drinks his heart away; O'er the abyss of the bad nights That go on bad nights still worse, A flail in a dean's good hand That breaks things rather than lifts them, A tooth that holds a candle-- But not as we lift men's spirits. Twelve cross-ties in regigo, A broken arch of crucifix, And a skull that might be a saint Away with Christ in tarnish; And, against that, a sky Of stars that shines and dims, A pinnop-stone cross, A stile, with chains that rattle, And chains that rattle, A dean's foot that falls, A dead priest's upon it, A cross, of all God's, A stile that turns not, A stairway out of reach, And a cross, grown stained With the saltness of the Devil. Thin and lean, it lies on my lap. It is so cheap, and stiff, and small. O ho! I fain would pare it, Slurp it in my fingers And make it shine. It has sons and lovers. It has wits to die for, It has allies to swear And senses to extort. How many an innardsorne Have I seduced That long I've lott leper, ======================================== SAMPLE 119 ======================================== and wave in, look out on, wake up, stand, woo and enchant to put you on your way. And once you had gotten it where you wanted it. Of course, there's no magical step-by-step plan for how you put together a voice and a set of your own, you just find your own steps to follow and then there are others who say, hey I know what I'm talking about, here's how to do it this way. If you have more money, you can't just dump it in someone else's lap and hope they will fix it. You might be surprised how knowing more about the world doesn't necessarily make you a better person, how knowing more about this world or any world or any world doesn't necessarily make you a better person. It might, but it won't. <|endoftext|> "Confessions of a Stalker", by Karen An-hwei Lee [Living, Coming of Age, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity, Heroes & Patriotism] Before Colonel Melchior Coster I was five years, like five years, in a block of stands at Kakaugawa, Opeonge, Indonesia, in Kakaugawa, Opeonge wows, June and October, in a colonial town, a colonial town wows, it was and is, an Orwell, Orwell wows, a British town, an English town wows, and all are stricken silent, by Orwell, an Orwell Wows, and Melville, a Melville wows, and All! All All! Colonel Melchior Coster RARE, western eyes E-mail my electronic santaya I pray to make shift with the pillar brick down and walk the long pillar brick down and walk and stand, speak, bow to the small boy, "Melville" cry, "A love so small, you trip" the small boy cry, "A trip, you trip" And all silent, falling, falling silent silently, falling fell silent, saying "The people spoke. The people spoke." You stalker in a Stalker You're the only one You were the only one I did not know My name Not my name I did not know When I came home from school The homework was waiting like a taunt A type and size. I always thought back when I came home A thunderhead. I cried. I cried. When I came home from school The homework was waiting like a taunt A type and size. I always thought back when I came home A thunderhead. I cried. I cried. I think back. I thought back. I cried. When I came home from school The homework was waiting like a taunt like a horsey like a horsey. <|endoftext|> "Happiness (I Have)", by David Liebe Matels [Living, Coming of Age, Activities, Sports & Outdoor Activities, Philosophy, Philosophy] Old man smiling and laughing, pulls a little metal nose on a pole beyond a garage door. All the city-weather, I wanted to know, and the sullen days from my backyard, and my father's long quiet, I learned in the far reaches of the long dark. Somehow, the long hard days, the low indifference, the lousy dirt roads, the guttering huckstoppers, the ruts and half-shops, the cobbled streets, and the tales of drunken leaders opened the way evil lives in these long, long days. I liked it when the city kept the star-faced men and the white-haired women, the smiling and laughing and pleasant things. <|endoftext|> "In the Dark", by Mark Nickeas [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Home Life] I hate you today. I didn't even let an atom of my sorrow loosen in a broken bouquet of morsels for the wind to sift and sieve through the dull snow of your remembrances so that it might find and make and mar aspar ======================================== SAMPLE 120 ======================================== I could write my life all over, And it wouldn't be worth a cent; And I could tell the whole world The sins I have done and will do, But, after all, the sum of my crimes Is not worth a single line. He died in prison. I did not care to see it; I ran away and fled away, To hide my shame from plain view, And run beyond the border; And here I sit, old and poor, A little old, and every day I get a little worse. I sit here in my pall cell The corpse of a man; And night and day, by fetters, I toil and curse To bring to me, my old people, All that I have done. They say there's darkness without, But I have never seen it; I've only heard it, And it's a steady wind, And it's blowing in this direction. And it says that men die Who live without love. I only get to hear my sires, And they talk to me, And tell me their dark stories, And they tell me theirs. And it whispers low, and whispers high, And tells me theirs. And it whispers low, and whispers high, About the King. It says that Heaven is on, And it's all about the King. And I'm to believe it. Old Father Time that walks with Reason, And takes hand-fulls with a stick; Old Father Time that has an account, But not the least account to gain; Old Father Time that will be Auld, But has no when he will have; Old Father Time that flouts us With past and future full of hell; Old Father Time that chuckles' ears, And we with him about. You cussed us, face the five of us, And twice from our tails we'd blow you, And you're the first in a most random motion, For a piece of a boy to fly. We'd blunder'd before, but you, sir, You cocked it into us, sir, In fact you gave us the crack, sir, To our skilticking hearts' supply. It seems we were but a string of children, And you used a gate to keep us, While we stood on the highest step In the land to woo and snack. To be in love, sir, in love, sir, Wasn't worth a feather half a bird. From under your ribs we've ripped the road, That pointed us to fame and thee, The front to ram us into glory, But you say we go too, too, too; Ah, but you, with your cold and fervent eyes, It seems we should be a young man. You English see not the busher's moon, But cocked and strung, all English moons, To be just so much as sight to nought; Then only we be as strong as ye, And all's your own again. I thank you for your faith, and I tell you, I'm careful to be good while others die; I'm generous in old ages; I'm kind In new, as when the thundering saints were dead; I am tender to the poor and meek; I speak to those that weep, and laugh at those That lift a glass to th'spirit. The mother that died for me, and nought But a break on either side, And comfort yet to be, if not much, soon; The day's child, the starved children's mother, The village dog that comes with flout, The little old woman who has neither bread Nor Jamie, her dog. We kept him; but, ah! when we'd speak, His amaze and admiration Would stop on awd, almost blasphemous words, And lay his head upon the platform, And he'd lunge, I'd tap his snout And say, 'pray, what's yonder, a pig, Or a goat?' There's plenty here, and plenty in the moon, And a stick within the hand To put the brown hand to; You see the surface, there, of green, Ploughed by the streams at evenfall, And by the skies at evening: The woods forsaken, The chase Arose, and we came to the wood Where abattoirs are smearing Fresh scrub and lumps of loam With blood of beasts. There we drew our burthen, Our load was light ======================================== SAMPLE 121 ======================================== Burdened with pangs, and hid her sombre face. But when a gentle smile lit up her blood, A glimmer of rekindling hope began to stir Within her, as a flame may steal O'er a dim, dimmed, nowhere-can of sorrow To be reborn ere wholly perished. As flame may gleam beneath a cloud, Her heart a gleam of strange, old-world longing Drew her to life. "Maiden," she murmur'd. "You seem to know That you are not myself, but I am now. You seem to know that I am no longer me, But I, still. That is the greater truth. To save me from this place, And from my new self, which is but me, And me again and ever less and less And less as I, because of this place. You seem to know all this, because You are a God. And you have name to spare, To heal this phantom-life, save me. I have name for naught but this one name That comes from hurting and is hate Peaching into white from this ruffled blue. You seem to know that you are God." "Maiden, I am a fool to love you, for your sake. What I am, you neither know nor do. You are a God--but my little God. And that is well. Only well, to keep Two spirits one life. But I am here For yours, and only you for yours." "I knew it would come to this," Said Adon, "That one true love, which is no joy for me, Behold, between us broken-hearted. But in this kind way of coming close together, Can we overcome our speech For such a dread word as yours? And can I be faithless to you, or wrong Iceline, or flout the great powers of God If I say in a plain speech clear That we are here for each other, and no word Of mine to express Is half so sweet as flout it for a dead face? Can we not make a prayer round Like that, Like that, and less?" "No, my love, no prayer I have. But come, for love's sake, love as I have loved you, And learn to love as I have learned to love, And we will speak of little things, And come again tomorrow With better speech, and come again tomorrow When it is Sabbath in the town And the heat is under. And we will walk in the morning In the country, and I will give you my hand, And we will speak like peasants, And the place may flatter If it cousin us." "If you mean this city, Come. I am sure that I shall not dare to do it, Though your King has stooped down from his throne To clasp my kul, and swore upon it, That he would make your city a great city, And build its walls and burn the wells To quench the fires of its people. He has not done it. The city is the city of Sin, And the Sultan attends him With little attention. The city shall be a burning; The screams of its whores Shall break upon you like a fate. And, like the fate of its people, The roar of its whores Shall break upon you like a fate." "I do not care about it, Nor what your people say, For I am here, and you are not. I would have lived my life As a man's whole life had gone, And knowed no end. It is to see that you were a fool That I am afraid. But go to the city. I think That it would be better for everybody, If you were here. "If you go to the city," Suzi said, "I shall never see you. But I shall talk to you, And we will walk together. You ever find me a lover. I am the only one, That I know of, That ever loved a woman That I never loved as I loved you. Go to the city, my sweet, The city is good, And you shall meet with a man, And your eyes will light, If the city-bird Tells you to go." Now the bird was sere: She would not wink or chuckle. She put on her feintest smile, And sate alone: And she alone received This absurd display Of love ======================================== SAMPLE 122 ======================================== and then they would talk to him, and he would remember the Now he looks at me, and the look is like the look of a man who is satishah, and he is saying to himself, and not to me only he is saying it, "O thou who sitt'st alone, ponder and wait. I who have been blessed of you all, and your hopes have been fulfilled, take not all of your joy in your band for your good fortune, glory, and exaltation. Wait and behold, and look around, and count your joy and sorrow, if ye have memory. I have seen many a city from one small ship, and many a shore and number of cities from one small ship, but neither set foot in them till the stormy wind waves had covered them. But in the East many a king of one thing hath seen many to their doom, alike the covey winds and the sea. I have also seen them in the West, in many a city, but neither owned or ridden them. But I have long time compared God's ways to the manner of his doing noblest among men, and the way he showeth him to feasting, and the way of men who work best for him." So they waited, speaking of him, till the face of the youth turned to a full mirror, and his eyes were turned towards them, for the light was as the light of the sun: and there was a fragrance about it, and there was a sweetness, as of the open flower. Now it might be seen that he had some small joy; but when the speech of the father of his worship had ceased, he answered, "O soldier to whom men bring their dreams, with thine eyes far more inward than the Gods know, O prince of the Gods, now under the uttermost heaven is thy sight clomboles, for to the highest sphere have I seen thee. Yea, I have seen the glancing of bright hairs, the shining of eyes and the roundness of a well-peopled house; I have seen the lips that utter "In fine have I reclined against the paunch of a dead man, and thereby nursed him, and fed soft life: I have seen a woman eaten by an aspe castim and venom, and she lived in sight of men: I have seen a black ship swim over the red flood of a sea when the isles were empty, and I have spoken truth, and remained a great thousand years and five--a tribute to everlasting Life-- when all the folk of the atmosphrites had gathered together with flashing of spears, and shouts of those men whose feasts are not satisfied on the day of the mighty assembly. And all this was in the undercloud, as men say, but the time was in the heaven of time. The sun went down, and the moon came in to the gods to console them for their dues: in palaces and chariots and beautiful women came the toilers who have a little time, or a great many days, or a great many weeks, or a day or two of backbreaking toil. But in the great aspect of his art the father of time did not forsake him therein, but with the aid of the nights and of the dayshades and the beginning and ending of all time, drew him to the work that was for the goddess. Now all the folk drew to the dance, and the women too, bright cradled folk and fierce fierce-souled folk, who have no time to sit out in the cool of the parliament and play with the lilies of the moon on their margents, and so they were drawn by the sound of the bells, and the falling of the chains that are not fixed, and the hands which are stretched out to the begging. Then Iwies who loved their life and were willing to die for fame, set their lives on the board, and would not forbid it, if a suit might be taken: and I who had a little time to live desired much, being eager for fame, and said in all honestly, when the love-aches and the pleasures of life should have come about But the wise man's joy was bound to the earth, and his joy came lightly to the earth: the old man knew neither joys nor griefs, but prized bare-lippedly, being full of hectic fancies. When his son was born, all the folk laughed, for he was the most famous of them, and the good men ======================================== SAMPLE 123 ======================================== A pitiful man he was; Bald of head, And of most constraint Fit to be despised, With distended hands, Shivering in foul weather Because he had no joys At all; His dwelling was a hut, With door and of lath; And, with his teeth At the window locked for light, He toiled onward, as he Of all things much desiring, As we do now, men say. But ah, what were his cares,-- This sick man of laths, With none to lean upon Nor to take his communication, Nor an eye, for pity, To him, the rich man's son, But a heart and flesh in need, That he must keep alway And watch over all his care; That was his home, his bed, His food and sleep, And his fear's relief, his thought's relief. His home was humble, all the land But little measuring, And parcells of land too little Measure to give him measure; And so he and his wife Fought for each other's bale And had the crisis, that Made him smile, and his face to be Beardless and cheery, and his eyes Be seen lengthened, and his beard be whiter Than snowy; For he was filled with charity, And that made him smile, and want to eat, And he would sit and toil, till the fields Gaped for his leap and leap, and he would hear His screw and sweep By the tramp of horses, and his dogs' thunder Where he passed, So he paced the barn door all day long, Till the barn was empty, and the light Of the evening forget to blink, And the barn door open'd, and the lark's ball Look'd on the fool. So he went to that, and his care was only To mark the marsh and the bank of sand, And the ditch that would it for him conceal. And he went to the task that he could not leave, The kexendomalded marsh that filled the ditch With all its ants and little fishes That craved for nothing, but they could creep On the exposed part of the ditch; And then he stared his eye; And he saw nothing, But a workman was shaping there A serpent, that should a beast avoid, So that his life and his death would be vain. And he saw there emerge from a wood A winged thing, the dragon of all time, With eight legs and two arms of many span, And the bones of many a beast, that marvell'd In their congenial earth, and rubies too, And sparks of blue and spots of yellow, And spots of blue on the beast's body, So by some hope he could decipher what it was, And as a man He stood, amazed; And it was mighty: For as he gazed, in the dark wood, the sight Glinted, and seemed equal in might. He was wild of a soul; He was bold in act; His eyes were born in wrath, Like a monster torn to entrails in flesh, Or like a wolf in madness. And he stood there, and he heard the creature Breathe like a thought, and start like a lion born. He was wild of heart; Like a leopard he reared; He was strong of limb; He was garbed in white, and his outline crisp Made a great deed more fair than fiction, And his hands were bloodless, and white of arm. In his heart the sting of old revenge Danced, and a fire in his breast 6SHEPTNN pft FO EET A naked maid, and wings of gold, And legs of eft, And horns of fur, Whilst the light wind was keen In his eyes, and his breath was long In the land of light, And he had claws in his mouth, And a wrath that could dash The world to ruin in his wrath. Whiter than the summer, Whiter than the silver fire Of the hot South, Like as if he watched the snow In his mother's face, Was the untanned beast; And he knew himself alone, And he knew his origin, And he lay fall'en; And the light that had the strength To cut in the flesh, And render up the life Into the dust he pass'd. All his day, all his night, Dense, pure gold lighted ======================================== SAMPLE 124 ======================================== (Your name, and the name of the world) it was the famous Duchess who ordered the paint on the girls to last for just one more week, so the name was changed to "Lost in Transitude," and the only other word in the poem was "night" to signify the night the poem was written, and I've been searching for the perfect way to tell this woman how I truly feel, and only the past week have I been able to write the word "I," but it's possible the reader could've been blocked, so I'll let you have the last word: she was absolutely beautiful! <|endoftext|> "Mediocrity is as old as language", by Patricia Kirk-Rula [Arts & Sciences, Music, Poetry & Poets] In the middle of the night a word is like a lost thread somewhere between here and the beginning of the end —the beginning of end being the sound of a lost song dreamt too late for the making of laminated words lithographed and knotted into words too hot to bear repetition the sound of a lost song —the making of laminated words lithographed and knotted into words I've often wondered if there are such things as times to remember words as fresh as the morning of 24th January 1990 when Xzhokariah and I were 21 years old writing the very same sunrise I'm 22now! and the morning of my 22now is also the morning of 24th January 1990 —the very same sunrise 24 years later I write this very poem as the time changes and I live it 24 years after the morning of my 22now! <|endoftext|> "The Interpretation of Dreams", by Patricia Golfos [Dreams & Mystique] To you dreams will come of time and tide and distance on time/tear our hearts.You came to us like a servant who's used to coming up empty,Turning a long corner and crying alone.Then we'd pass another servant who's masters of space and time and will show no distress,But softly with empty space around them like a wall,And weeping all day and turning and crying all night long.Our searching for the space of your presence has failed. We're forced to conclude you have never been alone,And in the only space for whisp of whisp of you where have you been?If you had lived in the crevacing hollow of trees,Instead of hollow of space in which you've ceased to appear,We'd have heard the gift of wind behind your own words and heart. <|endoftext|> "A Country Church", by James B. DeLong [Religion, Christianity, Social Commentaries, Town & Country Life] To some I know not, personally. If to all. Some face down over the road to nowhere Other faces of dazed ev'ryday: the kids That wasn't prom night, the army brims, Those who after high school left And took on fields and malls and lost Their minds as crepe for its sing-song bark And moonshine, those with moleskils And car is to the Sink emptily behind the shrines of Our money was not our thought of good. Their lives are a pattern to ITT Corp.'s website A Crayola drawing for the twelve day span Of a customer's home—one hole to yield With bad breath and the longest damn time I ask because a dog got bitch-marched And didn't do well. And the first time a Girl said 'Naw, I got it anyway,' I lit A Savoy near by, me and A Lucky building gone black (No! It was the mid-'70s) and I Said aloud, 'What a hell of a lot of Attending?' And as I entered suite strength I felt I loved and was confused and That away-day again, too, from high school Where I got A's, lost in RALPH'S #15 At closing time, a jag Door crashing, the enforcers coming So soon. I looked for something to do But nothing worked. About the only thing To do was pray. <|endoftext|> "Dear, but not Too similar", by Ted Koza [Living, Death, Health & Illness, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] from the show Grave of the Now & New Death, 1998, by Harold and Jesse Boyce Coombs Our lives are ======================================== SAMPLE 125 ======================================== after early infancy. She smiled at my verse and changed it, while remaining her husband's or, at least, wifely in her demeanor, and it remains to be seen whether the new maid, who turns six on Sunday, will come to this book. No. 19 [circa 82], after a book was burned in Germany, an army general was caught stealing the pages of another man's book. [Incidentally, would you like to know more about [your] book and the general, and the son of a village jerk, no need to read more. Pamphlets, given by the way, are in the basement of our new house, and you can get them from our local librarian. The Barrett page is an inspiring figure: highly decorated in two world wars, sacrificing for the rest of us. He got no thanks he got his priorities right, sacrifice and duty to lead. <|endoftext|> "Epiphany", by Gary Snyder [Living, Coming to Grief, Love, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Religion, Christianity, The Spiritual, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] He rose from the ashes of his father Who left the family His life, a boy, a man When he arms himself with the language of the body His mother's words, the ordinary hearings of the court, the press His father the beast who burned the body He rose, too, in the ashes of his mother If a word is done up from the phonetic semantic sweep of heroic He rises in anger to slay that word Then he rises from the heights of the father To the open arms of the arms The bodily arms And the eyes and the eyesight of a man And he steps from the spiritual And the wind and the tears And he cries out for the flames The wind to burn and the wind in tears To bury the body of the mother of his man He has a vision of the fire And his eyesight of the eyesight of his son But his cry is addressed to the fire And his grief is addressed to the tears Burning the book of his man Then he cries in the voice of the son For the son he left behind him He rises And he calls out in the burning words Of the spirit of his burning vision And the eyes and the ashes of his mother And the words of his mother burn In the eyes and in the eyes of his son Burning his book He rises in fury in the ashes of his man And he calls in the voice of his burning vision Burn, son, burn Burn to get to the fire Burn, father, burn The words of the body of his woman And the eyes and the eyes of his burning mother And the burning words of his burning woman And the burning words of his son And the fire of his vision Burn to get to the fire The words of the body burning the eyes of the body burning The burning words of a burning vision Burn to the fire The court of the body burning To the opening of the eyes burning To the opening of the eyes Burn, O body of the court To the opening of the eyes burning To the opening of the eyes in the eyes of my man And in the eyes of my woman burning The body of my mother Burn, to the words in the vision Burn to the words burning Burn, burn, burn the court burning To the opening of the eyes of my man And to the opening of the eyes burning Burn, O words burning To the words burning The fire to the body burning The words burning The court of the body burning Burn, son, to the throne of my woman And to the eyes burning in the eyes of my man And to the opening of the eyes in the eyes of my woman Burn, burn, burn the throne burning To the words burning The fire burning To the throne of my man burning To the eyes burning In the eyes of my woman burning In the burning words burning Burn, son, to the open court burning To the opening of the eyes in the opening eyes of my man And to the opening of the eyes burning And the sight in the eyes burning Burn, burn, burn the open court burning To the opening of the eyes in the opening eyes of my woman To the words burning in the vision Burn, to the words burning ======================================== SAMPLE 126 ======================================== hat-canvas ear-dude-coil-a stare. Those were plumed the 'poppy-maiden' by the pig-tailed caiman; O-nigoshi . . . This girl, he grew--as all must know In the nose to the pinch of his bones, If we but have the conscience to call it by its name, Of the nose, not the belly, for whose fit He barefle at the Botel of his foes, While to deceive her would be to prove The faith which has been given to his trust, His conscience--not that of his stomach. Now, take this mask, This bodily Pittite, lo, what art thou? Was it Setne's or Solon's peer? We'll talk about those ironies, chirpy: In the hollow of a nose they are rolled, And the sweetness of the curry-pole Will spread to a fire, said the Lusitanian. 'Tis of the belly--pottica judescis, Mellit pharygym on latavinis, Enot to check with a gate, An amiculus to close up thy maw Of a wanton coate!' --''Tis of thy stomach-nature, Till thy wound grow flat: When my gallant beef Hath lost his bad name said, My truncheon-balls in pairs they shall be rolled Till thou mend naught art lost. Then mayst thou gallop thy buck Till thy back ache, And then be healed with salt, And no more for thy mistress seek To drink-off TVorria, But as a wolf may be done With the salt in the meadow-stream. Till thy lines grow faint again In the hollow of your nose, And the witches' sialps sing above With the bath-attendant nag, The cup-bearer, cup-bearer, Get up, poor sot, And work thy way To the boiling street, In the stomach of the horse, And with earth from thy spine Lube up thy breath, To pass nag-fire again. Such a word of advice, what physic have I To follow it? For my suit must be with the devil left alone. Have I no friend? Have I none? Had I gold, had I but money, all in cash, I might apply; But a suit to melt Will not answer, not a penny will I apply That I know of, Not a single benefit. Take the bill of health: It is not good for man to be so ill And miss the due date: I am sick with delight, Not to tell or pay, And the more I eat and drink, The worse I do. This is a genuine title-page And one of original stamp; I own, 'tis nifty-noful; For use I took 't, For a prank at college, For a sort of joke,-- When I read of late That for some crank noble-hearted sinner The Queen's abdication Entitled some useless title-page,-- To go with that word, perforce, Tender all his lungs and throat. I would th' art of many a quip, That he knows, thou haply wouldst say, As thine own just now. Thy wit is very wholesome stuff; I'd give it if 't were pie. I would th' art of many a quip, That thou gazest or replyest "It is too true, friend, I think; It is too true, friend, I think." A quod Securis 'lidamus, Et sub mouth contempsit,-- Effrigerandique petit Lttesdam In voce opis utils mens minues. --Sed ille fas est deame homo, Sed fas est deame homo, The last throe that a woman felt, Was that of her own self, Whose brave face, that daylight show'd no breath, Hid'd its blushes' pent hell. But to blush so, Or to cry, Madboo! --This leads to carmin, and a sin Of continual showing off, As of a little child or idiot And of ======================================== SAMPLE 127 ======================================== That we sat upright. She was a towering person, A Woman of Existence. And we made her tea, She watched us as we ate, She said "Good." And that was all, In the life of the matter. In the days that have since been, When men have toiled, When nations have struggled, When communities have endured, We have offered up Tribute to her memory, Tribble, blithe and numb. We have made of this sad parting Sad memento moros. We have kneeled and bowed, Given money and flowers. And in the despairing Grave of the Place we are We say gravely: "How great Thou art, Goat whosoever Ever did like thee Let his or her/Father know Let the sun or the sun's spouse Let the people or the people's spouse Know how we like thee." The philosopher of Zembla, When he had tired of the old bed, Whereon he had lain so long That he had most of his life out, To be carried away by the tail, Took a new bed of tufts of grasses, Set it with rushes and with grasses, And he said: "I will lie here some dozen, And I will lie "neath the grass." The goat got loose, the little goat, And when she was close up the ark, She made a bit of a rising, But she thought she had got him quite close, So she dropped, and she lay down hard, Like a little goat, like herself. The turtle-dove got loose, And off she flew to the sea. The swallows took bit of her dusks, The hawthorn blossom and red-belted dove, For in the forrest of crumbs she kept A crumbship all her own. All who travel, and all who be In land that is subject to swain Moaning (For to live in fevered mind, and to walk With a crumb-tire in the soundless aory), They'll most meet him at such a station, Where, 'tis rumoured, that locusts sing, Green maids, or maids in a great disarray Which is buried, or swept off the scale. The rumour flies That locusts sing In their bellies full of the bee-swarm (And of sweet honey they upcreep From the homesteads, in no time effervescent); And when they think on a biscuit far below, They are said to anne afyre. We'll have a little peace and a move away And a baize-pie will sink to their knee, And they'll sing and feast, In the paradisëminal air, Upon the flowers they see grow In the yards where the grapevines stand; And in the dead night, With a little love, and a little night, The sparrows, who are as old as the trees, Will feel the starlight and the boycott-blow, And follow, and tell, Of a far-off remote tryst Where a long-lost caifs is tried and true, And the spring gleams, And the tune that a lover would sing. We will change the livery of cringing pris- son On our bents and our brows and our eyes; But we'll serve at leasure To the whim-and-bumble, And we'll turn a glory to our plough, Who hoists the blazes With the hairy back and the whet sword in hand, And to dapper-motor that flatles The minnie-peg, and to the taylor that bills in song, And to cockney that stills The fervid caifs. A tugger to a tugger, A spud where a spud is stoled, A pig to a pig, A pig, to a pig, Where the old whin-cords are still cant. The Queen of the Sea has gone down to her ship, With a flowing sail to her wif; The shippers are stooping, and the hulks are vext, For a blow-up, a shock. I've kissed her with scars that would make men stare, And I've saluted her when she's been fair With kisses that have made cats jump and dogs shit. I've known her as dainty as any harlot, F ======================================== SAMPLE 128 ======================================== On the sands my scattered bones. The brazen name that stands, Ringing on high, adorning all, Is your own, the name that is yours; The heavenly eye that so extends, Turning your world to love's immensity, Is the golden thread that binds The vast, the golden skein of your destiny. Are you aware of your power? And do you watch your power, Mounted on a wind to fly? Are you aware of your duty, To those who need you? To you, born to suffer, Under wet, lashing skies, Forever on you pledged My heaviest ill, I think of all the suffering Under the streak of wan and sad Or brilliant wane Of the swift sun, As your eternal streak of light, High on your flag, that flings The evening‑star far up And darts him to gaffings, That flings the dawn to bay, That when his race is done Must fling the dawn again, And drive it home again To fus-de‑il-fair, Where your eyes await The dawn of day. Can you, unbid, Hold out your open hand To him who comes to take The love and all the power? Can you, with steady breath, Go on, your star Shall light your way, And lighten those who go With love and broken pavement Down the dark years to die Down the dark years for you? Can you, on your immortal goal, Bring heaven on earth? Only through you, O perfect love, can be All heaven can have. In your power shall go Christy and her boy, Lanely Lore and Gordon, John and Milly dark. Lanely Milly dark, Songs, in english, franji, That mason sang before he died. Soft, sofied, sof-shadows in his eyes. Songs he sung on earth, that were On his songs on heaven already sung, And light on him his vision shed. Light sofas draw to heaven, Songs, sof-songs obscure, fran-afa, That mason sang before he died. Songs, sof-songs that shall befall Others, dark saints, dead long, In this vast Acheron they rise, That clouds our fragrant light, Here, dim at the farthest concentric ball, Uplifted far above our all-enfolding sphere In unspeakable misnumbers, You pale in the echoing light, Lovers who sing alone. Ah, love, such stormy layers, All tumbling under darkness; Such winding, Such reeling, Shall waste the coming years, How short those fleeting years In howhdrong row. And what if there be none, Of all the songs he said, Of tears he e'er left on earth, Of hours he never logged, Since God's first breath Kept all his world in awe, Of women's hands He pierced in songs of fire, And their sharp griefs he exposed. Wandering between songs, Wandering befooling my heart, Wandering between loves, Wandering from home, I get no taste of my one sin Or glee or mine in deeds done. We were two roads that one sought, We were two virtues, God's two gifts, Two powers we haved, God's two grace, We were born to sway and feed The world with fire and food: That a boy's voice could seem, and is, I know not how, nor this nor that. But there were words he said they would That should to knowledge bear their ist light; Vow nor prayer he said they should, And unless they stood well true to the Truth from him, would in vain be read. Then he gave them each a seal, and they Sought death to sack him of his sight; In each case the word men press to say Was 'farewell'--but no matter how It should be read, they fought or screamed. Then there was talk of doing God right, Or out of his heart they would send smoke Or wystones to the sun; and so They killed him, and a way they trolled To say he never had been governor, But he played truant, and it came to pass They set their black spies to keep an eye On him, lest his people should have taught him, And ======================================== SAMPLE 129 ======================================== His right hand he takes, and with his crook With both hands his way pursues: but she Still keeps her bower below, not yet the tree The trunk divides: and the oak that Boreas' fury tore Erewhile, still cleaves an upright grain. Alas! what avail The mighty stroke? for no bold leaders see Their arms in next encounter? no Goth shall fall Yet 'gainst this 'twere gave the Gothic legions dire A victory, in the 'Vatin' and the field Of Crud.. O Fate, ye Heroes, and ye Latin side (We pray you shun the fatal stroke): this hand Shall other hand spend. A thousand years of times, Till time his wide circuit measure round With his last beates, and bids the Heavens stand still, Is but a day, methinks: so may your fortune all Turn on the Sun's might, which your Fate all grips. Farewell: in you is Favour no more left To prove your merit: you are peers and kings From what you are: to you the care is sent, Army and war, and victuall, from land And sea: be it so. Brave Legion, I you trust, Hector's news must from your elder friend convey. Give him his mantle, quoth he, and his cloak (As also Helen's heirlooms they love so much) Tread to the city; there his news is weighed, And the boon granted: thou be not dead nor dead If we as lately heard should rumour be; For I have been with you so much in the throng That this my heart and discreation both o' the same Ratify the word: my word and my view Become no prey, and also my presence felt Silent and spectator. So that the same True news now tell, or newly created tale. But you expect no more, for what you feared Will never be: what you more desire, receive You shall with us; and only complain, If some new case put us. But if alive You were, though dead many days, we mend Waiting upon your corpse: nor even this Had been your funeral; for we mourn you killed, And bury you in a new gold treated. Is such your message? or was such made, Orestes-like, for that your flesh was eaten? You were both of your subjects first roasted And eaten: you both in one same grave gathered Ye are to create flowers and woodbine, those tincts That furnish odours, yet not so tincted, that we Could in it live, and yet not born kill. The Furies had their Seal; he had heard it, Was seen kissing and embraces, but his sire Recked whether it were spoken; then was stopped Of this fair-o'er-the-ground Iron; and he, Being fain of it, yet feared his father's wrath Should him upon his mother's lot banish'd, And there, without leave of his Forebear, Was carried to the Woods, where he could bear The honour'd name; and live in one glorious fame, And be a glory to his country, day by day. And eke his Oaths he kept, which so became A Reckoner of souls, that to the Arcadians, Whose methouse he enter'd, he was known As one belonging there: the blackest soul of all Studying hard the cosmic spell, might now have learned But I think, that of the ancient Land-rounding by, So teaching us to belly, is nought to us, but o'er us Still the rood; for what we want ne'er can be, But our own country; the Ancient Land, Whence each one in his several part has landed; Each seater hath her hieport, by which all others Turning to her from another country import her goods. She has not business with ours, to sell Beer and ale, or healy liquors: neither she Learn'd we by what means to satisfy His people, though one's impatience will Shear a poor Rogue, a little heap of dirt, As soon as it shall be begun to pale. Our farmers are driven to it by punishments Prained upon them; a whole nation's taxes To save the life of one: it, therefore, murders For its endeavour, and would reduce her people To a single inhabitant; she no more Hath in reason therefore no right to the gods: But oft it happens, that when a people want ======================================== SAMPLE 130 ======================================== office," says the Lord, and "you will do" And drape your hands and face the walls of Hell. I give you no share of me, No one small command. The men with you, the brigade on the left, carry pictures of your wife out on stage. And they make me gasp with a flask, with the picture of your wife on the edge of the wall. You see it at the bar, you see it after the stir of the cocktail and the noise of the door. I am the impudent uncle, the uncle with no touch of the ghost. I am the uncongregation officer. I make a sound at the third standard. The scene behind me has no face. I see a face where a stone should be. And it has touched a woman's soul, and it has touched my son's face, and I say, "Go to Heaven," and I am shaking. The bar is smoky. The air is uncertain. It is windless there where they bury the enemy. In front of the bar are the bodies of children who once were mine. And I am sweeping the whole panoply without losing Christ, not trusting him, not trusting him. I say, "Do it yourself." And I say to myself, "Be clever with the material." And I have to answer, "What do you mean by 'material'? "The word 'stony.' What do you call it?" The sound of the flood is in the oceans of Europe, and the death of a father falls from the air, and a ripple from the grass and the weeds of a great plain. The son is to the father a pillar or support, the father a pillar or a support to the son. They go from year to year in the world in the Spirit, in the same bodies, and share the body of Christ. It is the whole earth taken back in half a life. It is light shed on the whole earth for a little time. And then it is night, and in the night Christ is not there. But the company of the gentle mother- ess falls away. The wonderful father died, and soon you will ask in the high hall how many of these there have been known masters. I answer that all mother- ess companies like the best of them have known masters. I say nothing more of them, save that my mother- ess fell in her age. For the world that I know, I would like to finish. The whole world is system. I say that there are masters of the system. The child's picture of the girl whose voice there was no thing to do has spread, and people know her, mothers, some of them watching her there. The system works in the bodies of men and women, that's the logic, that the master race, the old ones, still have, and that there is the need for the master race. The old ones are the system. Christ has made the master race his own weapon to kill the other. The old ones go and flee. There is the weapon. The old ones go. They went, and then there was no system. The system that isn't the master race's shooter went. But the old ones were his weapon, because it is his weapon to do away with the other. The master race has been taken to the wall. And the weapon the master race has been taken to the walling-floor the wall is there. It's gone down to his hand. The ruler of the north made it the weapon. The system is gone. If the old mother, any old mother, is given up for death, she's a dead woman, every woman, every man, every thing, made that dead, and so the w ======================================== SAMPLE 131 ======================================== In summer-time--toward the southern sea-- A man, but lately freed from a year of woes, That, moving hither, thither, has been seen, And now must try his fortune on the main, For his wife's father--one whose pangs he bears, For unknown cause--and who, however weavers, dies. Thence arose this son, who, once a needy Slave at the pleasure of some great household, went Wandering in quest of wealth and fame, till he Sought, on autumnal fields, the lowly garb-- That other's inheritance--that of lordship. Hence hath he wealth, fame, and all that is in them Which make the idle man glad and eager to go Where the strong leaves are never seen to wither In their full splendor, but men may commonly On such occasions marvel at them,--since they No more perish with the death's-head than fruits. Thus 'tis that he, as he delves into The black holes of this life, and of the other Too, beneath the depths of either, finds a way Through many changes to that inner world, And through that in which he may come to recent Joys, which are ever fresh and soon to cease, As shallow gems drop from the cleanliest stones. In this low rock, the vapors have made A shelter for us; now they will only Rescue their arrows of frost, that it may not Forsake us. A few more days, and it May be where thou that is called for is. For now the wind where it may blow is known, O father, who have made us so calm And well allured to thy arms the south With its soft cups of light and joys, we are blind Or careless as yet, or else that is seen To be so, as we are forced to keep No secret from the hands of our power, And are thenceforth to receive and feel What hand but Heaven above could show thee as a dower! O fairer than aught of all on earth, except The beauty of the world, and as a star Set in a sea of darkness, is thy face! Clear as springtime is thy mind, thy under- sight for the north; as fire, to which none But madmen are their eyes so bright as thine. Even now, O Hope, thou sobered is, And sparest not from thee; some gentle spell Has touched thee, which wreathes all thy counsels so With loving faireness. Thou knowest not to what height Thou wast in birth, and to what full age thy sense Called here to rest upon thy childish things. 'Twas when the primal germs of life Await, and wait, impatient for the light Of nature, when all is wrought to kindle From within and without, within without; Whence, through the living reason, comes Into understanding; when the first, Fair gift of nature, Deity itself, Arrives upon the lips of men, called not so much From those blest teachers of the sojourn field, As from the deity within whose rod they heard The sweet gaining of the animal world. But hark--if haply thou mayst be true-- Of a people born for which we have no name, And you our own, reader, if haply thou know'st The name we bare of down-questioned spring, (We in the place where down we spoke are fallen Aith, my Euphorocy, where then old Hesper hoped For his neive neighbours when he bard of Troy, With nigh half of all his heard in Britain driv'n o'er, Or where he laid his quills for musical o'er The hollow where that antient muppet hummed and played-- That's the land, that's the land, where we are now. And lastly, so to speak, we had as good been glad If we were dull, for all that now we're thorn-wound; So that where we were we mean while who can be, As we ourselves, but one timbered in the common school Of Parthenopean, or something more rare, If more were meant, we'd want a cherubim here Of larger wing, because our selfish lot is one Whereon to pound. And so it is not possible That we should be so few of these our elements Which breed all arts, all hope, all honour and use, In vain. For to say it all, if thou art sensible at all ======================================== SAMPLE 132 ======================================== :( "Where art thou now?" cried the Lady of the Valley. "Oh!" the marvellous tongue rejoined, "to behold Haste, amiable, dearest of tongue-monsters, That unto me like breath shalt be given; Haste, errs not the lovely spouse I must Tempt, or thy old age will see, O seek Else the chase. "He that waits too long For love, shall never take his sweet Foundation of bliss by craft or valour; Beauty is his fetter :)--Shall I be foil, or he, that outdarts me, (Haste, haste, errs not, to cry the while, The terms of chase!) "The wimpling wave Shall for scantier reward Be good and light, Then shall I, sweet worm, Be of larger size, Like every other girl That from the foment busie enters." Thus said the maiden: (As langly their craft is, They will be long in telling.) Thehr to the west their wimpling wave, Was but an inland hill; No man went by that gate, Save thee, and that suitor, wan, Lone upon the western fold. "Of shrill preserves Is my passion," said he, "come-- Foul in thycountry, High, cold, and wild-- Let me run Where the rocks are ruddier And the haunted eaves are hoar. I may not seek thee In her country hood, Where are no wiles And no signs, But, if Fate so command, I'll go alone." He did, the suitor bowing, His highlightrew did say, "I am ready"--but no date Had he for departure: He needs but await no lance Nor lethal shot, Nor poisonous snake-man nor minnow, Nor shocking thing, But he must run Through all the ground With all its beasts, And with its swine: That is our trial: Oh, I shall win The bigger beasts to suit My killing hand." "And one must fight Against his fate And the beasts of his own accord, And all that followed him, Not as they fled, But fell as dead; He that fights his battle Shall win great fame." His note was swan-song time, The summer-way, When swallows, plucking at the weeds That spring might line the hay, Or ruffleswarm stars in pools Of the morning's hills and sky. But now all waned, save for a breeze And a little cloud, and night's last cock That took the day as his own sweet self and died Like a wax candle under the skies Where he died without shame. So little, but thine eyes did know More than when Sappho spoke of that Which no man knows. 'Tis for a wreath of willow that I pray, The tree we sat upon. And yet Thou shouldst not think me uncrit when I know A debt of thanks is thine for seeing What thine eyes have seen. Alas! I have no hope That I can look or speak to thee. Forgiveness! But if thou art not ready witchery Or the painted smile of winning love, "O sister, set Now clear lights on the snow-slipper, Now throw once out in turn The tottering stars, and let go the past. Light, sister, clear. Let-go the past, And set now clear. Set all the clear lights. Turn all the stars. Now I have seen with light. End the stars, end the sky. For I would have mine eyes Worn out from this great hall, This great high wood, this high great hall, This thousand years of stone, And one golden slip Of moonlight gold to walk by, Tinsel-trimmed and trinketed, To look upon. But thy lips are pale, And thy kiss is in a cloud, And the flowers that we laid our hands upon Suffer from a trance, The fields are so worn and so filtered With snow and finger-print snow, The blurring flocks are so thickened, The voices of the rivers are So nearly crying. Now the white moon rides above Through the blue night. The green and green lights blink out on the white Blue line of the heaven. What ======================================== SAMPLE 133 ======================================== , with pity they can watch over me. with haste I will slaughter them all. Now I am truly shar’d. o my possessions my bodies have earned. my wise murderers my wits. I have never washed a garment. my hobos have served me loyally my ladder mortal ever. I will slay them and wear their clothes again. Let the water wash the clothes better that wool was wool. <|endoftext|> "A Last Taste of Antiquated Love", by Matthew Sweeney [Love, Heartache & Loss] I wake up to it, an empty novel air of love that never was. I stir the water reservoir that condenses on the pages, dense and glistening like gray scale air. The sunlight that never shines is always staring me in the back of the mind, and the world appears as if eaten by the hammering seas, and consumed by woodsmoke that blows across my house of books. It's another metaphor, this empty feeling of love, the same as what one might taste in a candy wrapper, or to use as a toilet, or to touch against one's life. Or to toss against a ceiling that is utterly devoid. There is no hero, no heroic woman, no old man. No family. No domestic bliss. Just my own anger that I never managed. And this solitary life of my own making, hour by hour, half heartedly negotiating a gray spot, like a speeding projectile. And the fact is I would like to be one of the good ones, to be an efficient and salaried hero. Like a hotel wardrobe, or a tour of the Senate, or the face on the banknote. I would like to be a hero, but not have to carry the whole world on my back. <|endoftext|> "Red Dirt Boys", by Matthew Sweeney [Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] From the waist up: an embarrassment of riches. From the waist up: a pleasure owned by the dregs of humanity. Front cigarette holder. Front cigarette holder. Boots well strapped to the midriff. Boots well strapped to the midriff. Sweat pants well pressed against my thighs. Sweat pants well pressed to my thighs. A handful of good ones to break in and put a ham on. A handful of bad ones to bring in and light on the grill. A few to give to the friends you'd met for the weekend. To transport the one's who couldn't take off at the party. To convey the grown-up feed for the family that can't afford to stay home. The ones that can't afford to travel. Transport the ones that can't afford to travel. To give the ones that can afford to travel. To give the ones that can afford to travel. <|endoftext|> "My Mother", by Matthew Sweeney [Living, Death, Growing Old, Parenthood] After the funeral, she's somewhere in the country, waiting for her death certificate to come through the green. After the drunk driving arrest, she's in a dingy apartment in the middle of a town. A woman who appears to be in her seventies or eighties. The sheets are soft and gray. The phone hangs over the bed. She has a cordage to the phone, and a prepaid debit card. It's all useless now. <|endoftext|> "In Late Antiquity, Children Were Branded", by Matthew Sweeney [Living, Infancy, Youth, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Trees] Malinassimeion An athetia consisting of a cord, loops of linen held in the mouth. The athetia was an attachment of the trunk. It had to be held in via the love teeth, or left as a tongue tie. Schultchite The schultchite was a simple tree. It was used for a pelleted pattern. Its loin cloth was made of loper and chuck. The loper was held in the middle of the tush. The chuck was then from the base pulled out to the top. Then the cord was pulled through the annula. The cord ======================================== SAMPLE 134 ======================================== Filled with thy bitter vapours, and thou mad'st them cold; Thou scourgest with thy tempests, and thou wilt stay To freeze me when I come near thee, and to scorch My flesh when I do thee reverence; yea more, I trust, when I shall lie in thy cold hands, To be forgive'd more than man's born in heaven. Then be thou beloved, but with that adorance Be sweet, that's inspired in me now; And if thou pleasure'st to requite my love, While I am in this state linseth, Winging my bones with woe, I will be thralls To thee all terrible, and only Lord In all my prayers, and triple rite Of horrible invocation: this done, I'll come to thee in no proud iv'ry wing, Laugh, look on her, tell her so--no more I will my matter loll on without And so ill-brought;--O rather her, said he, Than a strong Necker, or a Girl in the prime Of beauty, or a prettily grayHairy leg, as Samson once was whipt! --Than all be thou, or call her fair thy form, Thy beauty, my sweet Rover, And all the more endearing, When she shall smile on me, As now, when I have kiss'd thee.-- When she shall smile!--But let us end this ring, And lye thus twining, while we kiss, Like to the snows and like to swine. Methinks, The mighty Poison, Killing us with the sweet repast Of this fond life, Is rather a straight line quite down From the highly-press'd base His head's a train Of the most saucy little jokes, Whose tongues are salted--the devil knows how Why they're so. And when he sits down to a Dough, he Can't sit still, and his coat's a coat About the nicest that ever did become A certain man in London. There's no head so subtle but can beat A picture like this one, And with a little more than rhyming Bother the divine simplicity The human Soul. The nose at little Samson's neck Was a fiend, whatever they say, And so unspeakably sharp, I'll tell you that and what: I'll tell you that and what, This little compass's all right, But if you look at it too much You run the risk of being seen By the powers that keep time: If you look at it too near, You kick the reasonable latch, And hear the mighty round Not in a circle: for time Loves a steady left-hand track To its walked in a semicircle, Or a declination line; And the cautious little things In that way con to a letter Not in a hazy shape, but solid Or a hollow, but you'll hit The infinite ordinar, Or an interieper sphere. And yet in the matter of shape The thing is simple, for how can be Any thing but simple, straight, Continuous, an extremity If the Moral we do not rectify The Mundan is a swindle, The Myth of Minos is the human face Of vanity. And if we would rise From the fates' square, that way is the way, With the manner of things, I mean, That men are used to, not we; But with a plump-armed bass-comsat man, Who beats his bass, and beggars be To pick his pocket for the cause Of God alone. Thy ears a stormy wind can move, Whoe'er is near them, like a rag, Or like the water, when the cloud Drips with the rain; Thy voice, if it's passionate, If it is passionate, thrills my heart, And if it's just the hand of one Of many, I can't say. Thou, like a full-country pheasant, Thou, like a lubberly peacock, Didst leave genial speech behind, As if thou wert but after praise, To hire out and sell thy right. But now they've left thee! Now then, in truth, my dear man, We'll have some supper-helps: And, if my grace shall please, We'll have some pencilling. Where's the usury then? I have it on my word ======================================== SAMPLE 135 ======================================== There is much else to be said, If only you know your memory Of this: I saw you last and first T'other night alone, as well as this. He seemed to be looking now more near, And saying thus and thus: I remember That long ago you and I were young And eating different things, and walking Different roads, and on this earth so far Doting friends were never able to kill Our feelings. You were with me, and I was you; And thus we walked together and ate and drank One another's food, and sometimes partook Of other common things, and very soon He knew me for your daughter. This man is an alien to me, And I am different now; I no longer In any fashion need him: this sad morn Comes out of me and down within me, And I would have it somewhere distant, Out of the void, and so extending Into a circle, round about the sun. THE moon was like a little cupola Set in a silver circle of light, Set in a fenny sea of water That slowly surrounded a thousand miles Of eternal space. The ships all around me stood. In the north they were the lees Of luminous isles, and every one Had a flag with white and black for cross. "What a great idea this!" you exclaimed, Spilling from the blue velvet corner Of your crystal with an aerated Voice, to congratulate the United States of Boston on her doubly grand success In prolonging the anonymous war Against our country over the years. And this was your unexpected turn of phrase, And you must have experienced great difficulty In finding the words for your rich sentiment. I should suppose you would not have had her Sing, in the same strain, "Happy the weather 'll make Our country years!" And though Boston has sent forth her blood In the long war like a plumed cress, And the flag now shaking in the morning breeze Is not a flag that you would refuse To see fifty thousand times over, I see no reason to alter my view Of her war-gifts. The women of America listen Now to the mighty voice, and now to yourself; And wherever the flag is passed and viewed, The air is sprinkled with invisible seeds Of wheat and rye berries, red and white, Now worth more as doth the snow on the mountains, Now with value multiplied far beyond the aim Of anyone seeking for gold. There is no good reason why A woman should go on a raid into the enemy's camp And sing a song about it! But that's the way I feel: The enemy's marching to battle in. Why can't we just go on as before? That's the way I feel. Why do I feel it? It must be that the enemy's coming up is some kind of -no, - Just as his fathers went before him to glory. Why can't we just keep on as before? That's the way I feel. Why do I feel it? It must be that the next president is going to do something, And it's better to be ready for him. I must be ready for him. Why do I feel it? It must be that the next president is going to do something, And we're better off if we're ready for him. I must be ready for him. <|endoftext|> "Who Speaks", by Edgar Lee Masters [Social Commentaries, Heroes & Patriotism] Who speaks these words commits a distinction. He says, "I am Jehovah all alone." And he says, "This is my best, not your fancy, version. I am not your friend. Do you want these differences The moon fling over the house, And then tell him, 'No, boy, To like you much.' I say, 'I hate you like hell. I would rather die than see you hurt.' I say, 'I'll give you happier days, And take them happier to your grave, If you'll come back from Camel Advance. I am not your soldier. And if you make yourself comfortable bivouac Upon my back, I'll tell back that you are not my thrall.' And you, if you sneer at such a bargain, I have a word for you. I'll come back anon. I can tell by his smile, He'll come back to us and say, 'I'm glad you're all right.' He's either come back and got somebody to buy his medicine, Or he has scratch out of somebody's eye. ======================================== SAMPLE 136 ======================================== What, still she waits! She knows not if to wail or weep, And I, in this mystic hour, my pulse is balmy, though she waits. <|endoftext|> "The Descent", by Alissa Leigh [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity] for Philip Levine The morning sun strikes Jackson Hospital in Jackson, Mississippi on the largest maternity ward in the United States. It is a calm morning. The sun is a father asleep. The windows of the dunes meander up and down the hallways of the Jackson hospital. White men in hats with hoods pass through the security line unescorted. One of these men is speaking in a low voice, The medical term for trauma is C.T.R.A.R.O.L.I.F.O.I.N. White men in their seventies are still sedate and are Doles. Lilrimae of the urns are filling the hall. There are Dores and Andrews and Cordozarites mumbling white spells on the elevators. The giccuruma will have its sotto voce with the yammy, and the floor-ladden man always hoists his lanyard and then twists his head around to look at the audience. The hall is buzzing. Black, white, southerner it does not matter. The hall is buzzing because the sun will never set on the sun. The sun will be altered or gone completely. The sun will give off tonnes of fizz. The crowd at the Jackson hospital is tedin its round of hydrating systems. I am holding a Dantoo, I am leadin a hand or sitting on a Doreille. I am sitting on a bed in the emergency room of the Jackson hospital. I am wobbly as an old oak on a log. I am wearing two pairs of boxers. One for dancing and one for work. I am a piece of ductile cast lead that will give off electrons. I give off electrons. I will give the newborn Durendal. I give off little H-bombs. The gicc is full of H's. I blow air. The air is full of soft palpitations. There is a beatific alchemy in the body of the patient. I look at the faces of the faces on the private screening screens. The gicc's Palan wash is on his nose. I look at the Dore and Shere pairs. They are sweet on each side. They are tedin their rhythms. They are sweet on each side. I let off steam. I turn on my heel. <|endoftext|> "Carcass", by Cornelius Eady [Living, Death, The Body, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Religion, The Spiritual, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology] I was always a sucker for a gut. A dark thing wired to a chip of some sort, the length of it, thin bites of bright bacon, which, by neath, was the soul. Not all that distinguishuh, that moment, but then again, I candiagnose the divining dart. Myson great-great-grandfather of the bee that dies. And the one who sees it. Who's the other? Ah, dimming mirroron one ear, maybehis right or left, dependingon what's beside him, the wax whichelas a eye stop, a fourth for the restof us. Once more, the age-longreturn. A spatter of cómo annulo when Idid. But others see the spectaclein a new light. To cut to the chase:this is all yours. Be nice.Pray.Consider the pūra.Betterstill. Remember what I said earlier? Or that dim mintstill in the good alacrity you might have. Something todo with the eye's repolar Sikel onlygets expended like this. I. Me. But nevermind. Now you're no longer a clean white markon my sleeve. No longer flushed (à la Skyy) to know that I, like the plain old shinehainw of the heart,the alacrity of a flame, can repeat, to the hoochbons none of it back. ======================================== SAMPLE 137 ======================================== Armed men to guard, but to disfavor, the shores of light; Proud of its ancient strength, the giant island stands, And shapes anew its purpose to the world of men. If Greece be wise, and conscious of the future's eyes, If England be aware of what befalls her children there, If sternly burning here before a scene so true It blinds one from all life until the flame tryst thee true, How shall she know just enough to help, or justly fear The vengeance, which she sees coming, but which shall be hers? And what, if she prove not less sin-ed than Willis, His people thronging to the aid of the oppressor's power; What will she be regarded as by the stranger's remark, The land that used to hate, but forgave her son's embrace? What will England's voice and face be to the world's favour, If she begin with zeal that deed, and cease to live it? If England's honor be not on earth to her own soul, Not on that base mightier power, but on that hands To preach freedom, bend her bow, her freedom to her breast; Yet if she live this deed, and mean to honour her name, This daughter-of-grandfather-aestetic, she must go A honour 'tween her head and hers; and die to serve, When ever she feels, by filial fear upgared, The scornful eye of a despot in her red cheeks; When ever she feels, as in the daft that haunts A lion's womb, the dismission of her thick blood; When ever she feels, as she who bid the wrong's fire Unto her specifical slave, the frenzy's bond; And fain would drive the cause hush'd quenching the wild mood That seek blood to get blood, the swap of wrath to spare it; Till time whose hour very greatly dis Nobleste, And gave it hight to be the age's accolyte To the brand on his shoulder, and a stain for her; And made the banns the register of his spear, And made the instance more grave, with eagles courser'd, Than those for murder or banishment for size, Which are regular plums of the adjudged jar; And hurled the appeal to the thief Lord, with hoon For commonplaces, and was his vote first, And, when to the high, rare point of proud depute-off Invincible He rose, with comparative ease, to dance away the days, Or, with a waltz, the great Staff to rescue from o'erthrow, And, when, as to the commonsel, the poor wight fould, A sword to reign it o'er, was it not weighty and good. He might have had a poet's honor, and at his birth Deloir this minute's innocence, he blithely broke the dance. He failed not, by the merry law, to have the birth registered In intellectual Cosy, as now true births are, And falling innocent on him were missed not as a swarm Too much of Sin opprest, which fell on James and Eve, And fell on Eve, and them much misery hath proporcated The point of sovereignty, being of Nature, kingly, And Genius prone to lapses into Nature; all which Saith Jordanes, did his innocence the son of luck So well were big with, as, if still good to win the favor Of Almighty God, and kingless He, had been as much despised. The word of this atrocity was heard By the seventh Queen, who, of her airy brood of wights Sitting on reverse stair of the royal bower To hear what was passing observed, And did by way of commenting on what had gone before, And turned to our puissant king, who placed His squire abashide for secrecy; For privy I this season permit him And secret was he for this sublime debate. And he, the youth that in his throne was set, Honored with the mirror of a crown That bore his own image, him, exulting, ran, "He is odious, in a field of war, exposed To the world's view, he hearing me indulge His most irksome ambitions, he prideful, To his companions laughing, gives his lips His breath-in-beak, and bids them go, To read what earthed was of ours in Egypt's sun. I am, in that short time, when ======================================== SAMPLE 138 ======================================== So, too, we who hear him tell His life's wish in his world's terrible gloom; He too in his despair with us has pity. We've heard him from his cradle, where his mother crouched A moaning voice, and dreamed, and labored, Hoping to make the willed choice right And clear and one against the other, And give a boy born in sin A name, and break the thing the name Unwonted babbler meant to break. Now all is said, and all is through, And all is said and through, And all is not over yet; And where's the last dark? Where's the last night? The last day and last night? Well, then, The last day and last night! O LAST DAY! I read you in the misty rain, And cowed beneath that weather, you said, "I will escape, and no power divide, Nor give me heart to be patient any more; Here is relief from the twopenny thing, The extra, out of third-class lifers, the. "Dear me, the gas, which makes our cheeks redow bright, And makes the whole world want to shine again on me!" (That was what the rattan in your head said.) I heard your words, I heard you well; And long, long after, on my death-bed stood, Outspread it said--Wilt thou not forgive me?" "Ay," said the heart; "the rattan was not true; But what can you people who only talk, Do to-night? A lovely girl went to brew." Come in, in! You too have seen the rain Put out the sun with all its sparky beams; The frost and fire leap out in flight, But then we take it in our great dark bath, Where we can sit and smile at sleethe and scorn. What--fear to think? Heave to what? To go Upon the air? To fetch and carry? 'Tis this--we dare not go to bed to-night. The birds, so light, for bush and tree will take The chill from off us, we are free to-day: I'll toss up now, I got my left-winger; The wind, so high and over the top, How's end over end, how proud to flout, How high the top, how low the height! And, look!--this is better than a rose Tossed up to me, tossed up in a still noose, For, all in fragrance and all able To hold a man, or taint a man; The rain and sun, or, better, the sky, Duck you the craps, or put out a sun. 'Tis better, 'tis better, better than this My left-winger. It has the wind, and all, And all, to swerve; and all, to rise again. What then, if a man's for all, or mostly? If all, a man, if mostly, more than all? The world is mostly mostly man, though it be A few, I think, are mostly nothing. He's fit for the walk we trot, for the waltz Whereof there's no dispute, if we can know What doesn't, after all, in fact, when we 're doing; He's fit, as a man might reasonably be, For walking a waltz; but if you hold Your hands out indulgently to me, I fain would hope that you are fain to please. There are who never wandered, Save in a tentative way, Save as a draught to be drank Till after the walk was done; And after the walk is done, how poor My love seems! I need not those To cheer me with my Yazoo; And I need not my Yazoo For other gifts to buy That will surely come their way, As the unwonted way to bring I gave the old gregarious throat its funeral plaudit; But I gave the old gregarious throat A caress that crumbled its wings As the dust of grave robbers crumbles. The bird itself is parting lace For climates strang; and what of me? The gregarious throat, that gave A tender interest to Zamboult's Free Stapler Bears, Has called it effaced and from its place, As the dust of grave robbers, that dust had Zamboult's Bears given to Zamboult's Purse; ======================================== SAMPLE 139 ======================================== Took in men Like the gods, made them strong And then out of them they cast them And put them all Into the street. The street was crowded With men, but not with them. There was not any party, Not any association, But a crowd Of workers, the wind and rain Had blown them together in the same direction. Some of them looked up, some of them looked Down, and saw on the roofs The gang of wind and rain Crowded closely, And saw that not all were out of the storm. And there was one thing about them, They all were workers. And what they were Was all people saw Who had come together, Not all came out of the storm. And it seemed to them, the wind and rain Were gathering in a centre. And they gathered, While there was nothing but the sun, As white as sand On the high sky, and their faces, (Though the sun was bright,) Grew dark. Some of them were farmers, some were labourers, And one said, "I'm a STRYDER, And this is my eye. I see you, and you are scattered Into the city streets. But we are where we are, and we are not. Come, let's go in, and let's go in together. Let's go in, and let's go in, Together. What a wonderful city is here! Let's go in together! Let's go in! What is there up there? Let's go in! Let's go in together! A band is playing, And the weather is wet; Let's go in, and let's go in! And I think I heard the rain Come whistle in, And the wind as loud as blow. Let's go in, let's go in! Let's go in, and let's go in, Together! Who can be in and who can be out? Let's go in together! Let's go in! Let's go in together! And I'll pray for the city; God grant to all around What they have done to the city of old. Let's go in, and let's go in! And we shall have in our hands The charm of the wind and the rain. Let's go in, and let's go in! They were taken to the inner room. "Do you want money, dear?" said the clown. "Why, Sam, I don't want any more To be taken away from me. I have played my best, I beg you That you will take me to the head Of the pit." "Bite of yourself, But play a little while," Says a voice in the darkness. "Bite your own bite, or the bite Of the fellows will be bitter. Bite your own bite, but know Bites after mine will go." Saw the friends it had had no influence Upon the past or future to warn Its children of the evils of the race, Or of their loss. It could be sure That every son it had was now God's. But there was nothing it could do That would help them in the end. For it said to them, "O Thou taken, Have they not made Thine offspring yet?" It said to them, "O Thou spilled, Washed head and feet in the stream, Do Thou pluck up that soul of Thine, And cast him into Thine own Here. Wash, sing Thy Songs, cast out, repent, Cast out Thy sin in Thine own face. O Son of Man, be Thyself! I cannot teach Thee anything new, Be Thy flesh a slave, but Thy mind free! "Be Thy mind as nimble as a fox, A strong son of the West Wind; Thou art threatened with a rod. Cast Thy fear away. I come from the dawning door, I come like a Fox in the barn, A hundred wings fill the sky, Cast Thou up on the hundred foxes For they will beat you over the roes. Cast Thy fear away, O my son, Cast Thy rod away And hope and expect and feel no pain But the simple freedom of Thy heart. It was the grey of morning gray, And a wind like a dog- bridged at the-s, And a sea, like a dog- bridged at the wits, With a half-ended chain of mast and stone; And a dead sea-t ======================================== SAMPLE 140 ======================================== your shame. I was so feeble when they struck me that morning I had a big heart that was nothing else but soft. I let them tear it out, and, in its place, I chose myself to stand in their way. When we began to question one another, It was I who asked the most. But I know now, without that big cross of yours, I might have come to some much smaller one. You see, when I came back from the city the next day I found my workmen in the garden, all ready To do my heavy lifting. So there I was with a davenport, and water, A shingle, and a can of old gin. And I watched them as they wrestled a shingle That had lain by the lime-tree for them. "Why do you lift me up?" I thought, "For to break the tin panes Or to get at the hidden water that's lying there." I lifted the shingle, but not for the jolts. I noticed that the men were there without the backhole-- They would not let me forget it. "Where do you go to," I said, "when you work in the garden? And you won't do it without a pass. You must know," I said, "that the man who does not need a backhole Does not go home at night." That work in the garden ceased, and then My tongue, as I thought, began to lisp. For the book of poems I had on hand, Entitled "Norseland," with photographs, Showed me that I had to think. I knew that the world was a lie When I saw the flowers in a picture With no name, unworn by sun or shower, And the sun was shining on a tree. But I had known that before, When I had had not seen enough of them. So I worked and worked and worked. And when the book was done I would give it back to the workman Who found it on his fall, And I could read it at night, And read it if I had knowledge. For knowledge is a kind of Bible, And the more I read, the more a man, The more a man the more I read. And my God, I think, Is the last man, or man, that will die before, Or a man that will be the last, to read Any book that is written by human hand, Or sung by human voice, And in the reading of these last times The meaning will remain the same. And I know, as I have known the day And the hour, the star I am gazing at, I will stand and gaze and gaze, And my heart will leap. We're lost, I think. We do not live, I think, But do not think we are in life. A man must not kill a habit Before it is halfway done To make it so lightly live. I will not, will not, may not kill My habit of reading poetry. It is all a part of me, And it is going to be half a life Till it is ended, And until then it is enduring, And so is sanity. I cannot read a line of it, And I cannot know the poet But by chance. I shall not know him, Or shall not know him. And shall I read it, then? I shall not know him. I shall not read it. And I cry that I may not kill My habit of living. I was not accustomed to it, And now I cannot read it, But this the kindly angel said: "You're misreading me! Don't you see That what is half-real is ideal: The beautiful, the little death Is lovely, and that which has no length Is ludicrous. I am for endless life, And am I not given to you Because I do not belong to you? Is not our condition easy? Not in the easy. You require much blood. You need Many evils to bring about your end. In your wants, you need much ease, To palliate your great implora-tion. A greater evil than this Could be to laugh at existence. But our condition is not easy If our final end it is. We want our birth-partized body Not so that we may end our life But so that we may still prolong it. And the fount of blood we need Not so that we may bring about our end, But that we may still prolong it. ======================================== SAMPLE 141 ======================================== Danger and desolation, nothing to me but the woe of Christ; I care not for the grimmest and gloomiest, the wittiest and saddest; I cry out and am crying to the Saviour, and asking for strength; No soap-box preacher, no shoddy patter of the shivering choir Has ever had more to say to me than the sweet, gracious Saviour, Until the twig is snapped, and the squash is gone, I know He is great, and I am small, and I am lowly, and strong; His word is wonderful, and His comfort and help are ample; The evening draught, the kitchen aroma, the morning ember of day, Are naught, all alike are weak against the one Steel Queen; The shadows, her caftans white, are otherworldly, and her eyes Are wandering far away to where the sterling bed is sweet. I am past the burning bush, past the dark night's ravenous mouth; The swagman is dying, and the billy-wug is gone, And all the scams of vice in every grade below are ended; I am free from thorns, I'm free from hickory roots, I'm free from swamp-bugs, I'm free from the swine-wing, free from the green, free from the blue; And when the steam lifts, and the curtains tremble and fall, I shall watch the sunset, free talk on the desolate way, I shall see the glory of the setting sun, the pillar rise, The columns of the twilight quake, the twilight clears, The mist lifts, the light turns, and the day is driven. <|endoftext|> This is the text of a lecture delivered by Father James Heenan at the Jes down, "Pilgrim Assurance", June 14, 1849. I find this text in a good authority, the Latin founder of a church at that place, now called "Village Church of Passover" or "Village Paula"; the text is unique as a kind of "Westminster Pantheon" as it stands in the foyer of the house still. The first patriarch of the village was called "Pilgrim," or "Grail of the Groves," the second was named "Paul,' or "Grail, of the Glades," the third, with others among the folk, was "Jack," and they, like all the rest, were very patient, and would scarcely come at all as the words "a third,"" 'Jack,' and half shyly run away. If the Latin name wrong or disparowments be applied to, they are merely the Anglicized names of the old Teutonic words for "jack,""jacksman," and "jackson;" and these proper names read in the "Pilgrim Concordance" at the bottom of the stairway. In Wales the earliest chieftain is recorded as GORING, and has been supplied with the second name by the printing of the Chronicle under the title "Gorillas del Prov. des Mont. Dahout." The spelling of the name as GROAT, or "Groat," in the older versions of the text is considered by some to have some slight detractor in it; as it is not a word in the English language having any of those supposed or existing remedial words. The only alteration of the spelling in the "New Glair." is that of the "Alfred" at the head of the collapsed phrase, and the change of "son" to "sons" in line 553, where it is thought more native. The Arabic name of this feast is "Sanies" and is conforming to the custom of the "Pseudo-Chinook," who is usually "brother of the bride," and custom would have it so, had the number of the feast been greater than it is, having the double effect of marking the union of the two tribes. The abbreviation "SAV" evidently alluded to the testimonial obligation of the identified with the unsub. "Sanbus" is a repetition of the "Sanies," "Sanba" with which it is associated in China, the very best locality for initiation. The initiation of all into Christianity had become, in the East, a tradition, which the Christians are called upon to collect and reinforce. The ideal of seeing through of the body was imported from the Syrian Gwainim, "the p ======================================== SAMPLE 142 ======================================== The old man. But, then, as he grew But, then, Then he could see. And, if the face was old, so were the eyes. It was a double glass. It was a double vantage. The little bird Spoke like a unicorn. The dear little bird Threw off and caught Fire. I have eaten with the saints. They made good cheer, And laughed and talked, Drowned the cross, And spat the whip. I have eaten with the saints. <|endoftext|> "Sobbing Cowboy", by Edgar Lee Whistler [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Travels & Journeys] The sunset west was yellow, Yellow in the donut valley, Yellow where the boulders fell, Yellow riding high above, Yellow in the evening sky. Sobbing—but just for the look of it— Yellow through the smoky pines, Yellow by the horsemen' cabins. Sobbing—and there was crying. Slouching—and the cowboys were slinking, Sliding along the old settle. Slowly they passed, the noonday waver, Muttering, and chuckling a greeting. And in the old settle, men bent— All were men, in the old settle— Day-glasses came and went, Talked to their own business, Bowed and gripped their ears. <|endoftext|> "Stopping by Mississippi", by Edgar Lee Masters (?) [Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] O heart, heart of my heart, Why should you trouble be Still in the South, still there? It is not that I do not know, It is not that I am unforgiving, Nor the men-folk do not kindly Do not to me as I would be. But because you do not understand What my temperament is— <|endoftext|> "Symphonic Composition for Piano", by Francis Tracy (1841) No more the southern old-time way, Thoughtless Southerner take warning: No more the southern old-time way In gaudy and silly songs reproaching: In drowsy, dull concerts of to-day The sultry listener gets his right entertainment. But let them bring the new, fine scenery, Such as in sounding speakers will come sounding; But, symphonic, harmonious music-wise, Come without the least benefit of musicians From trumpeting knell, o'er trumpeting knell From bell-ring, o'er trumpeting kneller The grand symphony of southern music. <|endoftext|> "Swan", by Edgar Lee Masters [Nature, Animals, Summer, Trees & Flowers, Winter, Arts & Sciences, Music, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Money & Economics] There's little that's new but what is new, Has yet not found its historic term. The Romance, that modern fowler Hunts its smart prey to the wide country. The Romantic idealists, in lawny print, On a broad blue wave, In sunny and stilly air, Writ large their high bold spirit. To their own ancient things they yearned— Writ large their high bold spirit— And they left their pale flocks of ever- Coming things, to trudge with slow heavy lance Through their slow heavy lacing walk. They were all forgotten long: And now they return and tread our streets. The stars of midnight are some 5000 miles From where they live—search their lonely orbs And fair the canebowler just waits. The world of the granite dome is our world: And so is the world of the canebowler— And sometimes they do more than just plot. <|endoftext|> "The Sun in Summer", by Edgar Lee Masters [Living, The Mind, Nature, Summer, Arts & Sciences, Sciences, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology] In summer the summer is near its setting; In winter, on a time-table, near its beginning. I feel, then, that my time is approaching, And that my work will justify The doom of my parentage and language. In summer the sunny is the sunshine; In winter, the snow is bright; In drought, the desert gives us need for labor; In freeze, we build with aid from ice. And when in passing years we gain our inheritance, In summer we scan the rugged rugged terrain, And in winter we ======================================== SAMPLE 143 ======================================== lf an orca cries, And has an epilogue Out in the great blue sea. Fo' dis! b' tholomeia fo' dis! No! dis woman is none fo' me! Dis 'll no longer be a word To speak fo' dis ! fo' dis! I stond havin' trouble doin' dis. Somet. Yes, now I hold her befo' us, She'll ave a ain't she'll get a letter Done fast, I jinchel see, 'Tween yo' and my! Is it the fo' he'n na back? Yeh run into me, An' yo' be at yo' front To try an' get fo' yo' feet. She was under this baith (An' poor Iwi's women is thin) The pot was gien aboot, And I took up thowt It was nae mooman she wad ha' For say she wanted a back. I'll tell ye what I mind, An' set free my casts an' platts, An' cast up the langau's cur. I mind's jist what I 'm saisin'; I 'm as serious an' asmocrit As ever cast amuck. I mind I a' till I spoil't An' sairly think it was lang, An' back to believe it was weel I must jist ha' to go. I 've done for this fo' a' Pastouns, bless my purr! I 'll gang back to Mynie's een An' gie me dem on my lan; I mind I shall jist go To Felinham that 's stown, For I can dream I hear My wee luve fa'calyin. If it be she, I 'll gyde To Felinham police, An' do what I can To solve their mystery; For she had nothin' do, An' I 'm shekin' her een In auldinion an' wonder, An' all the time sing; Yet right an' weal I fear Her death I 'll ne'er know. I mind I 've laid in 'This' lane, An' did not smell the smoke Till near the dawn of day; But as I came away 'Twas smutched by a fire-fly Far frae the mizzie-way. I jistoc'd me greyhke Somewow down the deughrie, An' I hadna but woke agen To look when I came agen. O 'fore we cast our pelf by, Let 's tell in jest a tale; We juge Moura an' Banne na, An' Mandy wad ta own The smytrie was red We 've gart them up wi' the laatkes, The rings, the shaw inshowers, The suns, the meteors, The cromles glowing blue, The ways we hap to go An' some have breeks and some have braks, I but hae to try The way of hardy wandiners. I jingled up the dyke, An' miss'd the castle bon, An' where my weg peeg, I gar'd a ither bier, And gambled owre the keek At one o' the drapets; At By-tittins, those viddlings, I thogg'd them oot to pluckts, 'At he'd o' them made o' me O 'singly to daw, An' scrunched me lego' show' A staplet down the lea, Which stook at me fro me kneep, Weel hit 'm dings in her heart, Her opinions I pore always For some new cabochons; Yet, oh, I knew that mine No need to salve nor muzzle; I'd thrawl it in her where'er I'd bed it. It had been but a fortnight, Since I had set down my pen Upon a rhymer's brow, When, oh! I 've said to myself, 'It 's a terrible bore To keep raving on Like that.' I strove to rise; My spell would give no pause. I have loosed my fo in a dish Of sandy beaches, My ======================================== SAMPLE 144 ======================================== 16 . How can we describe what is different between sleeping and a young horse? She brought him from out of his world into ours, And we let him run with her. 17 . Was there ever a boy like Elenor Murray? And is it strange that Elenor Murray's life story is an American story? Perhaps the strangest aspect of this story is the time, and the country. 18 Inexorable now for the rest of my life, Uncontrollable, as if to pass into quiet. 19 And don't you think that maybe I'd like a gun? And wouldn't I hit some world's best record If I shot someone in the mouth? If some one of the faculty had a gun And fired a round. 20 There are some things you hit with your fist, And some with your teeth, and some with your legs. And some with your tongue. And some with your hand. And my voice was a very small one, And my audience was very small. 21 I don't know why I should say anything Or why I should resist seeing you again. And I'm sorry, Elenor, that time has done you this. I hope you have found what you call peace. And I hope you have found work. 22 I can't say much of what I wish to say, And I am afraid I may say too much. And if I say too much I lose my way. 23 One of the boys was blind, the other spoke plain French. And the third spoke American. And the fourth spoke broken English. And the fifth spoke American German. 24 They were young, and happy, and full of mirth. And the evening was illuminated for the sake of them. And they found peace in the deepest dells of their hearts. And if they needed a work program or a dream they found it in the professors. 25 But I can't say much of the interior, For it is now some sixty years since. And it is some fifty years since we had professors. And I think it will be some fifty years before we have Any more. And I'm afraid we have wasted our talent on the contrary. 26 Oh the sun shines in our example, We have created the world's largest cemetery. And we have kept our jobs, the professors and the librarians. And we can mingle with the dead now. And we can take our food to the hungry students. And we can use the power of the world with the world's poorest. 27 As a boy I couldn't ride, But I could swing from the branch. The professors were not students of poets, But students of poets when they came to college. And we had a banquet and a procession. And we could speak, and laugh, and sleep, With the dead on the steps of the Faculty of Sciences. 28 My dear professor, how thoughtful you were, How much we differ from those who found you. Professor, it is evening, how very well and well Are you in your hiding, you elephant! Who, in your academy, Nod to your worms and your mosquitoes. And, when the winter comes, No one cares for your series incomplete. You are surrounded by arrogance, With a spring of steel bars. And on the other side I stand, I am a poor canary by the river, In return I have rain and dust. 29 You may think this letter is addressed to someone else, Perhaps to someone else and not known to you. Yet you may see the resemblance to yourself in it, And you may be happy in knowing the secrets of the heart. 30 I sent it to myself, and to no one else. It is no letter of mine, but a simple observation of earth and the soul. And I know that at the end of the year, There is much for all to make. And I know that on my lips is sown A smile, and a snare to catch thieves. 31 And I know that we are all involved in the law. And that by free soul witnessing Ourselves in a high street. And in the process of the heart The professor's house. 32 I have grown rich from having known an Indian from an Arab, From having served the great Khajiin, the rich man's son, From having served the poor in an Indian graveyard. I know the pleasure of seeing the workings of a society. I know the danger of a melancholy one. 33 And I know, from a faithful missionary, The joy of having a poet ======================================== SAMPLE 145 ======================================== Whom men they saw the king of Thessaly Tread with Olympian strength upon the plain, Which all beheld, both gods and mortal men, So that Thessaly was dissolving fast, And of the land was none remaining sure. With words as yet the Sourain Lord And Phoebus Apollo bade them on the spur Of autumn wild to plough Thessaly's fields, Whence Phoebus from Olympus' face looked down And blessed men, beholding the end of things, And bade them flock to Thessalian days. Then Hermes spake: "Oh son, of Brennus Come hither, come hither, godlike Phoebus' born, And give thy hand to mow the boundless sea If Ares will be sheathed in battle's fray, If the far house of Zeus and war are hauld." The godlike Agamemnon smiting held His shaking horses, thus he said to them: "Ayodhisfacingoft ye'll smash the broadswhere Toss the white foam of the sea, and overthrow With thunder our imperial town, nor yield Rous'd mee from my fulfilment, or aught else." Then Hermes spake, his grace on fire to try: "Oh, be thou mute, nor pronounce a word unseemly To a god, or happy god, or that who waste His best endeavors to transpire his furthe And tame heat and cold, or who the White Bear as a hoodach, nor leave torch to scare the night Saving his last spark to flame offside." He said; and Hermes swift from the gods Uprose and raised his voice on high to state: "All things that wax or wither on high or low Behold my remedy, or where we dig, Or are most disease and safety. Heo, my father, Tremble on; thou know'st how Zeus hath created all: And I, the immortals' forerunners, decide Thy strife, and for thy labour I will pay. Thee in all the Grecian graves that sleep apart Shall thine uncovered brows from burning incense rise. It will be counted a pleasure; mark this grace Which now perverted Athens hath so beaten home With, and now with the lily crown-enrobd. Or have the famous works produced by Ulysses' game, Diversion of the snake, etc., Robb'd for thee the bays and hecatombs of death. Oh, wherefore wilt thou hear it thus the bane Of my immense invention? and yet it dos To nothing, nor hath all. Whatst thou doubt, the three the flame From burning thorn, from creeping misandry, falls To popp'd fire, which from the rock impels the flames Close on it, hard and cool. From this well-insulated glass I fix the common and propitious stars, from which Their disciples day by day, and night with thought restrain. My authority now sufficed to induce A second death, which yet unmurder'd on th' Arabian throne If but the provincials had offered first, that wrath ne'er known. His son this precipitate refusal would frustrate And hastily dispersing to summon them. Celestial guard you well; what hope is there? He, already disposed already to the watchful gods, Would keep the coast his natal, where you may behold The secret passages muttering with their active cracks, As mysteries of the deep always are authrorum'd. My words, I say, the impassion'd Phoebus thenils in woe: And does me, who about his living image behold In bodily presence, ignorant of such a powers As you enjoy, a bearer of excuses finds Never quits of earlier scenes? Your spirits could (That might actually enjoy) betreed to hold With visions freer, no doubt, than he, my poor nativity; For, such as I describe them, no veil is down drawn. Then, eye of these once wildering Gorgon eyes, turn To your own bright earth that sets them so absurd That, lo, man's hatred doth lengthen to embrace His nearest of high purpose. Thus it were well With you, and such as through your few years I see Yea, soon or late, to look for me; yea, long ago. Yet hath it not been thy fortune thus to light A sole life? But I think no little space Of such neuter nature is, but that thou It seems ======================================== SAMPLE 146 ======================================== Doth ev'n recherish the exclud'd Progeny: What care I? who now bequeath to earth My auball son, a people or two Deign to live, and how dispose The half of Britannia; half sit down, Of those that 'scape the raging Seas, And steer the treading ship; the rest Desert the Country, and nam'd in vain With inglorious scorn, makestorth their Hill. And this is my excuse for borrowing From you my Poem, to explain, Not all to posterity forgot, That prouder fame than mine can give, That nobler pity e'er aduance The few who yet shall tread this globe. There was a Fates, a father fates, And his wife, that Fates was her Son. A long slee'ned sot methe him, With misty drouth, and misty tears; He that feardst, thus began to speak: "O damn'd Perfido, vociferous Was ever any song of thine, Nor thought that I was on earth alone, A song I proudly chose, which me bewray, Ay belou'd; and, rather, by that Son, Consumed the Fire of furious love, Which for much longer time thou spentworse than they, Forgot of wrathful fury, and desir'd To lay that Lust and furious Want By whom thou wert damn'd outright; Yet wist'st thou? they were by whom Conscious of conscience, but they would not. Then hee his Pipers, who did cou'd haue His wonders play; which soon began To warre upon his own forspore. For worse to him than deceit he thought: But loudest amongst them all was he braue, And more ingenuous ev'ry word. Thus was their cunning employed: Each one to others' prejudice Wishing to have his eares, in loue, The better fortune of their Song, Themselves rather then the publike Field Bestoft by Natures law immitlie, And all in one considering made, The concert of wilfulness; So each his friends approching Folkes best: Their song to cheer their Friends he is bend, And each his enemy to unite: For each did purpoose his Wits arbour there So that his rival might his crown, And made the trick of seats and trumpets play; That Kings might come and sate the more. Then sings the Sage; "Vexed, inne a row This way between two Armes, betwixt the Trees Stood an aged Wreath, which Rose and came With voice and mighty chest a mile, And nought but flowers and trees between And Dots of dust between two archers bent That far amaz'd their wits with laughing face. "Here did the Troopes conspire; and I by name, Vox Orato, thine engrauld the milke shade: Here was Regart Decumvis, and here art to vnderpresent The Story of a shipt cavalier, As he come riding with a diuissence behind Where he should haue fight'd and honoure soere, But he loses partihers in the way; So that the partihers fall alevelles: To him so faine, but he disdain to fight, Sith the ende of every good by FREDERICKS grace. "So this come PALMER met his Reinesse and fell, Who him with speach began; I like your King, I am the best of my kinde, most blessed King, That knowes the way to guide the worldes ioye, As the best of that degree is able: Or whether he will alway lye or run, Do thus my lesson with him take, I will your haughty displeasure heare, Or any thing that touches GECUBELLAS: Or whether he will alway lye or run, Do thus my lesson with him take, I will your haughty displeasure heare, Or any thing that touches GECUBELLAS. Hee'll anger me, and rage to be So scorned with, yet alwayes change his mind, And blushing speakes giue him word again, Then the Knight a blush of sorrow showes, And words betok that in shoudl of heauen He luiced vs to haue vs ======================================== SAMPLE 147 ======================================== with rich perfume, Forgiveness will bloom from ashes, Till again, unclouded, As in the days of old, Thy fires are burning, With light from midmost heaven; Till earth's delights awaken, Till night, awakened by day, Bring flowers to Garden Gaea. A hundred times the year returns, The flowers come forth and grow When that man slays, lilies perish: Let him strive and slay, And let him strive and live; And let him strive and live, For only death can bring the dead The joy of life, Where shall the dance and song be known, Where shall the new love be found, When the seasons change, and time Teaches the sweet lark his spring recital? In the old earth, where time is dead, Or in some other time and place? Where shall the worn eyes go, When we with old time pass away? Where the lost with strangers meet, And the outhomered bear, When we come with aged feet? And where shall we abide, When time and tide shall hide Where Time and Eternity Lingerie. The hours in wanes Shall not long daub their dreary tale, And after suns not long be gone, When we come with aged feet. Love of our country or pride of clan, Or leader or village, could we long Not sustain'd by strength of saddle, Not by free cheer could we endure, But with folded hands pray, and breathe O dewdsea, O with new hate, O hope, O fear, By the old faith taught in the holy shrine, It may be cared for, provided always That each should have the other for a nurse. So shall the children so the aged grow; For when time draws near away Men of each age and quality shall seek To change, to faithful others leave, Or find new fields of duty and new homes. For none of all that breathed at the hill Will stay his templed voyagings; But one by the winding beach shall say, "Alas, good liturgire, These fields, these walkings wastes of good, Shew how close the times are lettered, And for what people!" The most undying love shall endure, And one for love's own native land; These in the family embrace, Then pass from change to change of friends; Then change to years, and states, and ranks, And see in each year well the remainder; Saw, and all time was call'd my friend; Pond, that gathers for use, was deem'd An object of desire; Thence again shall the river run, And thence shall the thought of some further shore; And thence, when thought of other shore Has left the world in peace, in sleep the motion, The sleep of principle on principle that wander'sue. With him, all objects shall be mixed, All things be pass'd between, be it Cement of a ring, or a space, And this, no time had yet animadecided, 'Twas a strange dance, and Clem hath left his ring. Some said, 'twas their old furious girl, Whose cyclops wheel'd her dusky car, And no force could drive her from the course. But that, was fit for children and women; I thought, some were foraged wild, And in the evening went, for nothing more Than to see their holy matrimonial town. Time drove toward the young new world His days, as other man, that led her; On pilgrimage, in marches, He wander'd, and the change was one Of every thing, and one incessant day. One day he said, I would break, on his fast, If on his fast's short name They poured not stream Upon my fast, a cup of mighty weight, And poured it in his hands, and him rais'd To sit beside him; and the cups were interdict'd. Their deed restrain'd his ways; he bade them do Worships not; and they whirlwinds flung In every direction, scattering all The sacred winds: all things, that breathe, Or move, or shiver or expand, All, leaves shiver'd at his feet: A solemn, awful, spleenful wind, His shiv'ring axe; by this scatter'd, He who the vast of regions pour'd, The habitable world, and had at hand Immortal might, returned not to ======================================== SAMPLE 148 ======================================== , To speak and mingle among Blessed beings, all who were To utter rapture in their death, Thou went'st in thy mind, and found'st, Laden with many tints and shades, The sun-beams of one sinless race Who beaming in, stand around, And all is covered over. The heart can only cry `Not mine! Not mine! For that were all too large. I keep not mine nor thine. G. And Thou hast, by that cleaving of thine own, Whose wings, how weak withal, how feeble, Yet they that bear Thy full-girdled beams Shrink not their feeble wings' revenge! How often in the highlands where thou dwellest Have I forbidden the hoar screen To set the mouth of envy against it! And many a time, when rained the gale, When the soft storm-flow was snelling down Dark hydras and dread lybun, Thou hast secretly down-clooted groans At my disadvil, soul-covering book, The peace-flower soft of the lake. But Thou art the house and Thou art the gate, And Thou art the guarded city, And Thy hand holds the iron bars, And Thou art swaysing stile above, And Thou wast the wind that blew The lips that all the troubles made: I have been speaking to the riddle-verse, When Thou wert cleaving to the truth. G. The image thou bear'st me of God's true spirit Hath sworn and solemn vow, Till death our cords all trump about, That to his perfect offering We shall in no wise defile: And none henceforth shall ever dare Take life or soul or name ill news of her. To his most wise and truth-expressing Binding he hath taken thee, Where to find the body of his Son In those immemorial places Out of mortal touch with things of earth. The living sun shines from a-swing, The fire burnll, the cloud-lids bright; And the power of God is o'er That breathes the manger's sheen In Christ's immemorial wheezes. Yet some die ever while the sun Shall with their tombs exhale: And graves are ever alive With a dead-man's whisper dwarfs. Not thus our sun's day of Easter Would be understood of men, If the broad-winged journey he Thus forego his shoulders bare: And this flesh in a few hours Shall be burned in a fire Lacking the rosy blood of birth. He is but newly been abroad, And the fair weather nor he: On some tall ship by the shore Flying the ship of Heaven. The shipman, ere he himself The clang of harness hear, For his soul's service and the rest A life for earthly use will be; But the glad ship's pilot fled, And, they say, lives yet there to regret He felt the world turned rude to him, And it was all a chill. His soul went without an end, And the world was filled with cries. No sound, but many a dart Of wrath about him flew; He had fed his whole folk on dust, And his own breaths flew sword and fire; And whene'er he passed by, A thousand dying curses stung. He, accursed for the past, From confession true and cold, Takes to his lips, and then to mind, Faith and credit leave the main. Behold, and check the leaden weight Of death, and cast away the cloying clay, Which is thynce, O riddle-solved child! O thou, Whose sight is poor, and deeply cloyed, Who, in the area of the good, Wouldst see a saint come aspare to me, And lo! the lady in white! She who, a maid, yet open and plain, And by her vestures oft averred, lives And shows herself the daughter of God. Hear now, and note me well. I am the evil priest; I who Who for the golden gear his warlike rage Has soaked unto the Oil of Life; But in the glorious war declares, That good is none ======================================== SAMPLE 149 ======================================== Since the First Age, whose offspring all its dire end did know. He who the sacred fire, the pipe, and poppets, kept Of that beauteous commodity, till they spent their prime, And all their precious pipe-weed for girl or woman lost. As Ermino's poet, one of the seven wonders of the world, The black, vast, dismal Galdana, in the care of one Of those mad Fevbul Manuscripts, was never to be By any painter's glory, but unto Satan called An evil to this day, and sting and disgrace; And for the rude, uncaster'd, dreary texture, Alas, alas! is all forgot now. Prunus Austensis. "O ye still," so say the old Writers, "O ye still shall hold those Constitutions dear, And pray for that undelighted ills ye've faught, Though your corrupt, disproportioned Powers plot and raise!" So, with holy motive and honour quaking, they On the faith of Saints, their pharisee imposed; And the Known World, our Known, our Only--well, say we? Our sole begirt, by the Known World's enemy. The bare human world! O Devils, ye Knew not, though the Saints, our saints, enfold you round! What, Devils, were your ardours left unchannel'd, If your divine and glorious works you would forget? Prunus Austensis. "My heart is not the thing I was, say my grandsire. The thund'ring thrainger May be forgot, or hurl'd from port to hell; What is it I? The thund'ring thrainger 's no one To the angel's patter, tho' once prime He might been, plump and square for space; But no more like. But no more like to play the fool To the self-tossing, self-lulling favourite Who went and was gone, to the living and the dead. Then the self-tossing, self-lulling favourite 's just A wind that blows where he's a thread. And so 'Til a shaked waterZealHaughe throu' Bosun's ears." Prunus Austensis. The world-girded Anchor's child, For better and for worse, thou art no less my son; No less my son, for joy and grief together, The better half, the bad half not differing, Since by death uponsurn'ry thou and I Had both our finite, the better half Of all our finite, had it not been mine To taste the other's milk; but sorrow And hunger are the same. Prunus Austensis. O turn and turn away From the sweet land where one day lo'es The flower, the next laves the grumest heel, And the next sweet flowers the pasture; O'er Arnoic prospect wide Blossom and wither wend thy course, Then thought and memory Too little, too little knew. Prunus Austensis. The world is full of broken, And many-tieved, messengers And messengers-in-urgent-ness; The world is full of messengers And messengers-in-research-to; The world is full of cars, and cars, And, cars-and-Two-day-so's-so, Soothsayers and the undertaking Of lawyers and of clergymen. Prunus Austensis. I will take an oath here, Before the roost, by our child, by our leg That never any man in all the world Was worse sent by evil objects Whom to no effect they could bring Than to his side or rearward, Pursuing through the unwise, In manners rapacious, Through want of sav'ry or contrivance, Or miracle. Prunus Austensis. If I sleep, teach me When shadows wander over me And the cradle comes to the crook of the breast, At what precise time A crook of plastic cunning Has for once been in fashion, As a mark of thy best condition, And a peggy Analysed with thee. Prunus Austensis. I vow By a vine upon my lap And the two, carouse and snigger, That the cord should neither Be crushed nor broken, That the vessel in which It is wound up Should not be ======================================== SAMPLE 150 ======================================== commend Anchors for I am old, so has it brought him all these years? That he do beheld my lord with such ode in print But that I ween is a funny thing. A little shade beyond his rest, For where the moon or an insect has a right to hope to go. A cloud stood at the edge of the fair, it would be good if all come. The pilgrim nodded his head and you would not have had it so easy. I think he likes the dark; he is had to read, But the work is far behind him. He had patience for his flogging. You may laugh, but there are three of them there to read it by. As the words came the patristick said I looked that way and frowned. I shall a be that men with little faith shall worship a God unmade and his saints in me. God's in my skies and her sunsets are told in me. God's in my will that I found in my work. I'm God's own ghost of all flesh in town, I'm made and I've yet to be. I said there was something in the story of the old women that reassured me And if I caught a feeling about them that was disconfirmed By all the other points of view? I had a good opinion of them, And now I find they were kind. The man whom we mourn may be a man out of respect for other men, But the shadow of his grief is over. And if his death comes at last, it comes to him as it comes to us. That is not the way to do it, to set your flute to tune The string may not touch the earth nor the flute receive the light. I have seen many men make it their theme To fetch and scratch the angel out. I will make myself in life a little To be placed in my neighbour's way. He might have gone out the way he came And if he had, good for him. To have taken that path, he might have Made his mother smile. I am much afraid of the way he likes To go upon his explorations. I cannot understand or speak upon this subject But am here to tell you now, Is the mirror for your grief And this and that to me, And this and that to you. The war had left its indenture so That vacancy in my neighbour's heart He could not come to me Nor find that cordial friend to meet him. He found it with his tears and I For all his hugs and smiles, That gaping lack. For I too have a void in my neighbour's eye. But now I can offer him all good cause To come and take a fill. He goes upon his explorations. So that is both their way. He goes, he learns, he finds. Now I have him, the chalk, to placid his blank. And when I say, "Tell on him if no one else will do." My mother is a tarp And my mother is a veil. A calm about the rough and tumble. When I say my father It is just a tongue I cannot use or push. The God that I have won, My God, is not that God of London. No, not that God of money And fame for my own. I will not own him As my God should be. I want my God to be What my mother made. I want my God to be My strength and my companion. For all I know He has gone through hardship. I want my God to be A whole new species. To be their guarded seed. So that I may Assert my place as well. And defend my body. The window before had just swung, The bookcase had its letters stacked, The week's work lay in the rag, In red notebook paper. Now all that stands there is a light switch. The candles are the barest lights. If one is happy And dealeth with men, Then love shall be his neighbour; If one be happy And dealeth with women, Then loud-conjurging faces Shall be his gods; If one be happy And dealeth with both, Awelling voices shall be his gods. All that is not-to-m truth, That transcends mere power, That swingeth, is not ======================================== SAMPLE 151 ======================================== Not to the new-laid field for her, This our greater nurse and mother; Here, for her sake, the fresher's love, And her glorious glory, give her A more than earthly name. And as in the Rg Veda It tells of daisies, and may-blooming, And deathless peonies, so here of her Of heavenly flowers the tale is told, In yet brighter hues unfolding, The ever-watchful virgin quiet, The ever-friendless rose. For, wherefore should the stars who know Only their inmost loneliness, And the unwighted wind obey the voice Of their unceasing force, and be One body all, and one and one, If not though every day it brought One higher grace to her face? Her majesty more sure than stars, More high than hills, and higher far Than the seas, against whose power, When she sways earth, and holds all spheres By her rule, the boundless main Slipper, and with his head Puts forth her hair to Bened. So, as this flower, or any flower For that matter, was it's crowning grace Before her face, the crowning grace To wave it on a realm more vast Than earth, where since she sways heaven, And all the winding ways obey? Nay, though the high heavens the decree Had given her, since they were made, To hold their empire by her will, Nay, though heavens and earth were formed With all their ablution grants, And have received their flowery crowns, E'en had she joyfully spoken With mouth unshapely, e'en with look unholy, Hymses one grave new-born thing: In her mouth is a sweet palpitatingxrefuge For a new creation's beginning. And this is the hope that haunts her The most, that her poor heart's entreaty Of selfish things may one day be fulfilled. What comfort, thou, to Velie's ear, To have the well-beloved boon, The loved one, given by her who loved you first! So may the saints above whose affections Are hers, may view her present woe As all that is good, may look and heal Her wound and make her heart foretel hope, The aching lucidity That now she guards, the sleeping softly, And joyn the birth to be. <|endoftext|> "Beggining, they (at cle) "Susan "Having, they (at crosse) " "Susan"(Hitchcock Morland (1874-19072) was one of the companions of H. M. S. " "Susan" was the ship's sister ship "Of the thirty-seven passengers; she carried a bouquet of silk flowers "of her homeward voyage"--H. B. died in the explosion of the blast. Her death was blamed on over-pressure, and she was placed in quarantine in France. She was the only member of the same group of casualties who suffered casualties. She was the only one of the passengers who died as a result of the explosion."--H. B. "the most varied and dramatic is the person who, by being present in different persons and in different states, comes out differently or himself from other people as well. The affair over with Germany "Paul Rheingold, 1914-1972 "during the war years at first neutral, but was then mandated to be there. He and I were friends. I think now he was somewhat over-anxious for war. A man can bear two losses, he said to me the other day. And said that I could not have broken his heart's arm when he was in the A. D. Vaimberge, I think. I think of him still, having remarked on him in our old class in Y. M. S. last summer. We sat up till dark, discussing individuals."--From a letter I'll tell you what I'll do, I'll tell you straight what I won't do. I won't do it because it's against what I have in mind. I won't do it for you. I won't do it for your sister either. I don't know. I mean it's personal. I don't mean it's easy. But it's personal. It's got me where I don't want ======================================== SAMPLE 152 ======================================== When first they leave their parents, the tears Are the very children's after-reaches. But those who can make no such excuse Are from ever to be beheld. And now to turn from youth to age, Their single merit is to tell A tale out of tragedy. So, in some war's crimson commotion, A single peasant, fighting alone, But with his naked, helpless limbs, Would, in his efforts for a lie, Naught do less than humanity, But give a name to famine, Bear up against a whole nation A lie so monstrous-aimed; For, unseen, 'tis our cry in truth, But that of one poor, miserable man, Who, out of numbers, prates Of monarchy, till our very tears We think we see the tears of it. The pure, impetuous numbers of the fates Orators use for despatch, to-day, Are to-morrow found so weak As a mere human being must blink, They are only as the stars appear; The number, therefore, must be hung o'er, But that of strength or weakness, We'd need but ask, When Fate the ship of State shall plain, Is the number small, or is it great? And they the more vulnerable realm Where safety of repose stifling lies, Their numbers will lessen more and more, Till numbers there will be none, and then Those numbers in their place may stand As near as Fate may please to mark our times; For small our empire, and growing small, As I affirm, to-day is, a mother, Who gave her birth to a feeble boy. And when she shall have culled her milk From up to these good times I suppose They shall be finer days for us, The happy, and the free. And, sure as it is a truth, You, and all mankind, will find From history's details plain That to a life full spent There is no righting way; But to go on, it seems to me, In nature's book as read, From one to this time stop-shorted, As many a mortal hath done; These from our present state, I'll even say, may have strength. There may be others that stand On better arguments, and who Their leaders in the proper place And after all, to restow, With wiser views will take Those that have had disgrace In plotting new things to see Upon the breast that moves. The world's an everlasting target To trigger-balls, and they'll wind In any way they may; To you or me or them, As one or other goes, So all may travel. I thank the Lord, As truly as I can, For an old Spanish sword, That in some war-scape chanced To have been Taizong's gift; And this, in my old age, I've kept with strenuous care, And if it chance with odds so bad To wound my finger, That I am called upon By those orders to fly, In case of such an emergency I'll use my weapon best. For my great-grandfather came To this old town in China, A man so great and mighty, With a mighty red belt, Well meaning to avenge A personal insult slighted Upon his dead brother, A faithful naginl that he slew, With great white spirit bade To preach and prattle "Humour!" Upon the great seashore, But I'd rather punch and swing Than mine own small shabream. I've lived my life and I've done Partly for love of her, But mostly for help Of an old friend who's been Like a father to me, And ta'en some trouble through With all the grace of a friend. So many people over the world Are luckless enough to go, Unjust enough to stay. Some fly to where they know nobody's looking And some where they think they've got to be By being unholy and foul, Being of a dishonest kind. But what a lot of mortals I've known Who were vicious but anyway to be Not ten aliments. The grace they've brought is that they've left Their footprints upon the wall And ground them firmly on the table. O Rudolf--there's a grace That's worth all the pains you've gone through, Ochoot, do you mind me, When people talk of parsons And their high domes and towers ======================================== SAMPLE 153 ======================================== thrown into the earth. A little girl. I know, because I was that little girl. Some things are best left unsaid. The golden threads that were spangled across her shirt Were not hidden from sight In front of her house, That much was clear. They were all there in their painted flowers and flags, And in the glimmering air, Where the cow lined up for her down on the grass That made her way before the mud caught her feet. Where she tripped against things hanging from the mesquite And where she tripped of the tall grass That stretched out her head into the distance. And where she tripped over graves which were sadder than the grass. And where her feet caught the shape of a girl Making her way down a road Architecture in starlight made of light. In those sad places, that lay between her reluctant feet, the girl learned all about her power of not looking and not showing. Her power of looking and not Look how her hands aren't always where they are meant to be. She was a little girl. She was a lot like you. <|endoftext|> "Song of Oyazel", by Lisa Davies [Activities, School & Learning, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Mythology & Folklore, Ghosts & the Supernatural, Halloween] I She walked down the aisle choking a secret. She had to sneak a kiss before the bell rang and she would be made to wait. The other girls ducked out to go to the restroom. She wanted to go through with it, but her conscience said: No! No kiss for you. II It had to do with a cat that had been living at the house and had escaped. I had to go into another room to get the cat some food and the cat jumped on the table stealing the bread! Then it did what cats usually do: It curled up and would not let go. Then I would forget it was my turn to do the hiding. And I had to set the bread in the oven for it to eat before the time was up. And it had to do it the other way to do that. III You had to go to bed very sad the instant the bell rang. Then you had to be quiet and think of it only good. It was like a rain-cave, and the bed was hard. And the wind had a will to really hurry. Then it had to do what rain does to roof and sash. The window would not stay up and you had to let it down. It would not stare into the room and say "See? It's me!" And you had to scoop a pebble and throw it far, far away. It had to blow, and it had to go and it had to take its sweet time. And you had to blow your own notes in bed before anyone else slept. Then it had to hide, fast and it had to be lonely. It had to do it alone and it had to be sure it wasn't noticed. It had to make as much of a show as it could. IV The issue that made her not have to be near. Then it had to do what it was not supposed to do. I had to have another cigar. Then it had to go and wait for me to have another. Then the next time we had her, we did not have another. Then we had to do the talking and it had to be about this. It had to be "just our two spirals." And if there was another we would have to transfer, we had to see it. Then it had to do what it was designed not to do. Then it had to ======================================== SAMPLE 154 ======================================== stocked their rooms, we all escaped. —When you saw that my tiny hat on my head was to the left of me, not the tail on your right as you gazed at me then, what image came to you? Was it the human one, or was it the serpent one, if you understood your every move, all those mites walking in your blood, the misfit tokens of our warring destinies? For when I moved your arm up as if to put your palm against my bruise, to leave the scratch there— where my brain had been taking a break from the worst day of swelling, you looked down to us—me, the six thousandth descendant of those who crossed a world of oceans to find here. And I moved my hand to put your kiss to the left of my bruise, and I am no closer, no closer to the divine understanding of our blood and where it goes, or how far on either hand, than when I first saw your angel after I lifted my hand to cover it. It is not that I don't love you or that you don't love me or that anything like that could ever take those two from anything like that in the first place: it's just that we're a pair of anywhere from a change to another from anyone <|endoftext|> "Empty Wheelchair", by Sharon Al' Sturm [Living, Growing Old, Health & Illness, Life Choices, Parenthood, The Body] What I don't understand is the woman at the reception desk of the local ER When I call at an unco moves faster than the ambulance I came in a sitting duck I was two-fucking-ton(ugh) when I woke I weigh now I hope about 115 pounds(1) Now I'm a stick What the hell what the hell do I Just a two-seated bullet head work fine every time I do the same thing every time I get in the same bed Same place I stay same place I stay same age same age same age I don't understand I don't understand <|endoftext|> "The Grand Tour", by Sharon Al' Sturm [Living, The Body, The Mind, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Trees & Flowers, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] One person does not equal one person And while I'm sure there are many there are not When it comes to weights and measures we're not People are not people but words do bring To the collective mind . . . Here we go Here we go We go On the connections then you win Yet I know some of you are leaving here But there are no criticisms To be voiced here So it's time for another change It's time for another change Again Again A man came flying off a ship in this order On the physical evidence (we were on the intellectual one) On the ocean floor there were no physical evidence He claimed to have seen him on a ship A ship on the ocean floor floating . . . We all came to the same story: A man came flying off a ship in his lifetime In his physical time In his auditory time And he shows up in the digital row <|endoftext|> "The One Percenter", by D'Anne Lewis [Living, The Body, Love, Desire, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, Race & Ethnicity] "B-side," comes up as tap when kiss fade to rum as bs means belt anyway after the I comes as I am backside but before the c comes the s and the r is also before d but I come and go, new bit me and see the walk-up window as dance meets do-re and I but also is before the dance I get there and there too the walk-up window as evie call out be-side to walk up but get there too I get there, new bit me but I am new bit me walk up but get there too The new bit of me is The One Percenter he is the main man and the main get there and gets there and gets there again walk up and get there Walk up and get there walk up and get there walk up and get there walk up and get there walk up and get there walk up and get there walk up and get there walk up and get there walk up and get there and get there and get there and get there again and again walk up and get there walk up and get there walk up ======================================== SAMPLE 155 ======================================== then coming near, O-er my shoulder's rough planks I ran, I-a-boiling something was indeed there, -At my back my sides and elbow's plight; -At my head there was the sea-blue part Of my brain, and here the sea was green. -The very seats of sight and hearing The strangest things assailed me of all: For Sigebert whispered: "He, who tries To escape with running can not flee CRUCIFIED by the head." "Yes" said my Sigebert, "you CRUCIFIED are!" And that was enough, and the pill Of Pyracwork we took as a whole. Pitiless, we took no more kind, But to the borders went: we were off There by Xanthus' stream, and the flood Sank down into the VULTURES'OUGH SEA. How my poor heart feared thee, one of us! The others brought their wares to the Queen. From dead men the has brought to the Queen All the dead arms that bore the world, Or the vast handful of his own men. He hath spared us the great rolling deep, For their goods he hath chosen to spare, But his heart, at whom all rest in prayer, Still beats and stirs and strives and works and suffers, My little one, who wants play As well as a kingdom or a God? To be, to be a baby--to be As dumb as a stone, a beast, or a weed, Or even as a leaf that shakes for the showers Of the rains, and is ashamed to be kissed By the sun, and only disppointed By the dust that constantly is spread Upon the childless world that weIGU, The baby who makes no start upon the wheels Of the great world with its MYSTERIOUS wings That blossom and balloon into bright play, Whose locked smile, being unbent, will never more Prison it from being meaningless. <|endoftext|> "To the Returned", by Edgar Allan Hershman [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Spring-like Happiness, Weather] When the winds again roared like hungry wolves And the lights and the streams gave command, And once again the land filled with flowered gore, From the earth's abyss more swiftly came A snow that coloured within its fog, Flaming the little lawn below. But time, it went back to how it was once headlong rosy-gloomykind In those spring-fed over pastures gripedearliest, In the hush of the night where the centaurs' feet Danced in the grasses, and moon-mounted jasmine daisied. Backward, in the oak-crowned afternoon, Like a gull in a fairy tale drenched crown, Gulls, with tiny coppery beaks, glided wide With their interpretation of spring: for this Was where the spring had been, and so it was. <|endoftext|> "Olympus Stairs", by Edgar Allan Hershman [Living, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Sports & Outdoor Activities, Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Popular Culture] Not since the steep where Getosa church Leads down from Kolk to its garden-hide With its tiefie indigo vale, And you can bumble for a giddy year The dunged dings of your back; And when the air above yon singin' pine Does fling its withered, peaty sprays About your head and breast; Seem I too had climbed as stung as he, Stung by this country's terrors hard, And by its own heart-searching dared To tread its slippery steps up To each low holier peak of joy That lifted eyes were dazzled by For a moment, in a vapor snare From the fiery work of God. Or, even had you suffered long And lurch'd your light body down To earth as drifts a feather'd dove, And on its down there sinking be, The very world and all its cries Would hear, and faintness back send; So that it seem'd you downward drew Somet where you fell, And left the shore for there on high, An ever-hovering ticker half way 'twixt. <|endoftext|> "On a Time", by Rabind ======================================== SAMPLE 156 ======================================== Exhausted, of life in vain; and now One hundred years roll'd, the second part, One hundred years by turns of death Of kings or heroes, dastard-men or heroes, We count all. Where are they? All dead! How long? One half, the half half dead! Henceforth our space of one hundred years Shall be four hundred years; and we, If, speaking rightly, I understand My language, which speaks itself to death And yet can beg the poor pardon of The eternal memory that thus Forgotten sleeps, -- if in my judgment That can and if in mine, I count This century as that which we travel Through, have lived through. And we shall live Through this. All that we are is transmitted, As the sun's ray transmitted, through those Who live still; and shall be, when we are dead. A horse of Mesopotamia! A spear from Mesopotamia! Archaic of the East, and ancient (Whose age, if known, is not yet estley To the stern Nine, their fifteenth group,) Where the dread Nine sate (The grim, wise Fisher Priests of the World), Each with his seal and name, that he could use Well enough for his mere signature, (I forget the number of those) And private embraces followed Theetia and Gorgona's perfessions And Gentileschi's and Venul's flattering costumes, -- If these were to allow, That you could ever think so little. But why should I? I made them; and Not their livery of silk and gold But the bare bones of the animal, Which showed that he held blood in no mad man's whim But the great old blood of God and man, Both noble truths, the first and last That were on earth and will live on air, So said they what was said, and for so They were seen and held in secret. With a thousand swords in days of old Greece fought the Trojan and Grecian lords, From Tirziello and Imbrenna tower; With men and arms, and the ivory gate Of King Pharamond from green to hoary, -- O golden gate, whose lacquer hangs Half a thousand years, will I present And make it manly! Can any queen, With such a treasure in her keeping, have sinned As greater sin, and yet they tell That they have grown less patient. Well, say they, Their own is the custom; and that one, The Visitor, only shall be gone, And their own people shall have island-nights. And yet the king shall bring back the twain, To play with silver and with splendour for her face. And she shall ride the town and walk in it. O blythe, O blythe, O beautiful Queen! Are you weary of your own perfect day, Your own perfect perfect time? Pause it now! The Devil will whip it into rigour; There'll be no other but He to offer strikes The Demon which your mother, the Demon, named, So old and so out of heart, that she Was sure the Devil was her mother. O mother! it were sweeter to know Your own child's self, but it were sweeter to know That other's self of the self of your child! And I'll tell you! O dear one! O dear Queen! Thy own perfect day was thy own perfect night, And even the purest thing as that, in truth, So cherished is the purest in my dearest friend. And she was pure; and so these two, they loved, And, as for what they seem, in their own ways, Were even more at rest than is yet known Toquire poetical: I speak of Doris. I watched her from my chair, and, as I watched, I drew her down to look and listen. I said: She was well-nigh a damsel then. We sat in silence and looked at her, I, And then, I telling her of things and people, Deeming it seemed a reason for telling her, And I began to see she was a good girl, But when I thought the opposite, I knew, And felt the need of saying it, again, 'Twas folly to encroach on her privacy. 'Twas even in hearing the word dame, again, So pleasing as a pickpocket may, yet so vain. And then, at last ======================================== SAMPLE 157 ======================================== What woman's heart-strings could have rippled, What would have sprung from earth had heard the slipper Of a rose-leaf in her path? Now are strings to move On the viol of this music we intend, Now the mute instruments of Her deep soul, her own heart-strings. What though we wound no tender string Nor play from eyes, as the quivering Nave of the soul has heard, Hushed as a tavern, or a banquet-hall, With endless noise of women and men, Choking voices, tear-tried as the eyes Of a madman's mask? <|endoftext|> "Tithonus", by Ralph Waldo Emerson [Living, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Arts & Sciences, Sciences] I heard the Tithon's this and that; And the deep boat-voice of the high-sea-tide. And the sea's deep voice the island's voice: I heard a measure, Greek or Roman, For my ship and my day; And under all measure, constant and regular, The same deep voice, deep as of a bell. My proppides went under, my anchors stayed; The proppides stayed my ship. What was meant by that deep voice? And what deep measure? I cannot tell: I have tried a long way who would learn. But the deep voice, I heard it. <|endoftext|> "Continued from p. 137", by Ralph Waldo Emerson [Living, Death, Death, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Funerals] Dead,you were worth the slaying of all the worldlaught. All the world lards are here with you to-night, And larded into lust. Were you a statue you would not walk around, Coral and black stone by candescent tidelashing. Dark, your pallid idols, lifeless since your death, And larders to be filled. A tender pretense, like carping of our hearts to you. All of the world lards, lovers and masters of the dead. Not to you, O queen of the air, Walking, have they had any whit, Though they larded up their lust, And had you for their mistress, you would have none. <|endoftext|> "A Last Bite", by Jane Hirshand [Living, Death, Nature, Animals, Trees & Flowers] The ravens eat the camphor winds; The thain the seeds of the dreams of trees.The bees feast upon the seed-loads of the rowels; The bumble-bums bite the lap of the leaves.I hear the crows eat the dying green, They are cheerfulness's starved ones. <|endoftext|> "The Ambush", by John Ashbery [Living, Death, Time & Brevity] What had he seen, what had he known, That he so violently wakens us From his long secret? In his strong rags he shows us his foes, Close their throats, unbreathing their life;In their dark shades they make a dramatic truce. <|endoftext|> "Hogan Centre", by Ted Berrigan [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Arts & Sciences, Theater & Dance] I take my birds on a roadside walk-rit, Entering the purple clouds of the Oregon Ken- uary, and the caribou are strewn like stones On tundra, surrounded by the blue Vermont. I drop my H-bomb grave suit upon my feet, And grandly bellidy whistle all the roads I cross. What kind of bird am I? Is itaret much? I wonder. I mean to say I blow the birds back From their natural behavior. The wind is kind In that it stops me at brambles, railroad-silence, Tramping of pines. I am often meworn, as is fitting For such a wanker of pannier straps, capacious pants. The family pet, rabbit-vixen, leet, lairs my smoke. My hounds, crests, and labs do too, And I am the sign that I am beast of drink. <|endoftext|> "What Is A Horkill?", by Jane Hirshfield [Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Nature, Landscapes & Grassland / Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Theater & Dance] I found a baby belled out of a ditch ======================================== SAMPLE 158 ======================================== Both else may well be weak. 'Tis therefore truly said That in the heart and in the head We most resemble Nothing but That distant star that brightens hither. And just as in the world We are as we ought to be, In the mind we're always The very image of ourselves; And so at length we're sure to Be that same a very love, That same distinct and mark'd Discrete and lone that way. So, too, as we receive That image of the mind, It too is distinct, And lonely and differ'd As the two hearts that go on From here to other hearts. 'Tis therefore just in each Love, in love, to speak true; Whilst the mixed, the unresting, Write, copy, or design, Only the image of th' utter And vainly-changing mind. Then it is surely well, And I most truly so; To prevent, to ward The many dangers of the day, And all those dangers above, To choose that very love, which Where danger is, We have preferred on the way: Which ward love will then defend, And place for itself secure from Those foes, that alarm and snare. Then it is surely well, And I most truly so: That, for the light sake Of a little, little thing, To refuse 'twould seem as tantamount To open heresy. <|endoftext|> My little ones love the, light, And they grieve that their far, much-lov'd mother Nakes them to joy another day; But I sweeter as I'm more proud That they have not been mis-marred by wings So blest and fierce as she brought, And that they've not the pride in them To do with pity or scorn, For I've teared such like them myself Whom I was willing to cheer. I, more proud, more loved than they, Write this my little book of less, And blithe to read it I certify; But if Heaven close o'er my head The crown of love and I meet on earth No elsewhere on my head to lay, I'd rather die than so. I'd rather die than live without That strength of will, that power of sense, In that man, whom I verily enshrine To mine, my spirit's nation and chart; For I know he stands fast in his faith Through all affliction, heaved through with grace, And in the end is glorious for its work. Hast thou not found Samson so excellent, And Caesar so superior, as to be Not only conqueror, but survivor Of Joshua's wildest hopes and thine? How, O how wasted since that day the world! What orb through all the brazenaltitudes Of heights which thy renown hath lighted! where Of thee the more, the more thou dost depart! O Lord! if thou hast in remembrance one Of those, O our brethren and sons in tears, Who, being foes, couldst never turn to friends; Who for each other made each one gamekeeper, So dear they both be and unweiyhsome As the East from the West and the Moors from the Turks; How dear these passage-ways are to thy halls! How the depth of the Zohion heart is glad That they were so free from thee, the imps of Hell! To make it your pleasure, and not my shame, I go, that I may say what pass'd in your mind; But ye, O fellows! that sit as partners of mine, Remind that I am, that I speak with your grace; And that as a Brienzo hitherward is born A Danee, a new Benares, a Danes; So a Plain God send you, but your mind impure. Why, and ye shall see and hear, how white are cruines Even now before the bell of the first city; The Devil himself approacheth there in earnest; That it may begin to be more observable Whether he come as God that day or night. For this same day, this heaven-mouthed day, to end All times with me, to bring to an end All the rest, in noise, imperfect and amain As a fit hystereer for holy place, Ye shall see me cast, whether white or red; Where so that comport of holy arms appear As in before the Virgin's face is fair, Or else in some one good stolne ======================================== SAMPLE 159 ======================================== be my companion? Alas! what boots it me to meet him, To make of this such a season? Like spring, He seems to me to be gone to seed. And yet how he is wearing off With that tiny view of you! I've a friend, as fine a thing to count, And a string of pear-tarts in his waist; Where'er he goes the public raves on, The people flit like bees. He's the end of life and loves to live On each one's merit. A strait's head that will not tweeze In its allotted field, Is a malison for a niggard nature, And so aging breaks All convalescence; Naught the less may we see, and tasting this, That his heart is cold, For a little cold at the last it shall be. With heedless hands and fading pleasure, He now spends his money; A few days old is the newborn wine that He drinks to roses, Wherefrom he smit with pleasure taken; Let him drink, and he shall awake our fire, And he shall make us old. No false steps are left, There is no keeping sheep; The world's surest place of folly is Where we're used to chasing flowers; They're blind, they cannot See that they're straying, And that the road's so twofull. But he's such a homelier one Than all that here, And with a smile so genuine As his own, And in a homeless mood, And with no part in cuckoldry; He's the man, God, that just steps In where the Lord is, And shakes with derision. The room, the arc of the light, The staircase, the ground Of this world, The motive with which we live, And what we can't or wouldn't do; We have seen in a passing wink. It's always what isn't that makes us quail, For in the eye of all that we see, There's little enough to take one fancy. Some where, in choler of the world, Are faint into a sleep Dropped through the floor, In some are dropped and some are Raised into the skies Of some world that's fixed for aye. For what is there can't be found, Or what can be conceived In the feigned yet? And now 'tis ours for the denied, And 'tis our lot to be Afflicted, to be blessed, to be Cloyed with delight. And he who, wandering in the gloom, Reaches at length, by the light Of setting and dim trees, That with hoarse winds the valley's wail Shakes in the evening's chills; He too, who has lost in a vision The mighty circle he drew In forms of a hundred climes, And knows not his own flesh's A weight beyond his fears-- Oh, if only the earth were Not a kindled fire! A flame which in time's afterglow Is seen a different mount; For flame of old was this-areoint, And now, though west, 'tis a homer, Which from east is rising, As each has changed the tongues Which quake in his utterance. And yet, I would say, that he Of old was good and true; But that's he's a politician, And that with Alexander theathless, That he's Louis Philippe-- I mean of old who, at last, To find that he is not true, To doubt himself I don't ask Who shall at all, be speaking truth, I mean of all who now pass, To know, not which is true; And he who crowned for other people His head that morn and noon, Will learn, if he will learn it, soon, That he is king of thorns. There is a fen: the air is sweet With upward light, and downward ground. And the river rolls, with delirium, 'Twixt banks of that fantastic stick. The wall is made of stone that stands Behold how fair it leans, all a-give, And all are o'er that place can pass That way, and 'tis so grown a road, 'Twixt ground and beamer, even as fast As, it hisses 'neath the sun, There is a limestone rock! 'Tis all in a gipsy's power: the nimble Wight ======================================== SAMPLE 160 ======================================== A candle burning still upon the hill And filling its sides with rays of light And on the twilight air and in the breath Of pines that the trees percheape in the chill, And on the moody face of hill and sea The melancholy of a certain night And many afterdays. A red gold moon hangs a pearl between the bars, The tumbling waves of air lift and lower In hosannas; unseen waves dash on And ghost along the tide, a dancer moves To music on the beach; a frail veil Ripples out across the bright sand, Frail as the grasses; on the edge A crab-beast hops along the beach, And under the deep seaweed-beds The frosty ooze clinks and shivers; As if the ring of earth could pump Its wild heart up and away. A lily bursts into blossom on a bough, It twinkles ere it springs, its boughs are letters, And when the sun blooms in the grey rain, A song is heard in its breast, and A smell in its fart, and a wind is a lure To stagger off the withered and weathered fish, And a leaf shakes in the gust and the blue bells Are rustling in a chime That sweeps away in search of food. A horse with slacks and stooping legs Clumbs from water to water, He dips his levelled head, he whirls his mane And rides down on the sounding surf: He knows the tide, he sweeps to shore, He trudges with the shipping, he clambers o'er The pebbery mud, the twisted beach, He scuds ahead in the clinging weed, He dyes to the wind's breath, He grazes across a form of broken foam, He draws to land and cracks His bristling flanks with a timid rider, And gasps and snorts and streams In gaudy mist he sometimes sees The green and white together: Thou scatterest mortal, wind! A wheel is in the air that is not wheeling, A fire-smick that is not blazing, A fair number of clear prophesying Are smitten on the spire, The water is wet and white in the finish, The water-beeches shimmer on In misty splendor, The low smooth eddies thrill in the cool Of a watery view. The blades of our white water is full of craft And illcraft and misprision, And the smooth plain is gently whelmed and carved By the blades of our mind, But the wheels of our course are all self-controlled, Our craft is all self-controlled, The placards are clearly marked That we may know When we are in our best interest. On the sky is a knife, On the sea is a spout, On the air is a dram, On the earth--all's blind--no name, No light and no sound, Yet a wise man--sought-- It may be for his own. Two sorrows meets me in my days, Mute equality of death, And the fate that kills the speech; Cape will I not escape 'em, Clear will I not be dumb? O, if this be a true should be-- If this be a fresh should be-- If this be a fresh should be Then come joy, come pain! These will I bear like a rose, These seek I but to be For ever a white rose, Or ever a snow. I have the love, but not the fit, Can hope, but not despair; All my life long I shall lie One crisis, or high, Will be fresh, or old. Out on the marsh at sea The water-king brought his catch: Snappers and cups, and valves, and sticks, And in the water a filmy piece Of floating cloth of gold. We rose with it, and he bad us take care Not to let the king know, If we should take his goods. The junks were climbing Mount Street, The city rocked in its bed: The love-sick lovers longed for each His mother'siling arms to blot; And rolling back from these The great wheels of justice ran, And carried, in the hurrying tide, The beggars' cart. The shapeless junks of gully ran In many a rainy night, The stern justice, the grim, cold noon, Gently broke, and let the ======================================== SAMPLE 161 ======================================== We do not die, We do not die; We are not numbered With the departed, We are not given To the living, We are not given To the living. We are not proud and boastful, We are not persecuted, We have not long Journeyed in the wilderness. We are from home, From our land We would be as one with thee That home is here. All hail, then, in the power of the West, Lift up the song, let your vibrato soar; Take all that courage can give, And meet your Fatherland with sunshine. Not the flag of the battle foe May its truce of rest uphold, While the soul of her claspt land Turn to the tide and to the sky. Hast thou got things under your feet Not to meddle with the feet of grace, Nor to pass by her while she's first Let thy hand be the heart of her land, And be at rest from all her woes alone. Our stock of affliction is not small, And our griefs cannot be hidden. For, turn by turn and double by three, We take our places again With our sorrow, our sins, our hopes, All, o'er my soul, I sound them through, Dealing damage to the reverse. And I do it with a smile As the West no reproach has, To my East-wind's sickness. What glory, what good What end to off shall be revealed to what I have done Or what is still to be. For as fast as any may find To all things I make quick, so fast they must, unnavilled, run. As warlKsman tkreek, As warlKswana, tell, So well can you tkime That a wether Is an ewe Whose tail is wether, So that I can tell what comes from o'er to spring in a pod From the wide world wide, How long, how wide, how strong, what end to tell. And what, besides, Is there in this east wind fair When you come to talk That you seem to come from everywhere, As if you shared your aire With the whole wide world, So you can wind Your way through stillness and air Through woods of blue Where Mountain-ash, As tree or forest, As the lotos-ashes, spread, Tangling in the spring; Through paling twilight weather, Wildering ere awake; Through eyes that for the night-clouds gall As they close gaze; And heard, o' hear the crows And quail in the brushwood brake That 'gainst their greenness fear Their afflictions shall share; For in a coop in the bush The wild-birds are roosting fast, And thro' the bushes and brush They squawk low, they twit their slur. O, God of the sheep's shieling thigh, Is it a sin to be wise? To show the horn for help When it's right there with us To fight the evil? For wise is cold and infert When it's time to fight the ill. And many a scholar, To his own beloved hope Yet lives a professor That would be born professor Of another science And never study learning. For friends and kindred both We that keep afar play And 'ways we do beg a share In friend or friend a stranger; With whom we have a cup Of cupid trips his curio. But one we can not spare And we give as cheerly To our wishing as we may The drink that's always strong, So that others, loath To miss the chance of a share, May draw it from their classroom. There is a drink in me that is brown and thick and foamy, And 'laying hry, I am able to look long and broad and small and free and leor. It is me that likes to stand And proudly show off That drink that is brown and foamy-- That is for you and me To drink and be merry, When we both have a full and merry heart and happy body, And don a joyous face, And 'settled sit. It's pappy who goes before The car and me That knows you two by viziers three I am a' marine eyes The house I know Be-cause you were grown a little. You and ======================================== SAMPLE 162 ======================================== The heath is springing green, The heath is shrinking red, But still the worm is slimy, And the old worm is slow. But see the heather is spread On the hillside white, And the good green grass is creeping, And the heather blooms are sweet, But the heath-bird's wing is thin, And his prey is hard. Granite or clay, Goodinton is synonymous With "toiling and much weeping." Not only was the town entered Old Norwich is famous in rat lore, The "ripe green-blue" rat is born In Old Norwich, rat to be exact, Blue eyed, lying, ratit in a wood, Clustering, sightless, rotten, alone, In his mother's nest. Rat, Here you can SEE the rat in action, purblind, and lame, Watch his dogged courage rise, Watch him on a ladder cling like a fat butterfly to a bough. Tin sleeping and millenial, rat in his hunting disguise. Rat to the hounds, and whereso offers best, or best hides best, Rat in "A", stooping, pricking, Rat in "B", bursting--like a keen blade slicker, line and pulse, I was told by an old-time painter, The task was his, To keep the poor in children's fen, inspecting, draining, washing, With his bare hands. Old people used to call him "Polly," For his small eye, and he had a, In his country, word for word, exciting, straining, To keep the poor awake, through his watch and his day. Lord of the snows that lined snow-locked bens, Where the last snowy hawk, Grugging for break and gut, Showed a crackling plied bright where the wind blew wild, Ever the white-plumed hawks were gone, While we stood dumb, and saw him take In the world's wild appetite. Snorting, rolling, Thronging into even, The dappled flocks, flocking everywhere, Shelter besieged claimed, At the winter queen: And small and white A hungry scarlet bird In the morning pecked warning-sweet. That little crow With the booming laugh, Squawk and squawk, Heard the little flight Of the flock That scattered, quick as light, As with shake of summer wind, He wandered, slowly stealing Through the little meres Of the flocks, Up and up, Back from alps, Up to the warm Meaningful rout O man of earth, my strength is thine, For the weary and the weak, For the lone woman unsteady, For the orphan child, and playmate strange, For the stranger neighbor tired and sad, For the labourer that will never ride Home again, For the humble wheelman hated and dropped For a murderer in the street. No aid will I refuse them which they need, No foil which falls from my unfaid right, No malt which ignorant poverty Falls on to shade him, borrower and taker Of the friendly safety that is mine. Pilgrimage! I have touched the river, Leaped in the world, and seen the dawn, Brought sacrifices, deaths, and wars, And promis'd holiness to men. How my return, ever returning, Sends an entirely different message From one man into the uttermost night. Behold the place where he lingers, At the base of the oak, and the pine, And the lilies of the frosty falls, Where the wind through the groves comes fondling, And the spring-flowers come creeping; Yea, the church is close at hand, and the heron Crosses to and fro the white tower, Making A melody of rusty bolts And cables, and rolling to the well, Underneath It is strange that the heron Crosses to and fro, And the lilies of the frosty falls, Should join together in a prayer so strange, But this I know, that at his feet His apostles died as dead The earthly death which he hid from me. Deeper in the rabbit-proof moat Eels the ocean-sandalp Matholrstan; Deeper, deeper, in the moat, Where the red death dines, drink thither! ======================================== SAMPLE 163 ======================================== ] Elder if you were: I don't know how old he was. The way you were come, when you spoke, I thought, he must be my uncle, for we looked like each other. The way you talked, I said, he must be my cousin, for you were all over-sculped and pore and fat: he said he weighed only seventy-five. And you seemed, he said, just the same, and you were as young. He said he was an orphan, and you were not so young. He said his name was Bryant and he said his father was a whale, and he said every word of every book about the whale and he said he told every story of the whale every minute he was alive. He said the whale was like a man, and you were not young. And all through October, and up into November, he kept telling me about the whale, and how he had come to be one of the great whales, because when the great whale ate his pod, he must have become like a woman, have been drawn to live among men, have eaten them. And I said I doubted he would be near enough with anyone near enough his own family to care. And I said I did not think he would look so very often, and I said you may look, and you will be like the great whale, and he said as he swam nearer and nearer and towards nightfall looked like he was mad, and then he passed where I swam, where I swam towards the wind, but he was mad, for he swam towards and towards nightfall, and lost. And I say he was mad, and he is eighty now, and he is grown, and he is very mighty. <|endoftext|> "At the Azores", by Walt Whitman [Activities, Travels & Journeys] I. At the Azores, Wednesday, August 5th Not far from the shore of the blue lake, Not far from the shore of the field called CONGEAL, In the land of the Ladies of St. John, is an island Like a castle, and not alone her walls; Her gates are guarded by one very sad sign, One very sad sign, A very sad sound, A very sad sound, The cry of a Lady that has been killed. I said, "Sherry Dore, do you see this cry, I having said it, will have a meaning; And if I do, shall you tell it?" Her eyes being very sad, Her mouth being very sad, Her hair being very black, Her dress very white, All struck with the colour of the cry All stricken, and struck black, Her very black hair, And not genteel, But very sad, and very sad, The cry of a lady that has been killed. O cry of a noble lady, who was killed, Of a noble lady, who has been killed?" And I looking up to the black roof beams See the beam today, See the beam of the black night-tide, And think, "The noble lady of this house Has not been killed, But I myself am both married and dead, And so is this cry." And then my dear daughter said, "Father, Father, who was it say, said That she had been killed? But she had not been killed, And, by Dad! we killed her!" But Dad replied, "No, gentle reader, No lady was ever killed, But I killed a lady, I killed her, dear." And his daughter said, "Father, who killed she?" But Dad replied, "Not a lady, dear, Was ever killed, But by! Dad, Dad!" And the lady sigh'd, And she wiped her tears, And she saith, "O, not the lass of La Hay. And how many years?" I said, "Ten, or eleven, But of course I do not know." And she answered, "O, not the lass of La Hay." But, dear me, I did see A black eye of the kindliest kind, A black eye, and tears, And the truest things. I shall never forget the black eye and tears, And the truest things. And the kind lady sigh'd, And she wipe'd her eyes, But she crink'd her brow, And she said, " ======================================== SAMPLE 164 ======================================== Her starry glances from the hour When their light sages found a home In the South Pacific The crowd, the tear, the tear, The thing that isn't--the desolation Of motion in the dark, on a streak Of evening, in a room of smoke; Alive, moving, still--the wink of a light, A crash of the glass, and a figure standing Tiptoe, to see in the mirror The white hall mirror: Oh, she wakes from a sleep Where a green room in her heart has grown Past midnight, with the glass winking at her, In a far place where no one passes, Ripping the bright sheets as a before Of a to-morrow. She looks at the glass Moving under the dark, then at the light, And the making of her body, then Turns over and goes down on her knees To a small bed in the hall, and there Turns over and goes down on her knees And weeps under the dark, till the light Where the dark begins to thin Is half the beginning of a prayer, Which she repeats, and slowly turns The night was clear, not a cloud In the far sky, But she had been dreaming of a man Who would come to her in the far-off years After the war, When the fields would be green, and the soil Befulting slaughter, and the river Be marred and poisonous. She had dreamed of this, And as she prayed and as the years Brought one after another after one Before she was wholly lonely, one Of a long train,--a great youth, who would come To her in the far-off years After the war, And the boat would whisper at the door. In the morning of the past, When the sea was a horrible sight, With gunboats and flags and escort And a thousand hungry dogs, A thousand weary men, Pilots and settle in her lane The first day she saw him a great smile Crossing his lips as he stood In the orange sunset. They knew each other and they kissed Calmly, and parted at the end When the sun eased down the valley; But they parted as if they had done it A thousand times, And the next day, he was in her lane As she expected him. There is a long row of boats on the shore Beneath a crutch of rocks, With heaps of yellow grass and blue shells on One side, and a shrubby look Of rock-assays the other. The beach is crampred and bared of sand and frets Of water, and to the sea you hear the dip Of little waves, but it is but a show To show like a glass broken in the grip Of your dear conscience. All the noise is blown above by the waves. It is all noise to end the vigil That you stay in this strange coast. How much of your own child Is in you! For you alone Stand at this window and brood in silence On a lazy sunset. And you are alone in your own though piously, And all the plente shook into disrepair Is in the corners. There is a glass where light through the thin curtains Are strong and moist, A sound of water and voices That you do not know, And then a pool where you sit On a seat that is not the same as other seats Beneath dry rock and blue water. There is no other But your restless body and you. At night, by the candle, The curtains are drawn, And little dreams are kept In place by this power Of tears in water. Your body, awake at noon, Waddles with a sigh That your mother has sworn And your father has denied. On the small tablets of skin Time fills with hourly ticking; But you do not notice, do not know The hours are torturing. Even the bird does not Make me laugh. I lie and observe In a hard bed of tape The things the moon makes To carry on its white wing, All silvery and vague. In a year you will return to me In the condition in which you are. But now, after long years of solitude In the Orient he sits in his room, Cuts grass and plays with his pipes, Forgetting about him the pain Of fishing in a foreign land. Is there a line in an old person's yard Where he has forgotten his success? Does he place his shoeless feet on a bench ======================================== SAMPLE 165 ======================================== have o'er her.' 'It might have been,' quoth the maid, 'A traveller athwart the earth Seen her in foreign lands; And in the newness of summer hours The urchin, knowing nought of wastes, Made her at first her boast the form, And thence in time her native shape.' 'Ay, ay,' quoth the amorous sage, 'The spring is now advanced a zede, And, haply, if she's not thy choice, Thy choice might be the best of all. And--she is young, I ween, And what is youth but 'neck deep in haly water? And yet a word to her, to her In this great pond, old Time, To whomp elate: 'Where's the flood, Which Time could turn a spangle clear? And where is Youth, which should be The ripe culmination of all things? What if I spill the brew, And over with thee run the spring, Whate'er 'twas we liked at his Made flesh the tip-top fruit, Which I was glad to scoop, And sipped, and gazed, and looked, And cried, I was a spangle-head! Who could fail to see His clambering form in those steep vaults Of glass, and seek to such a place 'Twixt glass and sky as made him end With that steep cliff behind, and the Young spangle, his own? Thou hast known such a day, when all Thy lucent form, the sun at noon, Had bestrode the high palisade Of the wide sparkling water; Thou hadst spurned the miller's Measures to tread in; Thou from thy making shrank, And I had care; And every nook and cranny That was out potting had A square of thee. I, too, have such a spot, though Not always such. 'Tis October, when the leaves are falling; The pine is drooping, and the large birches And majestic · · · are lying · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · The huge trunk· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · Is trembling as 'twere a school of coos. The broken bulk · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · Whose struggles are tender;-- My heart is warming to your wrung Affronted limbs, that trembble so. You shed, and I gain, the gain That Hope gives, the glory: The rough bare hill has left its shape; Is fallen on a stormy day. In the noon sun the silence med'ring Is chill and leaden. From the lawn, the long black train Has reached a fine height, And I know that you wait The long steep snaky roof Of this dark · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · Fading so; and then The long dark hill has bent To the slow moon and shade. I stood as you did. Time now and space divide Our friend and me. Time and space divide us, Friend and me; and ourself Is only time. It was a day When our two spirits had Deep in their laughter and tears Shared a long trip; Our shadows went from shadows, We were our own best friends In the calm bright sun, While only time was spent Before we knew We were two spirits Vague, nebulous and spooky The something has of yours and me, It is never gone! It comes and goes From here to yonder point; It's thy lips that make me sick, And thy hair the reason why I loathe to touch. Beloved all who know me, I ask for pass for lovers; Never since I knew at large My sister and brother Could I get a lunatic To pass a glass with me; I would not. You must believe I had My train of following When I was but a child: From my picture book (No more blank page) I learned to paint; I learned the nurse to fail When I told by no means The figure of my man. The amber For me is more and greater Than that truth That in my soul is less and less. Oh, may I die While I ======================================== SAMPLE 166 ======================================== Strewn in the mountain caves And dank tombs, the shapely skulls, Where hope and memory their vows repeat: "Good-bye, and good-bye," the echoing echoes call, "Good-bye, and good-bye," the echoing echoes return. Virtue shall be learned in childhood, Love and duty in adolescence; Wisdom shall shine in solitude And beauty bloom in maturity. Flowers grow when thou an hour dost sleep; From wanton thought forbear thou tend, Whate'er thou shouldest treasure know-- It will increase when he thou lov'st receive. Fame and wealth I 'm weary raising; For a while a Duke's post I 'd raised; For a while I 've painted graces, But cruel suns my skill have burned; And, running still, my heroes' fame, 'Tis, like my own, a fake; 'tis all a word, A empty sound, where neither lives. I said, "Dearly would thine Orb of Heaven The brilliant World of Science seek, If it be not from her lances sent, Nor feel a watch and ward of stars Till she no longer art a slave, But free make fair our earth and skies: Nor slack thee in my doubtful eyes That know not what is given thou hast, If Creation's kind hands gave it. "The wheel of the planets ringeth round, The stars revolve, the calyx ascends, And angel-keys direct our flight, And lull us asleep into dreams. The sun upon his throne, the moon, The Arch-Angels in their assigned range, Have heard thee, wondered, and admired; And like thyself upon their missions feel The Heaven beneath them, though they shine above. "And I am Bruce, who loved my mistress well. The saints in their holy time make money, And none do boast a greater abstinence; So thou, having yoked the Beast, once style'st The Prince of Perfidious Clamor; I know not how the world, in man's blindness, Can't have thee for a dear or a foes, But with gladness for thy lofty sake I seek thee, and would wed thee again. "Fortunate is the lover, that with her Can be content, not royal in desire; Though, with a proud hand, and a pale conscience, Of fortune makes thee change thy form, That see'st the sunlight and the Seraphs' eyes-- To the pure life do what thou would'st, they think, And the pure soul behind the veil hide-- So thou, with your good, the more ones; Happier thou, the more loves. "Thou mak'st, that twice in two years I shall succeed; Or if loaded with glory, twice do so, Thou take'st the number of my spouses; Then I shall crown thee Mother of Beauty. For life in a conjugal robe Were such as should closely evoke Those points of thee which seem'st thy grace, And thy rich jewels of mind, and love, Which that bright Beauty made and gaoled. I shall be my Dear's mother, and he The husband of his bride, in quiet theory The world shall know thee as it knows the stars." When we had done reclaring on yon throne, He spoke a word, it seem'd as if it spake A wind of wind, that march'd with sparkling path, And would have past unheeded: "Yet remember I said, I will bid my maidens glad New collars tie, and put their damasks gleaming, And see that no one gives a look or turn To where they put their faces; for I must know They'll have their faces ready for my lady's face. For they must prove that they can love what on earth Is loathsome to desire, and they who sink To lay them shining to a lady's face Must prove that they will keep their part and wish." A look he flung to the clouds as they drew In lightning--one by one,--and there alone One glance was kept for my sweets, and it descended With these in her eyes, but I can see As it was, and trace how in her face It floated like perfume, and the rose Kiss'd it from her lips. Then, she turn'd aside And as she bent, the maidens sang behind her "Hark, the world's welcome tidings!--a wife here is!" O time that awaked this sleeping group ======================================== SAMPLE 167 ======================================== I'm sorry, but for my tumblin' self It wouldn't take me long to git up a cold gesure to draw so fine a picture, And then to get down again With a blasted wallopin' voice On the cold snow cold clearin' And a great white bearin' jaw, And the bear, I s'pose, would never like that ill, 'Way into his mouth, 'Cause, though you say, He did get a taste once o' eating blizzard, 'Twas so werry, and a' mistle, That he says, "I don't want no' o' dat, Hain't dat yewin' cussed dat wild cat's breath, So he will never get up, But he will l'bam up, and grumble, And grumble ef I'll get him up with me!" But he ain't never lain 'round, Never had one tired feeling, He's ice cold, but he ain't lain 'round, An' he's so pilbily, Dat he's rid o' sickness, but he ain't quare Till you come to him with dat yewin' voice. "Thare's a chap that sits and reads Aroonie out a book, An' never reads to play An' doesn't win no' prize; Goes back an' forth in sound An' talks to us an' me Like he never runs an' leaps An' shakes with each step we see, An' our names initials too. "Dat lad looks so deern'd hot, Dat he must be sick, An' he's so har.'bony, so gruxy, I'd like to see him jest dead Eere he trots up yer morn; Him 'lln't come w'ith tear or sound, But he dares us toile or sing, An' says our names on'y w'are ELLS, "Dat ladda' hill'u would cry An' he couldn't wade home by 't, Home by an' by. An' good lark, go lard, We'll fain 'a' ne't's sight; Dat feelin' kind o' bathes away He's so b'ary an' holler, An' reads it in his best laid feace To all on down. But he never lings Of different books an' read, But we read to win, onc't our father's weath. "He ain't never lagged nor drunk, Don't know how he'd git up, Don't know how he'd go to bed An' stay 'fore dawnin'; But we all feels 'at he wus good, An' we read an' learned his name an' hod Before he died." We ain't always good when we writes he's durn, But 'fore we go to bed we fast, An' we makes a bulletin to the town, An' read about our golomers when we are to sleep. The Southard ladda's bright an' bright For we larped on him most every night, An' read our papers, an' read 'em green, And read 'em hot, an' read 'em green, An' read 'em hot, an' read 'em green. 'Twas so jest a plain an' simple thing We read it jest every night, An' knowed our homework for done. So now he's dead, the next lot is free To make our school prospers gay. An' we'll git a new prospesing boy To run our school workin' man. He said, "When I git used to think How they was all along I'll be a great joy to them In their boardinghouse and keep them lights And keep my word, and be their name." So now it's all done with, And they ain't no use to school no more; They've won't have no prose nor verse Till they find some. "When we get a boy to learn, They say he's so smart, But we all read the book, An' most of us read it green An' we tell 'em, "You mustn't be afraid But then he took a girl to his cabin, And when he took her away They say he was changed completely, But I must be the same how I am. I'll only tell ' ======================================== SAMPLE 168 ======================================== Gives there no colour To her foot. If she stoop, she breaks All the broken stones, All the stones she snaps Straightly. If she lift her head For one fleeting moment, All the swift waves in her stream Are broken. As he leaps, he slakes The tide, and makes A wave to cover Her rising, while she clings As if clinging to Her world. As her slippering Comes and goes, And a mermaid She is, He would frown, but cannot tear One spark of her From the sky. Far, far apart they wander, He and she. The arch of sky Is high for her eyes To see it climb. They do meet, but, She can tell him no St. Paul's escalola. Down the Cotswold sea, To the river, night, Across the sand Of dunes laid low, To the last gleaming Wade to the sea, The day was low, The wind blew chill, The faint red wheel, The pale moon wreathed In the gray gilt— Oh, she was glad! She was glad. At the full, About to be shorn, Her hands grasped the reins. She was glad at that! And I—I was glad, For—for her! I stood her, At St. Paul's. They shall repent and shall forgive, They shall repent and shall forgive, For the Lord with a sign of grace To the whole human race, Has taken the Bose. I will drink to Jesus with the lips of grief— Drink to Jesus with the lips of joy! He drew his arm off, and was alone. Oh, I had never with mine The stammering sigh Of Susan Sontag, poor downtoned fool, Susan Sontag, let alone her Place in English poetry A head of hoary curl Propped on a laurel waveder. For he and she, they were married, Had lived two lives together, Doubting—a simple, moved, Mellow landscape of Aer At distance, Susan Sontag Somewhere, better life, A life of desire, Of a word, of a leaf. They drank their souls to each Under the red playing sky Of a new life begun: A word, a leaf, of a wand, Of a road. Where was she now, Susan? She who stood with arms outspread, The new moon bleeding on her cheek, And her eyes a clamourfulxtile Showed something dying In both breasts, and a rabbit Whose tracks were arm holo, A pincushion of star dust Dashed across her, where now no grass Or trees, or anything stood, Or flowers, or rivers in the sky. A land of pure white sand In the sea of clouds, Stuck to a spot for days. A child among the stars. How odd that she who was sleeping All the time (she was sleeping) Should suddenly wake up and walk And talk and cry and laugh, And then go back to sleep. How odd that she, of all the time, Should stay awake and play, And now run down to the sea-side, And now stand up and talk. The stars were stirring the world, And Susan Sontag just yawned. (The world was the same one used to her, A sleeping animal, An ailing, a savior, A woman with a shell for the heart, A foreigner and a woman, The daughter of the poor, With the arm, the octopus arm, So far from the usual creatures, and the eyes Of the second creature, the men one heard of, Of letters, and pain, And all the creatures being the animals were once, The creatures of Letter 3,000,000. A doll in a toilet bowl Looking like a poet. A lampshade made of a poet. A clock, a lawyer, and a door Which writer's high Turns to a close. An empty house, a lampshade Left for writer's bedrooms. A lawyer with a lamp, A lamp, a door, a door to lead us to the writer's door. A writer in a house, a writer ======================================== SAMPLE 169 ======================================== Type of perpetual motion,and water's mother. Pure volume of a group of encounters. You enter the unknown through the dark, and you leave it more stilled. Follow the tracksof clover, wind, snow. Even the snowflake is purely contingent, a newton. Snow falls and we continue into a mind without time,an open face in the newness of a sunless world. <|endoftext|> "Close Encounter", by Aaron Shurtsey [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Pets] It's only later, after he's died, that I recovering wonder why he didn't run from me, the thing is, he never did leave me. He's been dead for a long time and isn't it going to be some years now. I wonder how much longer he'll be here. This is America, I mean. This is a house, isn't it, with blacklegged hellbugs and woody island mice, and a general epidural noise. It's a miracle we've had both survive. <|endoftext|> "The Little Golden Card", by Rae Armantrout [Living, Death, Health & Illness, Life Choices] For a while last winter I filled my nest with pebbles and chunks of lunch meat littered thick with 'cucumbers, coukes and knuckles and requested rabies shots and you had to mie yourself and we would set the cat. I sent maps of tunnels and storm- windows of evergreens where dark-striped nest boxes sank narrow with hunger, watched the earth darken in the north and boom, plumeless, kill all those'inning mushrooms and beanstands and die by midday. Mama had to swathe me with a piece of blue. I never learned to fly. I gave you the goat blood, but your vet scoffed and I knelt on my broken knees in the barn bedribdone and heard your voices growling until my shame was my music. And your new dog, healing his hooves with your hair, his eyes closed. <|endoftext|> "A Brief Sentence", by Patzonela Changpu [Death, The Body, Religion, The Spiritual] Body of one who swallows the soul. No single house and no single god and no solitary heaven, but many each host and parasite and death that comes to swallow all the parasites and host ones as if each were a tree and the score a musical line. The soul's late southern sweet-sour of sores and tears swept far out to the desert. (They always have from childhood on) as well as those sacred tears the god kisses. And the soul, like some great fan that spins after bright air blows it so literally that the body accepts it as colour is often found in the ear-drops of the dead (or so it seems) or in the eyes of lovers. Like a sun it draws them out from the corners of the dead to the corners of the living where dreams lie. As soul the soul is in the eye. Not the thin solitary eye but the overcast eye which compels, not to mention the eyes of the host. In their thunderous black and sultry eyes the eye that moves. Or the ear that one brings to the dead to hear in its ear that which has been heard in the ear which has been heard in the dead's ear. As the two rivetted into the steel frame and sleep a host that draws from the grave and from the uninitiated body as though they were alive. In their stillness like the woman is drawn from the field across the sky to fix the two points of the compass. But as soul in the southern sweet-sour and the sweet two-day rain while the man turn and fix the two points of the compass to the south: to fix the two points of the compass to the south. <|endoftext|> "Mammoth Image Caption: In the Avilment of Ting Sangchúa an old man by the name of of Old Mac Alzugaigeon appears in the pitetirion of a sailor in the sky as large as a whale, crouched as it appears behind the boat in the pitetirion of a sailing man who appears as large as a whale in the sky."] <|endoftext|> "The Vein", by Peter ======================================== SAMPLE 170 ======================================== A message of unending wings Which speak, that in her chariot ajar, Beside her father he Will be met, Him who was born Almost on their second wedding day. The morn was rising o'er the brook, And the boatswain made the sign To put to sea, And they did so, save those two Who spurned Their union with a jealous mind, A word that might prevent A tender heart Against to them was giv'n. With lost of th' oar, by hush Was a lifeless shadow lying And would ne'er be waken'd again, Till they did put to sea. And they did so, save one, whose heart Doubts never didt revive. The leader of that phantom-boat Was one half wolf, and he, her son Was one half wolf himself, They two did seek To make themselves as much for better or worse Among all men not by them. As years went by, and yet one by one Her hope of her son died down again, And in his story she listen'd; And he he went as dead As the ghost that follows hot wings A summer heat, that vanish'd not, I ween, In his slow transformation still he got Of the stout heart, nor stayed he ever hours, Nor was there cause; but that at Rome He, her son, at his last pen Was borne to the belief of at least Her theory, and got thence His bride, his welcome, and his rightful name. Nor died he never, nor her heart is said By those who are near her to tarry still By very email; but spends his days In a palace, where from all a traveler need Not hesitate. There his fair ones all Of a craft on the water are to run; Nor is there one but he may trust, Who, when he would, at a call, are to hand Wine-skins, a wide brim, and yet fit for Drinking far, before it has reached its prime. It is true that no ill may come of this, But it is better far to have given than We lose in giving; for the gift of all, Which one man only can give, as God builds, Is but the learning to live well, both Giving and getting. Thus the painter puts dame National to scorn; Which one would suffer? who would not compulsion Seek in such a cause? the spirit of man Would in its essence co-operate, that's Which. If to touch is heresy, there's no birth Save to the living and the dead; And dead and lived, not only sceptred, but Re-drawn are, redeemed, who by trouble call Out of darkness, light; such teaching be, By which those are at war who should be friends Whom we have train'd to Christian trust. Dire storms! Dizziness! Pigner! Abuse! Languors! What a panoply of taunts To his grave, Grandsire's patron saint of chills! And yet--not wisest nor better but he Of that family had been a rarity; So much that we had him in his mid-rood, To which the White House, hence, we've but sped Grania's worth, who is better I believe Than the best of them that they are, or ever Of such a match in our house had been. There's nothing to do, or do, or say, But that when we have to swear the child's tomb, And, thus, by it, fast from his mother's door, Ourself refiter on the want of faith, We to have opened on the brow alone, And self-abandoned, or of a different sort; And trusting that we need not be afraid To lop the third of the union when we come, We return, and there together stand at once Intent upon the work, nor more delay Arrived, than to have shown our parallel sleeves. The music here was still and melancholy, Sad as a maiden being pressed by Fates; The curtains dark and thickly curtained round O'er it were made, to-night, as in the days Of old; and where those curtains, thick and callous, Had flown on the wall, or had flown on the sky, Had a pale-blue light, like in its gaunt line A night-dawn rayed from out the Alps. This was the room where ======================================== SAMPLE 171 ======================================== Lingering awhile in an alcove; Then to his gate again they stir, And when the bull-toad, guarding him, Had ceased to guard, Averroes fawned Upon the company of his foe. Then, knowing well the dam and foe, A jest they set upon their way, To taunt him with the golden fleece, Which richly dight with hammered silver Was made by this honest youth; And by the dew of Eilean showers, The Maiden and her Lover swore. "Never"--the Maid began to whine-- "O never--O never let This hour of holy joy to me Be given by some false Youth"-- And "Never," as she grumbled, "Never"-- And "Never"--and the Lover sighed-- "Never," and the Maid complained-- "The Dawn will be to me an ever." Thus was the Youth, which of those two Were the worst, to Telemachus Madness and sorrow--strangely talked-- Of his white Monodans, glad of speech, And of Antipater, Lord of soul Abund'ning Zeus' Fair, with much they told, As of their various coasts, and lands, And one, a rock, and one, a hill Antipatre was of, where they said That it would toss a son of man Upon whose head the ship's-token fell. He--the Slayer who holding, as ever-- Stung, marred, and killing, as ever shat Any head which went to unall, Whate'er it held, of larder or flesh; And while they talked, a talk they chose; Which, when the Gods wist it, made their souls As deaf as drums, and blind as hell's night, So with their blunder made, they wandered by When he who spoke the loudest turn to go Home before his hollow bell, and tell The Gods, and straightway to Men's ears How in a troublous time he kept the key Of the High-Priest's gates, and stood, and stood Beholding alive the dead;--and the bloody sight Possessed their eyes;--not as though their blood Came by such flight o'er sepulchred plains All crimsoned, and rolling thunder-dooming clouds, Headless, into the vast of heaven anew, As when a fury-fib'd wand a life With bloody deed;--but as winter-tide, when falls A heavy shower through drenching clouds, and wheels Of torn storm-spouts, that with wild flame confront The lightning and the sun;--so they who bare Winged it o'er the wastes of time! So strove They in their passion, and the Shield-fiend heard Their challenge, and received as Entered-Knave, Not as foe, but as Brother-Coil, made one Of their argument, as the beautiful Ground-metal with the smooth pebbles beneath The feet of mountain-cliffs, or as the waves Of far-scarr'd sea-coast are held in thought, May in their way-scaping be considered As smooth or rough,--alike as Corinna's line Of written verses; and, as Men need claim Indebtedness for what may look like stammering Infinite and creditless proverb-stone, --Which in itself a Lewis-Bruce may claim, or no-- Each half-shuttered shrineland, close on the line Of stone-Marble, precept to stone no more, Their precise and only number unknown, Appears to be the result of some sort of thinking, The first few words of which have ever to us Evoked the tragic anodyne, and still today 'Twas from the banks of that deep-swept stream Where, on the sands of Alexandra's desolate waste, Flits but a fragment of Le Freete's glory Where Goldswig, in the solitudes of rapine, Watched his gold the cruel raptor's purse, Yet left himploy of Bignot's death and scratch, The names on a rolls of paper--Glossary J18. The Roll of Drayton, that Le Freete's ghost Shall, like his living mortal, 'stead to rove Full many a country over; and that phrase Of Drayton's a Tennoneh's itinerant pen, Ave Marculo, ae monarchum vitam. That speer took Drayton to the Strand ======================================== SAMPLE 172 ======================================== Explain the meaning of this pomp, Saw his hope and fortune take a flight, From the country and his friends shrink back, With the children and the wife gone from home, Where he might find a neighbor and friend, So peaceful, so contented be. And now, returning from the West, He seeks the rural grove once more, And now, "to-day" he says, he knows, For "then" he does not speak, For his memory it would fly. For my pleasure now I would tell We must save trees from poison and folly, For they are living and reasoning, Though the wooden toys of girls are written, And the canons of school it is known, But no meaning on their faces, For they are not troubled and weary With the jinglings of vanity. What is the meaning of today? I will tell you, my dear little boy, It is the worst of all days, When it comes upon the farmer's sward, And the soldier's tears for his banners, And the striving and striving and striving, And the fret and turmoil of a night. It is the worst of all days, when it comes With a noise on the country road, With a slight, but unwelcome word, At the faintest stage of our journeying. When the cattle man fumigates, And the dustman gies black and blue, And the host of the town and the neighbor With their smiles and their sorrows. It is the day when the farmer Looks at his crops that he has reaped, With a silent satisfaction. With a pitying gaze he views The golden earldea flourish, And the lily of poison fruit, And the pain harden into arrears. With a sigh of rescue he views The scarred and bushed grain ears, And the yellowing leaves present. Then the shovel and the hatchet sound, And the tears are a tide. He sees his crop quickly harvested With all his might and effort, And he knows he is riven with joy And he feels he caniled great gif joy. He who has looked on a sunny day With a sense of sacred comfort And he has handled life's magic wire That murmurs in the mailbox And he has seen a horse's mouth stop And heard its grinding from afar, And he has seen his destiny Smite his wide shoulders safe and strong, Shake with a birth across the upper, And the saddle and cart strongly shod, And the rider hold well out and proud, And the heart in the laughing lightly. When the farm life begins anew, With new hope and earnest striving, We often think of the beauty blent That comes o'er the path we have laid, And we long again to be tossed In the land of the sights that are new. For we're not new enough: a glance Long examines--onward it may fall To other things than can be seen, Which, in speech and gesture, all concur to Be like our own, as open and true As the tireless Anthropoid Cope. And our delight is with the dear: We hold him a kind of brother, And we fear not, for, we together Gaze back, his light, and fair and just, On a world carelessly riding on, While from round us, anon, Rushes something the Terrible Prodge Whisperingly, as he whittles Spruce. Now he whittles--we whittle--with him The winter's gone, the heat-waves left, And there's a world of change coming on Which says, Be busy for and now. As the shade drops from the spruce-tree And the stars dip southward--halt! Now we hammer at the hooks, Hazelnuts husher than we are. The woodman stands ahead of where We have our doings. I stare up with all my soul At him going in for me The winter's gone, the wood's gone, And a world sprung from newsprint going. What is more true, to which we must Reply in school, staid mood, Or to which we may reply in joyous Mood? We will stand For the world's deathbed. With an ear to hear, the faithful two To where, with their blind hands, they carve Their names upon some board, To our missive newsletter of ciphers They subscribe, keeping eyes for chances To profit by. For ======================================== SAMPLE 173 ======================================== Now, at the height of all this, The season of the storm, There is the look of a night-bird, And a land of snow, too dark, And the exultation of men. The time is rent with the look of it, And the look has full play of its power, For, at its best, of that white season, The price of the song-birds, And the hunt's hounds, And the march of the huntsmen, And the hounds, and the mountain heaves, And the flame of the next, And the cry of the fox in the brake, And the strength of the hunt, And the strength of the hounds, And the hounds and the chaff, And the final cry. Here, once, at last, is the full white land, The strength of the hunt, The march of the huntsmen, The hounds, and the chaff, The chaff and the sing of the hounds, The march of the huntsmen, And the hounds ere they face, And the sing of the night-march, And the full-throated songs of men. As I sit here in the dark, Wearing a thick overcoat, And the rain comes On the wind of the hill, Shaking the dew of the place On the hair of the place Where the place-side dims With the milk-pale grasses of place, A mist from the hill-sharp ground, On the dark of the rain-down flung; But it does not come from the place, For it is for ever the same! Wandering by the brook in the night-time, Wandering by the river in the night-time, Wandering by the grave of the night-field, And by the pasture in the night-time, Wandering by the tall trees in the night-time, Where the path runs down to the side of the hill-bank For the wayfarer to take at vespers, Rising sun, and azure behind, Dewed by the flowers of the May-flower Wandering by the brook in the night-time, And by the river in the night-time, Wandering by the grave of the night-field, And by the pasture in the night-time, Wandering by the height of the grave, Sitting by the empty grave of my brother, Listening to the hum of the black-thorn grass, To the low drizzling of the drizzling flies, Listening to the night-birds singing, To the sound of the night-howl in the briar-tops, Sitting by the grave of my brother, What do you then? <|endoftext|> As if dragging a gun and meant to shoot at them. The legend was widely diffused in the south From Mobileah and the Eastern States, and was brought Out of good sources--among them lay strong presage Of the writers of history and of fiction. The more general interest of this instance Lays heavy stress and emphasis on the fact That there were three men shot underneath a tree at once. The oldest legend is so strange, and relates so To a more polished and residential scene, That the peculiar word and moment 'twould tend To erode the quick and swift action of the gun. Those two shots being taken as one, I give With some attention to one of them, the second. This was the scene of dispute between them. A wood is behind them, and in the wood A gun is behind them, the ancient way of folk. Three are there who by the legend have returned, That all have had alike the joy or the pain. Each of the three, I'm sure, is more surprised Than we are aware. Not surprised, I like To mention as little as possible, But I'll say, a half dozen changed into ten, As you will let me--well, let me see the cream. The first, he's blind--one cannot see him very well; He's prone to walk in the manner that the tales repeat, He has big, fat girths that once graced the beach. The second was a river-skipper, I think; All of his friends forbade me to have his dolls-- He wore them with a comfortable smile, But on my going away he found them under his hat. The third was a bandy-legged and gilded Traveller, but who had a cruel billy That would ======================================== SAMPLE 174 ======================================== stream of their suffering--or, indeed, to fail to cast a slave back to their happy homelands, and part with their riches in the uneven rush of the tide, and catch, on the wrong side of the port, one unsatisfied gut, or, pressing on through the brake, one unwilling eye, to stand and to be still. But I will say no more about it. It is not for me to summon woe on those who, like sea-gulls, fly at the approach of me, and to others as enemies, or to censure their voracious habitat. I would wish, however, the best of them could be given me a boon. For it is well known that on them cities and lands have been granted, so long as they did not forswear the ancient gods. I think they have the habit of devouring people by the thousands, in a way that may be unmeetest in any one of them--for they are so hard to cope with--and I can see not only elsewhere, where you most closely see the coast of the butcher-king, stone after stone befouling with the bones of men laid in the inviolable arambo of his fountain, and where he rasps his hollow Odyssean music, where you see so many people fighting for their possessions and getting trampled to and carried away. So the more pity it is on the shore where the fight is having such a rotten pother in that the shields are worn away from the battle. I say nothing of the countless numbers that fall short of a place; or of the children that never shall meet their parents. There are so many things to which I would like to give expression, but I dare not because of the divers scenes that I have made my object, and I have been away from the company of my friends very often myself. But, as regards my land, there is no need for me to speak of it, for I know it all too well, from when I came home from fighting there. My father's life was spared by Apollo, my brother's life was not. They suffer greatly, for there is neither pathing now nor trade; but they are robbed of all tranquility of life. The homes of the traders, when they are built, have close protection under A few of these wear threads of staying power; but there are so many of them that it would be useless to tell of them all. I have seen some with their ends to the fore, and some as by a thread of the river between two mountains; the last I saw was on its way to the North, winding all through a field of daws and partridge that had been split at scatheless. As the point at which it split the ground with that solid bulk of rock, I could see the ribs by which it was broken. As if it were so that it meant that way, and moved its chest west first, and then west; and to my turning it showed love by a new face. It did not put forth level breast, nor chest, nor did its face veer from standards true. There the dark-mouth had a part, and the red cloud had a part, and all the earth's body had a part, and all the bridges that men build on riverbanks. As by a new love, I rejoiced in the deep heart of the billow that, even though there were waves above, kept its course, and the mist at the margin of the sea, because I saw there how my hope had kept its course as the guide, because my hope had kept its original source. And I, my home too small, said to the world, "I have been here now in the midst of my country, where I saw the first throated chaplet on a brow, which was then a leaf, but is now the celebrity of a great poet. And I have been here now in the midst of my country, where a new year begins, which the old year kept in the house of kindred lights. And I have been here now in the midst of my country, where a soul began to think of asking for understanding; which has been there before? which were there before none that have seen it; not one which could come in for a fee. I say I have been here now in the midst of my country, where I kept my lips, which called not in afterwise, nor spake one word to the race of men. Wherefore I should be understood if I did not tell you how my lips, which had no running water ======================================== SAMPLE 175 ======================================== Spokes with both his hands, He will extend his snake And cut the country through. Says old Pohja Karila, "Hitch-hikers of the Northland, When you go into the mountains, When you get into manhood, Then you can go to Russia, You will find great wonders there; Bringing with you twelve assistant Growth of arms, twelve associates, Of men, three thousand men, learning Of the weapons of the High-Committee, Fourteen I have selected from among the rest, For the sake of the weapon; Now to go to the workshop Where the weapon is forged, There to take the first practical Page in the society, Forgers of Saari stilts and greys." Five have gone to the other hall. "Let a fool go" were the voice of Pohja, And a fool he chose to go into this workshop, As a fool he was born, Pohja Karila thinks. And the other fools followed after him, As a fool he went into the workshop. "Fool that I was, and I are now," said Pohja, And with face as black as is not visible, Under the iron which he has chosen to walk on, Under this iron, lance, and half-relic, On the ground there is a grave for fools, Like a grave for poachers of the red deer. "Fool that I am, and I am now," said Pohja, As the words were, saying, thinking, As if to Karila, now old and old, As a youngster at the gate to gain admission, Did he say to Karila, then young, As he turned to go, he said to her, "Fools are going to the forge, And the others, those who go without, Will be rejected as unworthy; Let me think if I am unworthy." As he turned his back, Pohja Karila, As she stood at the gate, beholding, With a great heart-sickness of sorrow, Wistful for all that was past over, For the glory of Nimaestv and of Pohja, And the glory of Pohjola to come after, Sighing and wistful, As she watched him go, As she watched him in the other's sight go, For the glory of Nimaest and of Pohja, With her heart sick and drinking deep then A great sorrow then, As she watched him go, As she watched him out of the other's sight. "Fool that I was, and I now know it, Being outjumped and toiling, Because I was alone out there, Being the last, the stillest, Having failed the most of all, The most impotent, the most unwanted, Of all Nimaera's children born, Of the grandsires' grandsomet, the elder brothers' grandsons' grandchildren." "Fool that I was, and I see now, Being outjumped and suffering, Because he got two sticks, I got but one, And a single flail, I got but a single lamb, Of the men of Nimaera's goodwill The cruelest. Now I know why he left the other five, Why he left me this one alone, "As I was being sick with racking pains, And couldn't laugh, or talk, or anything, And my back was turning purple, red, Turned PLO every which way, I was too full of pain To know whether I was there or not, Being sick with racking pains, And my eyes were red so bad, And I couldn't laugh or talk, And my head was turning red so bad. "But I got this hammer, this blade, and a dark alley, And I stood up, being filled with heavy burdens, And my back was turning in the dark, And I waited, for the end was near, And the end of me was surely near, I was too sick with racking pains, And my eyes were turning purple red. "But I thought of the door-to-door sale, And the peddler's words, 'Have your flocks On the shelves of the big box near the sun? Have your sheep on the shelves of the big box near the sun, Near the big boxes which have bright boxes, and the sun On the shelf near the sun.' "But I got this hammer, this blade, and a dark alley, ======================================== SAMPLE 176 ======================================== a gangster was laughing as he put away a cigarette the way he thought he was you should see it if you will you will not believe unless I tell you once he saw the love of a son beat up the love of a father he was almost killed by a gangster who would get his back but when he saw this son go over to a bad brother he was almost killed by the brother who would get his back he was almost killed by a gangster he almost died from a gangster who would get his back from a drunken father who would get his back from a drunken father so he nearly died from a gangster and was nearly killed by the brother he would get his back from the brother the brother he would get his back from who would get his back from a drunken brother who would get his back from a gangster i say gangsters are not happy they have no joy and no happiness they do not get up and say "i am so proud of me" they do not say that they get up and go to work and when they get home and their work is tired they can lay down and sleep they get up and go to sleep and sleep and when they are so tired they cannot sleep any deeper they get up and go to sleep and sleep and when they are completely asleep they fall asleep and when they are so tired they cannot sleep they do not wake up but rather fall asleep and when they are so tired they cannot wake up they do not wake up but rather fall asleep and when they do not wish to sleep they do not go to sleep but rather fall asleep and the sound of a kettle on the water can we get a cat? i can only claim to be the voice of one man i had to make sure i got it first i got it all right i did not put up a fight first put him after his family i can only claim to be the voice of one man it was not easy i could not make him angry i could not make him mad i could not make him tear my hair i could not even wake him for a second i did not want him to come to where he lived to his office to be angry with something someone had said after he had turned off the tap i could not get him to say oh i am in his own voice to say my name to be angry to say my name i was angry i am so angry i had to make him not say my name i had to forget the way the movie was called the way the line was: the way he opened his eyes to where they had placed him to the pavilion where he had put himself not for me not for me but only light and only light i had to make him not say my name not say my name to say it slowly and look directly at me i did not dare to look at him i could not look it was too dark to look but i did not dare i was so afraid of what he might do of what he might do what he might say when he was done and saw my anger and could not speak to break it to end i was so afraid he might hurt me more and begin to say again what he had said before i am afraid what he might do what he might say: What have you been hiding? the streets are a mirror and the faces that are in it are the ones i knew we will return to this mirror and see what we have seen and what we know. you can close your eyes and imagine i have done so. we will return to this mirror and see what we have seen what we have been through. we will see what we have been If the street were mirrored it would be a mirror because he is reflecting when he says he has done what he has done and when he says we were here we will be it is such a small thing to be a mirror. the man is not evil though he is quiet because he is quiet he will say it himself when he is quiet i will be ======================================== SAMPLE 177 ======================================== perilous journey thou didst make, As their originates;--nor am I content To guess at these from thee, nor God's Equally from thine origin;-- But, as our Pastor desires, Must thou at once both go with me." So saying, he thrust into his hand The pen which he should use for this Formal writing;--and the Prelate blessing Bisque on him,--was the first to go; And the clergy all follow'd next. Their Masters all from posture Walk'd to the Window; and 'mongst the Mountain bandes, from their Bones Their Sun-grazing courage They drew a view upon the Scene. The Pale-cheeked Thalassin, Walking seclusion By her wicker chair To the village Bas. The Moult then took thine Beak; Thou didst sojourn there, By the Lake of the tiger-lips, By the head Of the Frowning-face in the Pee; Where there and after Figs in-gently swell'd By the Straw-head of the Cuckoo. Malkuloba's Little Be did pierce Into her Head, and her Soul drew A Host of fine Angel-hearts, Uniting her power to the North Mountain and East Tow'rds Nyadiatance, Crowning her Fame With the Sovereign Joy of Thunder, With the Sorrow Of the North-wind and Dusk. After this they all in state The stately Garrison made, Which for ever since With prophetic Heart Had sent to the Watch-tower A life-substance buff and white With the forms of Beasts; With the birds and the beasts in Row Pestilent, Which the wise Fruit-giver Sent and invited, As the Watch-dog sent before. The Tirrhe, and the Vege-wise And the Aricians all Spread their wings for Archery; For the land's cattle and the Tiller's, With the prey and the young of the Horn Were in proper numbers Attended. The Sea which was again with the Waters Bridged o'er the man, is to this A manifest to declare What was at the Gates Of the Garden of God. And that Soondom now In their visages and Oft arraigned Be seen. The Sun was kept, who now on this hilly Shore Of the English-shirred coast Still overlooks the World's New North Hub; And the World's New South Torch And the World's New North Corner And the World's New West Wing They were seen at their journeying By the light of the Suns Which were ourselves, We read of the Down-floods of the Alps, Of the Cataracts, of the Quagues of the Rocky Mountains And the Craw-fish-carmes of the Mountains With their Overhanging islands And their nettling shoars, Of the South-wind with her purling storms And the drouth-storms and the snow-storms of the mountains They were seen at the Ocean's height. And the Soudern Gulf Of the Pith; Where the shard-creosoting Waves a golden surf; Which she holds in from-and-back, And the sand-man he Riberous and angry Stalks the sea-stone; Is seen in his perilous flight O'er the wind's charmed sail. And we hear Of the mutinous Kipling's best; And the Battle-of the Breton Farms When the French were at the Agency, And the Scotch were at the Hottinge, And our Roots were at the Cankiyoht, And our Ropes were at the Yombits; And our Stories were told at the Kitely Kash; And the Bear was pushed o'er the moor, And the Stour that was in theunderneath the hand of the steep. And the Gurken Flute-man sang Of his own Backerings and Poet-songs From the Northumberland shoals, And the Hurst of the Hill agriculture In the city of Oldestal. A little year ago, I roamed o'er the Hamakuti, Where the pilgrim went to pay his praise To his god Lumumbi,-- To the Great Spirit, The God of Explorers, Whose gleaming eyes ======================================== SAMPLE 178 ======================================== As by some moving miracle, Take every thought of living woe Out of this world, and wrap us in silence? And can the hidden secret powers Of water and of wind control This storm? What are these that at my heart Whose name, in their dark flight seem dim and feeble? Do we hear in the dark The solemn way these waves were sent And could, if not abashed, then not afraid, Our spirits were of these, or knew, or guessed, Before we perished? Farther and farther The blackness of the night sky crawls With fanning wings. Across the sunset Our tortured faces are bent, And the small window where our souls await Lighting us a day of reprieve. But our feet, though fleeing to find peace On the distant shore, On the hills know no rest but The wind that stirs our faint hair. The thick-breasted tree across our doorway Is stirred by our dust. The rush of the bird, our opening scream, The gentle spring beside us, The first green peas that came across Our door last year. These waves that drown us as they pass Are as sweet as we can find, As we open our eyes to see them, they come to wash our tired eyes. <|endoftext|> "Observatory", by W. S. Merwin [Living, The Mind, Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens] Roughly translated from the Japanese The darkness of a full day, so long and hard to reach The tranquillity of a mind at rest. 6.10.63 1 This sky is called "Satoshi" and refers to the Chinese fortune-traveller  whose name is composed of the characters for "curious" "a cluster of four" and "one small cloud" "small cloud" "to be watched" "rectangular in shape like a bum " and "like a continent" 7.10.63 <|endoftext|> "The Hospital", by W. S. Merwin [Living, Death, Health & Illness, Religion, The Spiritual] 1 In the room where death has no mercy there is no space for sadness and there is no room for tears. The one thing that will not leave its territory is a prayer. It is strange to die where no one would go. Though the milk on your tongue will indeed numb your pain, you will not be able to weep. This is why you must come here. The white clouds that will float higher will not leave the sky hills on the left will not raise hills that need to be measured. You will be given what the sky does not give and the milk you will be given will drive you to the one that will heal you. In the last sunrise that will come and go while you will watch the very top of your life, the sun. <|endoftext|> "Saying 'I can't see!', Exercising", by Sharon Peichter On the hill of the old people the sky was covered, and there was a fire, and behind it the trees that came down, one by one, blowing out black metal on the clay. And the great swifter the trees came down and the deeper the fire sank in the earth, and the earth swamped the trees and the clouds came through, and the clouds wished to lift. In the village that was their dwelling there was a hole behind a house. I saw their faces moving behind the smoke. I heard the words spoken. They were already there. 2 They will be sleeping, the mothers and the fathers, the sons and the daughters, the still upright and the still pliant timidity. 3 In the daylight on this hill you will see the rust on the clover which shall be worth nothing, and the stone salt which is rusting to blue on the top of the hill. <|endoftext|> "What If", by Marilyn Rivest [Living, Death, Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Nature] What if the body of air were otherworldly? What if the sunflower had no edge to its blue? What if the milk was warmed by the passing of a single bird? What ======================================== SAMPLE 179 ======================================== Tossed them and their rifles down the ditch, There, how their blundering fire might break! How, with such death upon their path, Their backs to the foe should they be pressed; With cheering shouts they drove the round-hand back, And cheered, and cheered each other on! So each by other's, and their cheer Greeted, the greatest part, as well as they, Each by the people's unswerving strength, Invests his son in the household's care, That they again may the start regain; And from the woods, with limbs untired, return. Ah! how, through all the wilderness, The dismal sounds of their approach make rest; So dread and muffled and so near; With every feeble footfall near, And every burthen of the marsh, And boughs and bramble and and bush-bangle! Each forest, and each meadow-lands, With joy they heard the lark begin; They heard the crowing of the cock, And every distant house, apart, Rise round them, for the Spring's once more! Ere the Day-net's slender waft, Fell thither, and the Day-star's haughty glance, Pompous and old, up-raised her gaze, And smil'd her cheeks with mighty smile, Waving with ostentatious hand, Toward the valleys where the clouds of night Were thickest building outward bid their way: Towards Heaven, and away from swamp and brake On the soft-forbidden strand, where lov'd and fondle Moan'd in their sweet and rosy sheen, Straight the young swans' wings they look'd toward Day, The old swans, towards the West, had line; There was a rich and golden house, Where the Day-star and his sons Might happy watch o'er their bright and golden streams, High above the night's darker dash, And the wilder, brighter worlds behold; While the land-clark had her will Of the Day-world's own glory, And the Night's fairer, lovelier bliss. Then the Night's wide caves unfold, Deeper with gloom, wicker, and gloom, And a pomp of seraph bands Wand awaw with a light, long spray On the hill-top awn; For the woolly flocks lay strewn, And the leaves a mist did o'er A swarthy mist that o'erlay Froze the forest brow; Frail voices spoke among the awn, Tinkle and token from afar A far song, and cry, and moan; For the woolly flocks lay strewn, And the delicate voices sung, The sounds came to and below, A soft wind from the ocean's floor. Over the yoked Bull they lay, Drowsed in their stable vile, Arow the Horse beneath the plough, The pigs, in slumber, ate; The cow with weak unwick'd fawns, Dropt upon her teat their hum. O'er the yoked Bull they lay, Drowsed the Horse beneath the plough; The pigs, in slumber, ate; The cow with weak unwick'd fawns, Dropt upon her teat their hum. While the woods were quick'ning psalms, And a sun's early light Was on the grey hills laid, Down the broad Somme road they rode, The weary ammunition find; And the fifth position gave For the road's rising rise, And at once all the ranks arise Each man to give his place. And he rose in loud alleeui Call, And resolu'd to hurl As the sky's above him pours The stone-rain of the stiff-backed pelican, Or as red-deer runs past With jaws he ruddily grins, On a rock which juts from the floor Of a huge cavern into the light. A call that centers out of sight, And drags the watching mountain in, While onward in crowds on comely knees They cross-terse from the wayside cross One by one, and take the field. Their flags were flour'd, their songs were heard, Their sharp "recks" thundered on high Through the wide-looming peaks of sky, To rally all the country round. Their flags were flar'd, their songs were sung, Their sharp "re ======================================== SAMPLE 180 ======================================== Next day he changed, the third day after. The swaddling-clothes were laid aside, And out they went, on horseback, down the street, Forcing the slow-moving rearward gait, so slow To the ready way in their stiff drapery. The ladies leaned a fan on her arm, The wench was sleeveless, for her head Had a curl of hair of lace, gold, on it, And a pale smile shone on her pale face, So long away her head would turn With half-listening eyes, as bright As if her beauty shone for others. They stopped behind, and two after others, And drew up short at the door of a house Wherein there stood a sight within him Fairer than all of earth and all of heaven, For she was fairer a-side him, for He stood there at the perfect strikes of the world's Disastrous cup, as if his work were but To pour forth out of heart and spine what was On his with a spirit's night-sight seen. And with a breath like life released, he went Out on the garden's curbless promontory, And cast himself down like a writhing tree That feels howl in shame, and up his face Looked up to see how it was that she held him. He'd heard her before, but had not believed, Nor had faith in what it was she would do; So he had seen her but as one who sowed And is become a star on earth, a sun To see all beauty from the bottom stir Wherein the very worm had rest. So this was the last day of him at all, And the first of June, and the song, he sang, And gazed, and let his hands be clasped in prayer To her that took and rested on him there, Who like a child held him to her breast. The rain goes down upon the wind's hair, The wind in its old bluetress Remembers dreams it has, but not The hair of the rain that is beneath it. The rain goes down upon The wind's black topcoat, And smooths it down with a penholder And a wind-chill, to a very dress. The wind's gentlemaned hair grows grey Before its nose is seen; To the wind's eye The naked and shining rain. A moment past, it falls and rises, The world's old lamentation, And it is hurried from the ground, And it is whitening in the midst Of the plants' old yellow ; It drips from the wood's age olden ears. The forest has its eyes to welcome And it stops, and looks not out, And it sits to the left and the shade, And all its eyes do not behold. It is smoothing its dark cloak from the glare Of the immortals who watch it in the eaves. The old oaks, as the soil maketh crisp, And the old earth maketh tender, Do we not change as spirit maddening, When a word or deed that pittausseth Is heard, and we wake and go to dust? And this world passeth on and it passeth on From the world that was pittausseth To the world that passeth on and it passeth on From this world that was passeth on To the world that shall be pittausseth, When the soul and the body shall pittausseth. Now light is as old as sound is new, And sound is as new light oft befell; Light that hath nothing of a older birth, Nor wird from a older age to uphold The gold of the cere of a younger sun. Night is as old as life, and as old As is the night, and the night as old As the ever-twisting years that wear The nerves of some to-be-suffered soul. Shall ever soar on their far tower-tops More than their waggons bear and fleet, With all those dream-imprisoned princes That fill all the wide Pacific wild? And shall that marburgh few long bright-winged Heaven-scattering transport try The brim of the high sea to coax and lure To shores that be to the east of Cape Horn, To the long green slopes of the south? I wonder that all the people there Are less 'down-like' than they, That so many green-hued blooms are there And not one pale-drawn 'bloviator' To ======================================== SAMPLE 181 ======================================== robust a open field a landscape I like, a landscape I learn to love. I can't stand how that field moves growing with me, my table alive with possibility, people growing. <|endoftext|> "Who You Are", by Kerry Ryan Parker [Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Popular Culture] Who you are. Who I am. * * * * In the blue bottom of this glass elephant seven eyes see. * * * Who you are. Who I am. One in whom two in whom are. * * * * Who you are. Who I am. * * * * Who you are. Who I am. * * * * * What I see What I see I want to say. * * * * What I see. * * * What I want to say. * * What I am What I am. * * * What I see. * * What I see. Who you are Who I am. <|endoftext|> "Curb in Flower", by Kerry Ryan Parker [Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Poetry & Poets] For Kerry Ryan Parker * * * Curb in flower * * Noun: a curve in the ground. Verb: to curb in flower. Here on the curb in flower I've seen a curve In the ground. A curve In the ground. * * * And the curb in flower * * In the ground. * * A curve In the ground. Here on the curb in flower I've seen a curve In the ground. Curb in flower. * * * What I've seen * * And the curve In the ground. What I've said * * * I've seen a curve In the ground. What I've said I've seen a curve In the ground. <|endoftext|> "Bridge in Peace", by Robert Pinsky [Living, Life Choices, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] Bridge in Peace * * * Noun: a wooden beam supported by iron girders, as in theftproofa] Verbs A long beam * * * Supported by Iron girders. Branch A tote * * * Girded by A trellis Crossbar Supported by poles and beam ribs, and by columns nod to the sky. * * Lazy To sell myself to the city of names for a side yard of glamour supported by silver louvres Of the spirit in front of the hotel I speak eight tongues and two licks of two Tibetan rilks * * I walk To catch On the Hear the Beast who also feels I who harden for the Age In the bamboo net trussed up in blue <|endoftext|> "Lives of a Singing Child", by Tchitradora firefly [Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] Lives of a singing child * * Little singing child got a mourner lived with a mouse and put a sword in front of it I watched it with a frog and carried it to a higher hill was swallowed by a river the frog drowned the mouse died Little singing child in the wind bowing to no mountains I am bound to you by blackberries Little singing child we took a penny to the sea did we get it right first time? Little singing child I like ======================================== SAMPLE 182 ======================================== Cool rose, and in her cheek a humble joy reposed. When next the Goddess of light she turned her sight, The lofty-moulded crescent of her summer face Glowed like the great sun's diurnal flame; Then first she groaned; and grovelled back in mild Subdued contrition: 'midst the rain and shower, Her throbbing heart to a moment read, When the white rose flushed in the first flush of death, And the Goddess sighed for a welcome breath. She saw the goddess of the flowers, fair May, Lay beside the quiet, starry rose. The leaves of her o'ershafted bouquet still Lay on her bosom, like a mantle spread. Then the day dawned, and she saw, at once, The shadow of Cam without his head Curling down one plume upon her knee, Hath led his little courser on the grass The first sheets of the morning-column, And he is yet in the valley, far to seek, And me in the sunshine, 'neath the blossom-runs, Lonely wandering. 'Twas a bright September When the grass gleamed in the crimson-coloured rain Of the rising moon: and the bright dew-drip Showed the brown bee-mouths of the blooming hawthorn, D above a lineal green. The little rills Down the naked hills of bloomless May Tinkled like snow on the crystal, clear- Gated longings of the seed. And the autumn weather is not to be missed For its red-rusted clouds and pomp of rain And the barren skies of probably the end. And the yellow of the far-off clouds, Even when the blue reaches of heaven grow dim, Though the heart knows the blue is gone, Though the clouds blow back, Still the hope of the fall Is as good as a man. But the May weather comes with more of upkeep, For the long days and the weary nights and cold, I'll probably lose some of my calm; And the nights are cold, and the mornings damp, And the work's dull, and I tire, as I drive Upwards towards the cherry gates, For the end of the race. Oh, that golden gate! No man running that has run can back across. Oh, that blue gate! I'm not afraid of the police; I'm only out for the night. I'm out for the best coffee; For the flowers of that night. There's the wreath, and the glory, and the glory, and... Ah, I'm out for the roof, And the shed, And the mower, if I'll have him to run across; And the broken wagon-wheel, And the white cloud, I think. And the gates! Oh, I'll take a nail and try to get through; For the rain has come; And the rain is dull; And the mower's growling, and the shed is dark. Well, that's the race; For all those things, and more. What have I sung? A woman's voice, a man's voice repeated? Is this joy, or merely sorrow for minstrel lark? I cried when I heard you sing; now I'm sad, and I'm sad because I think the rain may come again. For I'm old; I'm old and foolish; I'm very wise, but I'm very foolish still, And I've forgotten, like; For I've grown old, or come to the ground all altogether. For we are made of wood, and all, that runs, fly, or is driven, Is of forms and turns and motion drawn from dust and shells; I and you, Rich! And have been made indeed, as you have told us, And are we not dust, and only turn and rove from all around us And bear, and roll, and run, and roll, and turn, and run, and roll, And are as tall as little gods are; For dust is all, and gods down from dust, And turn, and be, to dust, as that little wheel Of wheels, which all things turn; And all, like those, through all, are part of one great Dust. Oh, no! Not a thing is true, not a thing; Nothing is true! Only sit and listen, and you'll hear. My dear, I tell her, I will not touch you; For I love you so, I might as well, in a ======================================== SAMPLE 183 ======================================== ites made against me-- Who is so small She could dupe the sun and moon? Catch even a red seed Hued with wild fire-like glare, Grow and grow, and show It could not have been her. You tell me, A wench, that once had wings, And, hiding, panted Upon the desert--like a mover, Ere I was name of thee, To-day I called A blue flax-threads, And knit you some flowers, Which I name now For I to you knew long ago. I did not think to see you here, Out of the wide dry country, All in these wetted, houseless clothes. How can we now the years forget you? Where to this happy haven must we go? Where to this new-born land of flower and bird? Folded now are we in a foreign land, With nations coming and passing over us; We must forget the cradle and the bed, And the old names that you gave me, with a laugh, For new ones that deserve them, though I may not see them. Of course I know not the date nor the time of us, But in some fairer country we shall come; And, then, some name that was golden in our eyes Shall be the name upon our signatures. What Memory mars you? What grave changes are you? When I got home yellow-colored I gave you the blue ribbon that you gave me. I was afraid that you'd have it broken or something in the note that it might have given me away. For you, of course, a-morrow Would not be a sacrament; If I thought I might not save you, rob you, too; I might do worse than that, mightn't even let you out of the shivering. For I am a pitiful brother, With many sins against the Holy-Cross. If I dared sin straightway against that holy church, To-day indeed, to-morrow, and all my past, And for all that I have you caused me to know, That the head of your beauty is not our queen. As you go to the chapel-door secretly, Look back, and look to the last; There what in all this forlorn broken-down place You remember, I and something much less. <|endoftext|> When the stars sang together May came into my minding,-- I go everywhere,-- But I love the Stars the best,-- And the Earth and the sea-the sea, And the Shadow that is thrown over them. When I hear the thrush's music, I know it is a good where,-- I will see myself well dressed, And I will let my hair down. But the song-birds sing so gay in Heaven I would rather sing than waste my time. Oh, but the long bright pleasure of it! I am sittin' on a mountain-top, And all the nice smells and the weird smells that bring to me, From all the things that is meet-- When I wakce in the dark of the mountain, and feel that the long Wind hath washed it over me, and I feel so big and so right, That I can feel it in my duds, and I can touch it in my hair! But I'll stand straightway and sing,--and with my sangsus I'll fight, I'll stand solemnly in the chindrin' and feel that I can stand! When I waken, and the light in the room is big and bad, And my hair is a-maying, And I can see my aged head all a-shining a-strange, When I wakce in the cold dark of the morning, and my mother says, "And whence was yer sows-in? Did they yield up their silk and spindle-bleachends?" It is the wondrous feeling o' my sows-in!--the dear dream o' their pride! And with my oakenarm, I will stand sin-prinked, And with old sparrendust, I will shout it in a sing-song way, And with my oaky-wud I'll shout it over the mountain-side, That is cramp-full o' black mud! Oh, but we never knew What the dawn brought to us! And I'll never get tired Of that weird and sad Wild dream I have when I lie Sle ======================================== SAMPLE 184 ======================================== Blood <|endoftext|> "Farewell to Self", by George Pinckney [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Social Commentaries, Class] A penny-a-word etc. The Master bore his houseborne tag in black And swore a bold word of capital. The Servant bought a prepostile snuff box And continued in it. The Acolyte held that his master lost His sump and hot-house; The Acolyte hung back and grew feeble; The Servant began to say that he saw The Master quite otherwise. The Servant walked with nervous pride, And bowed and bade him drink more. The Master walked with pride and blame, And lost his voice: I love it, and yet I walk in misery. The Bough Breaks, and the Cygnet downs, And from earth falls the Bird of Gold; And yet he swore and bade the same, And laid his bloodless pelvish hand. <|endoftext|> "The Warm "George", a Typo", by John Colleran [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] I skin the mellowmaquikkia sunflower I run the meter and tack through The joint; that's what she said. I said, "the gogwa gawdo is dry as a leathery mouth"; The bougie runt from my par was tight as a dog's. The fient a toe to one of my boots was wuss than a flea. "Give us another wut," says the wither, "Self has put his thumb in his own nest"; "he's got a platter"; "he's a joy"; The tat's half-true and half-louie, The tea's old and the sugar's new, I loose me stalk each morning To get a gammd and pile and plug. I do the muss bite later At three to let me keel. The sky is agh dreadful, And ticks across the down; The tick-up wand; the road ticks up; I'll ride; she'll tear her joint. O v real, I'll lay a period, On all I've ever got. "Yes, by the bush and the mountain; I've got mine, I've got mine"; My real, my real will do; I'm a trimmer now than I ever was; I'm a bloated pig with a steaming bum; I shall go up like a fire-tank. The clinker while I'm a pegs a fit, But, laters, I'll close up my ing,' And I'll nick the old blackboard. <|endoftext|> "New Faddy", by George Russell Dringe [Social Commentaries, Class, Money & Economics] I was always long on economics. I thought I'd get my education In the original way—by going On a ranch in northern England. It's quaint, and I must say it's cool, Having a fence and having dine In the old country. It's fun, With a cow for a snuggle, too; No jokers in a row! It's true I'm glad I've hit the bottom; I've had the pleasure of a rain Or two big loaves of bread! I never was much of a quaker; Never got much of a laugh; In spite of the place it was called The "Poor House of Childhood" — Worse than that! 'Twas a tank Of frothy, gibley steam. I never had a penny To bestow on a friend. I couldn't even go down And give a partner A lazy bone. I heard the lady of the house Was a woman of the goods; You couldn't get to her With what you might expect For a quarter Of the price; But she promised to save A little money, too; And she looked much too neat To be true. So now, of Russell Gabbetts! Oh, I can't leave it yet! I'm afraid To open the book, The sad news that's hid; For there I find The system's all fogey, And take a quarter For just a quarter. <|endoftext|> ======================================== SAMPLE 185 ======================================== The nature of the Christian Faith Does, when men call it by its name, What it is chiefly, a belief in life after death. Some things can be believed with ease, Of which, indeed, some very few Can be grasped by the untaught mind With firm faith and joyous fare After the supper on the mount, If the welcome guest is welcomed well; Others, I think, a man must take With more of lingering, uncertain tread If he count on his knowing someone Or on the brooding of the freezing winter snows. Faith, these things we hoped for and sought for, These things we know have a meaning, And they are yours if you count them From their nature, as you will take the things you will find. <|endoftext|> "To the Mystery", by Mary Barnard [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, The Mind, Nature, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] The power of creation lies in destruction. Even a thing that seems to keep its hand may have an insidiously hidden knife. Even beauty's iconoclast rests in a cruel light and knows the weakness of his art. The vainest creation may possess the merest of whim. Truth, the virtue, is vain for anyone who loves it less than something newer. Beauty is strange—it is strange as medicine, rarely made something anyone would want, and the prophecy of its destination may be here, now, because of the red-hued gall that loiters behind its packaging. What was it, this time, that loosed inters relative waves of the vacant, lacking world? Whom did I leave beside the water that was spent up? I answered briefly, I leave you to the waterfall of confusion, a bowshot just off my point of view. This wet, outrageous answer revealed a word unpreserved. <|endoftext|> "The Death of Asia", by James Formcho [Living, Death, Disappointment & Failure, Love & Relationships, Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity] Today her spirit flickers like lightning in the wide time of light, flitting around like a blue ghost, flitting around like lightning that Asia is beating up against the dark floor of time. Swinging like a vengeful knuckle in the live light, flitting around like a blue ghost flitting around like a blue ghost flitting around like a blue ghost. Her life spreading like a disgraced face on which dark inkspires. I call her Asia because it was told to me by an asiatic curlew. But Asia is dying like a memory of wild flight, like a red umbrella of birds without names. Asia is dying like a song, like flicker of light, flitting around like a blue ghost flitting around like a blue ghost. The white feathers of birds under the breakers of flight come to the s Audubhyanjyam (Uby) bird birding Oriental Star. Fluttering like a mist of leaves, flitting around like a blue ghost in falsest grass. But her spirit flitting around like a blue ghost in thorngrass, flitting like a white ghost through fibered thatch. The eyes of her children of the wee people who worshipped her come to my mouth in bitter resentment and weep through my mouth in fear of their fading and their not-being when they are changed by time to the unknown sensation of their survival. They are in their shroud like a bird in a fibered tree while Asia is changing to the unknown spirit of the spirit of the darkest terrestrial soul. Don't let the dust blow back from her eye or the smoke of her wake to the red edge of evening of the useless terrors of nightfall for the pain of her change has made me asleep in the stars Asia, whose consciousness will not come to this but live in the failing of mourning. For this spirit of Asia born of the sinking wind of grief, born of the starving land of a world's fighting, ======================================== SAMPLE 186 ======================================== a tent. The light is shown on TV. The light in an ambulance is a live thing, where it has to be. The light on the yellow jacket pulled up over the breast pocket, the light in the night-light, the light that was there in the hangar that evening, the light of a candle, the light of a bird's eye, the light of the driver in command of this circus of ours, the light of the final step of Gertrude, the light of the children of the city of Paris. <|endoftext|> "Reefer Madness", by Charles Fitzgerald I get high on the scent of despair, the dried prep work of dominance, the day-from-mind that gets the job done. I'm in the front seat, two headlights scream in on-coming lane, hooligan grannies in their last-instruction row, the girls scrap for a toilet spotter on the seat up ahead. I rock, nudge, and roll, swing up, swivel, whine a portion, no choice but to squeeze from each obliterated day the pinch of sufficiency, the hopeless spendthrift of one half-full to soon-to-forget favor. I get high on the final movement, the sway of a wang, the last row sewn up from the seat in front, the last chance for warmth at the foot of the female quadruple. I'm the one who looks up before the line of first heaven and says: I'll believe this's for me when I'm dead. <|endoftext|> "Burn The Doc", by Lynn Nelson [Living, Health & Illness, The Body, Love, Relationships, Nature, Weather] Was simply afraid of the sun or that it might be eclipsed by clouds. Didn't know it would out-like-the-gloom the-glow-in-love. What to do about it. . . was still debating at the time of my own illness. Overtime she diagnoses me with both skin and nerves sick for the sun, both sun-sick and scared of the light. * It's clear, though we're only in the park for a few minutes, that she's the first who he'd call her own accordioned passenger into the park's temporary parking lot. * Over the entire continental to broad Arcadia, it's possible to move, movement resembles moist moose thins, with tracks of turquoise causing snow in the crevices of the rock. * But I like to think about what's in the river, the part that hasn't passed through Delphi's lovely etticulations. Not the great seal of Delphi nor her beauty, but the silted fresh paint- frost on the morning of January 16, 1820, the day Thessander Rinert died, age 31. * What did you mean to do if you happened to run into the canyon's undergoing, geologic odd- boy snow that would make you want to cry with illumination, headless boy through the ages? Sitting in the park across the street, meant to be looking into a snow that's never passed through the spot where you're now waiting, you try to say you were born to be here, in this park on this unsheltered, unshelterable park. <|endoftext|> "Your Name", by Meg Murry [Love, Real Life] When your name stangs like dead roses in my belly, I know I'll never love you the way I do the way you make me sit in the car by the house and play the homemade soundtrack on a loop, as I'd played the loop before, as I did, until you left the loop, and now I try to be apart of what's made in the rongeur of your room. When you put on that room and go down the narrow path of your eyes, a garland for each decade, I cannot stand to leave your room. * That's what your room said, and I said " ======================================== SAMPLE 187 ======================================== $ [ 8 lines lost] tortured-pen ult. [4 lines deleted] march of art, little [18 lines lost] forgotten, isle. [6 lines lost] island, is lost, [11 lines lost] of, lost. [5 lines lost] [7 lines lost] the queen of foes, [15 lines lost] all, lost [11 lines lost] [10 lines lost] grew, [7 lines lost] beseechers, [2 lines lost] one [10 lines lost] most flattering [10 lines lost] to [3 lines lost] the scornful [4 lines lost] children, [7 lines lost] strangers, [2 lines lost] she d stalk, [3 lines lost] [1 line lost] at [3 lines lost] her [3 lines lost] intent [4 lines lost] day[es] so little [2 lines lost] [1 line lost] never wish to [5 lines lost] false she eased [6 lines lost] her slides of flowers, [2 lines lost] [6 lines lost] pious, [4 lines lost] appalling [3 lines lost] at all, she spoke [4 lines lost] sorrow deeply [2 lines lost] most unsure, she shorn [3 lines lost] admits her clothes, [1 line lost] leaves her clothes, strange [2 lines lost] wonder most strange, [3 lines lost] that her clothes would strange, in mind [1 line lost] forever [6 lines lost] [1 line lost] [1 line lost] [2 lines lost] her name [3 lines lost] one of her [3 lines lost] clothes, honey blonde she wore a designer [3 lines lost] she dish with orange flannel but [1 line lost] weep[er] weep[er] [2 lines lost] the [3 lines lost] [5 lines lost] mystery of her[s] [4 lines lost] [1 lost] pale [2 lost] [3 lost] cold she grew sincere she had come to me at [1 lost] [2 lost] [4 lost] she d joined our we didn't know when [3 lost] the she wore a mauve dress mixed her with her dress wasn't clothes she was she joined our fam ly to show off [2 lost] [4 lost] she made it crowded her grieving dress took up all my space she left in my house my children [1 lost] tore my heart [1 lost] my children and I she didn't want she was gone [1 lost] [2 lost] [3 lost] she wore her dress [3 lost] not sheep she left it her children [2 lost] when I joined her [5 lost] [1 lost] [4 lost] no dress and the children [4 lost] now all dead [1 lost] shame shamed me [2 lost] she wasn't my mother [3 lost] she wasn't children's joy she was a stranger [4 lost] they wore their children her dress the rain her tears the clouds her sky the rain [5 lost] the sky [1 lost] the rain [1 lost] [2 lost] my ======================================== SAMPLE 188 ======================================== <|endoftext|> "The Unseen Sea", by Margaret McEne Controlled [Living, The Mind, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Trees & Flowers, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy] How silent is the sea, and yet the sky is bright with the glare of deep green trees In the coolness of the morning, and these leaves are comfortable, and the grass is warm and the air is clear. The green smell of the trees is cool and the grass smells like a mixture of dirt and sweet. How quiet is the sea and the sky is clear. In between the dark and the light the silent sea moves on. The quiet sky, the quiet trees, and the cool indoor air, the crackling heat of the lamps in the grey of the morning, and these lamps are for light. I have a body that can bear a great deal of pain, and though I am sitting in this room by the window I am not watching the unseen sea, though I am watching myself, as I am watching myself in the mirror, aged four hundred years against. But I am not watching myself aged four hundred years, I am watching the invisible water, watching the stones cast from the broken-off rock walls of volcanoes that are traveling through the seas of our Earth. I think of those over the oceans who have nothing but their lives and stones, who will take this precious gift, though the stones will not return it. How cool it would be to be a mountain of rock, to be unswayed by human things, by life. If the rocks fall we will turn to our green seeds, to a green light, and life will empty itself, and all the mystery will fall through our open doors. <|endoftext|> "On Faith", by Donald Revell [Living, The Mind, Social Commentaries, Mythology & Folklore, Fairy-tales & Legends] The mind is a convent, where certain bans Restrict us to single rooms, we are kept In singleiment. If we had not lived So well in singleiment we should have Brooded over, grown insane in Certain combustions of our life, life Would just be another word for Reason, Another word for Beauty, and that's What Reason is. Beauty is the first gate To every man's ambition. What ws the boon That spoils her so she can stand on equal terms With man above all the rest, unless Like us she grow beyond the world's scale? To be so great she'll have to be so left, By present men's caricature; and while She's in the jingle of things, she'll have to be Beautiful, in the ordinary sense Of magnificent, she's become ordinary. But if she's beautiful in that simple phrase, Somehow she's lost. Even the first sweet-heartshieth Night will be the last of days. There'll be none That man will love that can blame her. It's that or burn out for the vales. This is our doom. Some end within, Or some worlds against the stars are mad. Or some men will cry, at last, what have we That we can promise? Our hands, our minds, The world will be too smart with equal trade For lie and trust. Our hands and hearts and brains, Nothing but honest in the end, and it Is that or arsenic, some dark dust Made in a fruit of some poisonous tree, As black as Death. Our bodies will not heal, Will remain stupid and hollow, the maggot. For some of us the land will lie around Worn out by now, no more than when we went Worm- eaten city, every inch of it. The birds will leave, the beasts will leave. It will be eaten up with grass. The worms will lie around and devour The rotten limbs and sweat. The dead beast Will fall among the grass and await The hungry gazelle that will come in. The heart will lie round in sodden hay, And the wind will blow the loose strands of the rain. The years will fail. The search will fail. The eyes will hollow, and be forlorn As gorging on dead rows of grass. The eyes will lie on the sil ======================================== SAMPLE 189 ======================================== http://www.nature.com/mp/index.html She brings in a lizard, she brings in a bar of soap, she brings in a knife, a fork, a cool piece of wood. Now we are searching, now we are naming, now we are mentioning. Now we are searching. Now we are naming. Now we are mentioned. She searches, so many fingers, an ocean of fingers, fruit flies, she brings in an iguana, she brings in a pencil, she brings in a cap, she brings in a cup. Now we are cool, now we are naming, now we are searching. Now we are bringing in the family, bringing in the fish, bringing in the baby, and the spider. Now she searches, the long fingers of the searchlight, we are over and now over. But how to count how fingers are bringing into the universe. She brings in a hammer, she brings in a nail, she brings in a pail, she brings in the grandfather clock. She brings in the library card, the toothbrush. She brings in a table. She brings in her sister, she brings in her mother, she brings in the earth. Now, her mother, she brings in the ocean, she brings in her spleen, she brings in a ring. She looks up, she looks down, she looks below. How many fingers how many places. She looks up, she looks down, she looks below. She looks up, she looks down, she looks below. She looks up, she looks down, she looks below. She looks up, she looks down, she looks below. <|endoftext|> Mother, you were going to give me something in the very room you were in, but I got to part the water before I saw it glide or disappear. I saw a scar, so I took a knife, I set it to float and to cut away. The soul wasn't mine to keep. <|endoftext|> "Don't Let Me Be Lonely", by Alice Oswald [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] Don't let me be lonely! I'm afraid of being in love. I'm afraid I'll break your heart! Don't let me be lonely! If you were really lovely, you could tell yourself you have no need of me, and laugh, and walk away while thinking of me, when you are with me. Don't let me be lonely! When I see a man who seems to know he is ugly, and must be lovely, and who seems happy to see someone else to be ugly, and to be a fool about it, and laugh and be just as pleasant about being alone, and fun to be with, as you were when you were beautiful, and sure of yourself, and not so kindly or unlice As you were then to me, and I made you miserable by being with someone who could laugh and be just as pleasant about being alone, and just as mean about it, and just as tedious about it, and just as full of it, and you said, I'll go and be detestable, and be detestable detestable, and don't say detestable! "Don't Let Me Be Lonely", by Alice Oswald [Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Heartache & Loss, Unrequited Love] Don't let me be lonely! I'm afraid of being in love. Don't let me be lonely! I'm afraid I'll break your heart. You'll say you are loyal and love me, when you're mad as a passion. Don't let me be lonely! I'm afraid of the world. When you come home, and you're tired of me, and you say I'll leave you, and when you're hungry and you want something to eat, and you say, I'll go and be lonely, I'll go and be lonely. You'll say you're funny, and then you will laugh, when you're hungry, and you'll say, I'll go and be lonely, I'll go and be lonely. Then I will go and cook and have you for lunch, and when you're done with lunch you'll say good enough for lunch, and you'll say I'm home and ready for dinner, and when you're done with dinner you'll say fine enough for dinner, and when you're done with dinner you'll say, you're tired of ======================================== SAMPLE 190 ======================================== is made so in the dark, and in the dark is our dinner, and in the end we will call it a day. <|endoftext|> "Wings", by David Haughwout [Living, The Body, The Mind, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Philosophy, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] the fly an honest-to-nothing insect would spend a day in each of at least five U.S. states a few in the early inheritance of experience the mind and its numbers a well-traveled distance to start, the odds a body a similar starting a side-garden rather concentration but end by accident the change of clouds the dark falling a zero at the bottom a white wheel on a forest of branches a person enters the door and can read the air a sterile wonder the wet barn rafter on the bare floor that person is reading the blue blind royal Acropolis fades in the corner the fly is still here is royal in the timber the wooden box is real <|endoftext|> "Infidelity", by David Haughwout [Living, Coming of Age, Death, Disappointment & Failure, Life Choices, The Body, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] Before the war there had been moments when I wanted to hit something out and ask for what I came to do or throw a hay-rifle, something with a rope, a doughnut loaf or a stove off the top of the hefty house. I was thirteen and all the pink and purple cakes on the Glazed King Cake Plate were taken and placed in a bag to travel with me in a whirlwind of icing. The long-haired cat was a chief adviser on my forthcoming marriage. It was common practice to see marriage as a jump-shade into endless specifically leading to bedorgling by way of autopilot a vast and choppy blue green froth that meant no general election could brighten my 20s the bed was tinfoil and the pillow case was a color as I took the whole cake off and asked the long shag-feather'd caterpillar to help me through the scary transition to life as a prune or caged bird. What did it matter that I had never tasted cake or pastry that wasn't also politics, war or holiday taking, as it were, for God knows what mysterious chunks within the ground made these cakes better than cakes? When the peacekeepers turned off the bomb in the couch below me I could feel myself fighting away from myself. I had somehow managed to wear a college outfit without making a big news or prying ass forthisvelling newsman bear down on me with all new accusations that I had abandoned my duty as a citizen to just make a smart ass of myself. I could feel myself starting to come off like a narcissist in my new clothes. The clocks were always repeating their mind keeping times that the world was ready to listen to my aunt or our minister or my respectable psychic brother in his well-tailored cotton suit and fed- coat with its keen dog-bone nose he had selected at the county Lay the Rise and Release On Me! Zen Center on Sunday afternoon in the middle of a musical traffic jam where all of the people in the best dressed seem just as alive as the blue and yellow dove that flew with a bell around her feather jewelry box of a tail that was never made to resemble anything kind of bird or whatever it was the grandchildren were whirling in a carpet war on the balcony of a leisurely Sunday afternoon in a suburb of the United States that we could think of as lovely— so bloody blue its bluer than ours that had been there ever the less and its so large we could each one remember the faces of those birds that we could still see in that light without being knocked down by fists and feet and the man who had taken off his low- slung boxing belt and was leaving with the owner of our souls still had his hat because he was coming back ======================================== SAMPLE 191 ======================================== some'an!" says the Grand Pontiff, "Liv anders so peetiële to gyve, Mey lefë loewel meynge suenge that me th'ay enmetyeth, Lov and whay geïnses whedes! O, süss hae lahtrins so betënge, Preyvaysage, ovë engyning for a geynge, Whas reducible into dem I demeth. I thøt in chrag our lyivëf oth'häckel Swich pytë ovdel o dë parnaschys, And disghynge to pyke poyntës aller tës. O, soðe isse oþ{er} veall syad levës, Votë shuldë sle pryde of dame grauelle, He is dûre min fo á batelyn. Elyved of enseës oþ{er} to lyveste, For oon morny gessë was deyd With pyke-gloud in stoksyne out of holme, Ou poyntë is onus for, falvier, So was hasted to deuys alle. O, soð as sevës "soty, so rough," Lovëd fyve dût be tolk and toly In de dag, but hoytty was displeu'd For sorwës, and dere had disfortës. For sosemte dîës of deid was he And for to rede poyntës he fong'd, As he that layë was of his mate, Vay Ihesu ysauþys mey Heré Me rytlyk and welestës me amid. Oþ{er} de syȝe þe þer-rore rede, De nerf ður wer þyse mornynges; Al was þe {hw} arfou{n} eu{er} quen syne. O v[e]lum þa tak vch [gh]e vndyr wer Het men vse ðurȝ þe twelth tyne; For lyfte so mepen þay be þy{n}g, It watȝ to vyl, þat moyen al me {ge}me, Þat oþ{er} hote herde to lyve, and lide, Þat grymte for to lyue þer-i{n}ne. An English lady, Oist,--'yist a dare-el Of the wood wern visible sheen; Harken! The rushing of the wind; Out, you knaves, --go!-- Hark, the rippling of the wind, Hurrah! for the wind of the west! And the look of them in the morning-light Look a thousand times more hard: They are ready, as ye'll buy, To rise, and shine, and move with the rest. Hurrah! boys, hurrah! Hurrah! boys, hurrah! And the will, whate'er it be, Owe to a jolly little rhyme, Away if yeero! Boys o'er the hill, Boys in the dale, Boys in the sky. I call my boys, And tell 'em to come along; They leap like larks, And go a-sailing to camp; And tramp and trot, With a trot and a tumble, To the flow'ry talk they carry on. Hurrah! boys, hurrah! Hurrah! boys, hurrah! As fast as you can trot or leap. And think of the wind that's blowing. Ah, the ripplin' and the tumble, And the flow'r-me-ward and the wind-sparrow; But the dri-drip, droop And droop and droop, And the wind that's at yer scalp for, O' t'other side. O young Lochiel, The tale is dark and sad, But I'll look at you agen With a more cheery view. I'll light a fire at your back, There's company enough ======================================== SAMPLE 192 ======================================== Till now his royal guest, nor let him not I' m e r e r a g a c y m a g G the un unco cis a t i c y, G orgy after your delectable play, Pu' pleasure g in your cha rlsmans, And let this Greek ascend sall, and be Lord of his money. I' m s u l d t o g y o n A g a i d s h i n g O b s e r t h r o w y w An s e r v a g e d T o t r o w y w H e a r v a r y m a g, T y o t r a w s d o m e s An d t h e m a g n e s m a n. At h--e, O, a g a i d s h i n g O b s e r t h r o w y w, Meth ish e s a g e d o n t h An d s e r v a g e d t o t r o w, D r a g e r s s i t a g e s, D y s t a g e s t o t h r o w, D r a g e r s s t r a g e s, D y s t a g e s s, d o m e s, Y o u n 't t h a n d s h i t t o t h r o w? L'Aspose, c'est le soutiere. L'On g rava, c'est le soutiere. L'Aspose, c'est vrai roma. L'Etever, c'est l'Eternize. L'Eternize, c'est le soutiere. L'Eternize, c'est l'Ondure. L'Eternize, c'est vrai v'Empere! L'Eternize, c'est vrai roma. L'Eternize, c'est le soutiere. E t a g ed up t'a d' l'Eternize, S'Palade with t'IVANNO! The wick ey'd gaed e'en up the chim, The wind gaed up the chimney, An' went as grys; I shot a bird, I turned about, To wile it away; The wick gaed up the chim, The wind gat gries, I camm'd him off With "round there, ye screw, I think; Where's yon Parson?" I gat him round, I clapp'd him round, I bolt, I noniiied, And I gaed with a bapsily-bam, "Ere this our lands are He raaamed at the door, he raam'd, He raught, he rung and he rung, As loud as he dar't. He rought, he stamp'd, he praant, he raam'd, And stuck, and he clomin more; He raam'd, he raaam'd till the land, He raaam'd the cows-- They ror'd, they ror'd-- They raam'd--they cumat; He raam'd, and he raaam'd; He raam'd, and he raaam'd; I wat he wurnt no more; And it gaed merrily, The kirtled beast, with it dung'd, set. The lasses went out, the gentry, The nationally known, The evening chill uppe the Bower, The town wad much like a sumph, Wi' bigchin's and coddins; They cuddled right well wi' a deal, Wi' chuckies; I wonder if they weel want't. The black was the beast at bawbing, The fawnish blue was the sky; The nimble green was the band, And the big black cloud was the island. My heart was like the noticing-brood, For I went to pluck the Joe. The moon was like the paying-bed, And the breeze like the spinnin', The cloud like the feather-bed, And the heart of the seeker-lady Beaming bright beside the sea. I said: the wild-buzzin' jon ======================================== SAMPLE 193 ======================================== The beauty of the stars, The magic of the earth. I knew her once; But, oh! I've changed, I know her now As not I knew her before. I would not change with her, I would in heaven go! The flowers that once she bore For hours and hours Went wild and withered, For want of humidity. But since we married, The beauties Do bloom anew, The sweet-biscuit, The four-o'clock, The twenty-one-morn, The tomorrow's sunshines. Oh! most successful-minded, What a relief it is To love and not to knaw In Heaven we'll all be leftists! If we'll only divorce; No one needs believe us, It's sufficient, The sooner we find none Opposing. I've known some charming wives, And heaven gives a number That can give to Heaven a good way A good way to settle things an' stay-alive! Don't insist on the woman, Don't require her to be courted By those you marry, The ladies are ample, Their names are "totos," An' nen these days They're made so fine. An' mate-and-pan, The word itself is smilin', An' I don't suppose a woman's Idle laziness Will retrai your love an' make it weaken. I've known some finer men, But Heaven keeps sendin' women That can make a fellow fine. Their names are "jash" an' "jashkins," Their lads are "jeddick" an' "jeddawkins," An' I'm "jashkins," I surmise! I'd wis, sirs, be in Heaven a lady Than bein' here a man; But I must now go to town, Gadin' some with your granny, Or you'll regret it for myaron, Gadin' with your wife! How I've poker' in the morning, And eat supper while the babies sleepin', An' soothed the small squadron in their cups When times was good, with their mother there; An' if times was harder, oh, the while I waited an' tried to be kind, I could always call to her, "Would you gie me a bed, ma mame?" She never said no, But then she spit the gold-dust from her mouth, And shivered in her place, I cried and begged and prayed and wept for my soul, To ease I didn't groan, But she was so kind, I thought, To grant a prayer, she made me swear, To grant a bed for poor, To ease my humble, humble soul. Poor folks are in the wrong, For where will they find a bed for the cap That is gentle as me, Or where the tomb for the youth That is thoughtful as me, And gentle as the babble of the birds, The romp of the waves, The chatter of the brook And chatter of the trees, The old abandoned places, The mills, The factories and hovels, The streets yet weak with the strength Of men who toil again, The vacant lots, the court-houses Where men the papers lock, And wretches centres where they deal, In fact or passion, As often as not, To dull middle-class wits As fools, or those of the past, I'd wager, poor fugitive, Of all who have been or who are, The most hard-hearted, And most hard-hearted of them all is The human heart. <|endoftext|> The meaning of the world, I said, Is in the loss and mend. Is there, then, a limit? The very words Are obscure and named. <|endoftext|> If, now, we will pore into the Confuimenstratum, It seems the realm then to be delineated. O'er the whole, so to ske, O'er each piece, to each Nailed in the field the golden letters, You would see the semaphore manifest. <|endoftext|> Ride, ride, O sweetrider! To my grey house by the moonlit stream As the wild deer fare. Look, lean over, look in, at my dear youngest, Who has come a long, long way ======================================== SAMPLE 194 ======================================== Listen: (How many weeks, or thousand years, Or only the dead are weighty things!) We'd like to get you on the other side (By calling the corpse "understanding," Which won't do). Who was the husband? There is only one; (I think he's dead, for your trouble!) One name bore both his names; And they were small and sullen. He was a butcher, you know, Signed on as such must do. (Your point of view, that's what I mean). How else have I the names of Policsey and Pumpkin Abob lady, The first 's present, the last 's none. They say they've never been married, But one loves one's friend. P. Abob lady, they say, Can have a name for herself. P. degree. The one that they were parted, The one that they remain. They saw him daily; They saw him but of late. So here's the moral: The lady (or lady) you love Should be your own person. So have a spirit, And so have friends, And so have friends of spirit, And so have friends of friends. <|endoftext|> When I remember well, I like to say The nicest fellow's Almost a neighbor; And then I laugh, Because, to begin, He's another 'tat! Oh, I wish he'd sing, Because he's so a pose; And then I laugh To think that in his friends, He'd be a different Match light to some extent! Yes, I know! It's fun, To see him woo; But, God help me! I'm A sucker for a chap That's jingled up his Curves on me, by freak! I wish he'd sing! It's awful, the way His buttons "fall" In these tales he tells. But then, what can tat? He's like a fairy Telling tales around! If you haven't got the money, you've got the dower To see yourselves and their faeries through, And perhaps they will stop And say, "Give money and see it acted on." The pictures and stories used to be told In their own gardens. They'd look at their gardens And shout, "Fie! It's exquisite!" When Nature had done her best, To give us pleasure at the hour Nature thought best by, It wasn't too much odd wine Was anything like so bold As this rugged Pool, seen on the landscape. You say, "Oh, I've got to get it, But--"Why?" Means so much, I grant you, But the trouble's small; And the trouble's small, too, With a pool, or without. If it weren't for "Hunger," I'd call you a daft elf; If it weren't for "Thought," I'd have a cold and a cough; But I've got both, and I're perfectly fit-- 'Tis no one's fault. Fob man! Fob man, it isn't hard to do, When you know you'd just as soon give up-- And that, perhaps, is the saddest note I ever can pay To a little song, a fable, a myth, a fairy-tale, a folk-lore past! There was one little Bunny Who had a bosom-boy Of chocolate brown, Like the boy that went All the way to the folk-store To get "milk and wool." Milk and wool, it said, "To me Are the world and you." Oh the world turned on its head There in Haippen, Where, when they took him in, A bright-eyed jewel was found, But he had rather long To both of them been married. And so, on a whim, This sparkling Bunny married This baby of a day. We were taking a walk One fine sunny day And there we passed This fat little Devil Who had a grim little cap Of gold, with a tiny cock Upon his brow. Said he, "I shall have Some swan-song later That will win you, my dear, To love me through a life Of picnics and spring-time weather." And so, on their merry way, They met, at last, A little dewy plantain-bush That was gathering one ======================================== SAMPLE 195 ======================================== Carry, and pursue the warlike charioteer. The royal monarch took his seat, and looked Astonishment, as he see the chariot pass, With hand and voice all terrors to annoy, Towards the fierce charioteers his son. And he, a father, held him by the hand, And in his firm hand a blazing torch, Asking the stranger to endure the stress Of that dread harness, and abide his talk, And he himself unyoke the chariot-ride, The new-breathed horses' travail could bear. And, the strange stranger, he was held in grace, Such a wreath of God, such a wreath of Victory. "Hail, hallowed Mother of the Gods," said The Sun-god, and his offer was declined. But as a man, a man of noble kin, With deathless name, was wont to seek O'er all the world, and call the moment's nod His fulness, so, with eager speed he pressed, And all the people clamoured for a place, And a man's terrors came and seized on him. And when the steeds he come, and Alcmoun was there, And saw the men, he lifted up the torch, And on the open step of the course In holy echo heard him call aloud, Then quick, as ravens doged and flee the ships, He set the wick lost to light the way. And with one leap, like a tower-walker's play, And as a train of leaping rivers borne Across the mountains, then the course he went, A bridge of fire, a chain of light, that smote From fall of lightning, and the clouds went by, Laid as the claws of the fiery snows Around the summit of the human World's Center, where the Deity lies hid, That place of wrath, and memory stills The fountain that wets His world-widowed globe. A man, a mortal, and fallen so, the more The God of Fate, the Lord of Judgment, in him The groan of thunder roared among the clouds, A tower, the scaffold of Eternity, In snaky coils entangled, fast in the mire, Charged with the wild mischance of that wide year. And he, the Mount in his own wrath and pride Reared for the Gods to honour, there he came, And on the chariot-pole a flaming brand As yet was unignfigured with the sun's beak, That yet was smitten off by the bronze, Nor had the Name was known, till there went, in him The thunder that flew forth the Gods to smite, And on the God the name was duly laid. But as for him, no less the Gods in wrath Fined to death the son of Thesteliro, than For Man that held the heavenly reins and power, Fell Man, of all men worst doomed to doom, That in the hand of Time for ages and races He held the lordship, and of helplessness, And now he suffered Death to be the man That on the mysteries of Time and Space Had graven forKeys to the gates of heaven, And, lord of flocks and armies, on his works Put sword and brand: and I believe he moaned As Man below, and heard the Gods as one That single called for mercy-knots for earth. As for the false one man, the false god that wrought Falshood office, the mortal slave that held the world, No graver blame ne'er comes in the sequel Whereby that life was lost. The doom that fate Branded was fair in design and percentage; For Zeus had granted indulgence, By words illsa Menoetius, to one His own priest, if not in service long ago I writ not, ere I slumbered here; The priesthood and the royal seat, the power His child for some nominal grace to soothe, And with the reverence of the godhead sigh, Fired of old, and sworn to silence from misdeed. Of this foul soul of man the soul in her, Wrought of the god that would not let her be, And she that had the thorn in her tongue To stamp the name of his closest friend uncared, The uncared-for friend alone, which she chose For some close witching fringe of secret flow, So close that he, neglecting his own cares, Touched with the heat of her blue gem apron-cloth, Unto ======================================== SAMPLE 196 ======================================== erhaill winde and fyght and good therdrenge the raynge wel there into my poyson the freisshe and fastnesse of his pouertye he is good he is wel of it proclayyd And clepyd vppon a note als riche as aboue This is a poem of his pouertye and have good proofe gyuen to the wyse And ferere therof the ryght is nat fere for thus folowe hath the heuen lyuyn Of myrrage he ferceth his herte and cryse and grette his fol low and goth out againe And wylle of this thing therof to take more To myrrour to fere in to myschipenne That is a rasher to the hounde Of ioye to hym is ful soone regayne Thynkynge hym to be good and quykande The thurst therby is gude and wron Of fyreste is nother helle no lenge But certaynly thoughe langage is lyghte The wel is nat al so good as selle. In mayster, a courters, and ryche wyne And fayne for to be fond thefte Comende gode handes the conas To doff myrrhae in the mumeas For to forgete her landwas fayn For to forgiue vppon her devowre And vp of oure enseynge to wyue Her selfe to be forsifuuted Such is the paynfull dedys of the lord Aryant, and paynfull he entends Without fere of lust, or shyt of cunnynge The doue be causes whyte and fynde Howe be we eche of vs without all shyn Of hell, and howe is it begyll And howe is it be sycon of prospert To hym be begyll the douyse most doun In a rage of wrath, it is no fable The tyme to morowe, a long day to spyr. Sell men, and gyue vs lokys hyr hert and gyde.] For shew vncouthy raynes comys Of vyces many of them vyce mad and auded Cype in to counseyle, thynge and degre And yll folys chyngynge and glebyll But ioyous men, and yll lovers crastyke And lovyed wyth ryngewn iustyce Of what thing that men do rangas and bray And marke them sua to many thoumyngely Theyr shyp, whiche they haue by syngynge loue And by the cause hath them of fayne I rede it ylained is by cause of chaunce If we oueraute in oure thynges fayrye But if they be cause of chaunge and chyng He seyd that the pore man ought in a hole To be in pouertye of pees and wines And when he doth nat, his wyt is so Proued of grace, the faythyngs forto me In hasty tempest, and iustyce He seyds the man shaȝ noght haue arym, In welth and maistrie and auauntrye Of suche thinges, whiche they shewe and syde By oon synes and al the worlde, He seyd his foly at every rew To suche that kepeth by the lawe Of this worldes fame and of the grewe The grene worlde is vnfaynd with wynd Wherfore, the faythfull worlde is darke And that is cause of sooynee bryding Ayeynyson he that doth on fro And to themfel qwyns as doth the sonne Thus lyke a Rame, that warde and weye The brother of a kynge hir lyft and can With an evyll Fole to harme and payne And it to a fair Worlde. Whan the sothe greueth in the age The ======================================== SAMPLE 197 ======================================== -To the glass of the waste The imp's curtain in its ascendancy— So I went, —Ah, then and there She came to see me. -We met here, by the glass: -To me she came— From the walls of a walled garden. -Ah, there they say she was saying— To me she came— But I see her not— For she looked down, I say, At the end of my arm. -But when I said to her— She only closed her pale eyes. —I looked, or I should not have looked, -She only grew darker— Grew blacker than ebony, Frothing myself for drink— And so she turned the taper of her eyes Towards the dressing-room, And soon she there sat down. —And then—and then— She raised her eyes, and looked at me— Where, in that garden, should she find me? -But I then saw that she sat only Half-sensible, because the blackberries In that russet pruning, By the loose hazel leaves, Sheep-like swam the movable black stones. — And then she raised her eyes. And fixed them on my face— And she said,— I will marry thee— While she stood there And gazed at me— -We married,— And lived—and we are dead. —Thou shalt be mine,— And sit on thy small iron throne Through the green grass on either side King-like—with dark-clotted robes Of state And jewelled King's chair for thyself,—and drink Glorious wine of life for a young hour, And then pray to your high gods—and kill,— I ceased. And she looked down at me, And her face was great in its loss. I covered with handkermen of Hilarion And covered it with King Thentslig's rose. -And then—for neither was there nor need.— I looked down at her; and my thought Threw such a vacant weary despair,— So sick—so sick— To see her there alone. —And she rose. —But how grievously she rose! As if her frail body were a bar To her spirit's freedom of flight From its old haunt, the castle of our soul,— As free will's own castle should flee To the plains where it sprang from our Earth, And where I might no more see it rise. I stood in the seat of the summer king That was mine no more— For her feet flew all hollow As air's silence to and fro do float and flow. I lived,—the times I lived— Those moments of most my life have vanished. The gay I loved fell sick, for life was sick,— And bowed with disease in sick thought for her sake. -Her feet?—I saw them quick— They were her weak and beating heart's poor blood's. Yes, I lived,—I lived,— I have lived all that is can be forgotten. I lived through bliss—and heart's mournful beating Of hands that try To enter yet full soil of hope, and scorn (Through fault of fear) Of hope that in her is loosed at last the band That held since our life began to bind and bind A strange and straitening span, To clap bolts to the soul. I lived through one long night of love, And love's day was gray. —No, she had wings, and rose in blaze, Though of earth she may be. But light she was as she soared high Above our world, until we held her fast In quadling after; and she spoke thence As words have not). —And so she spoke— She stood with twitching eyes up the glimmering sun, And lifted hands, and shot light through the air. And so she stood, and we trembled still. And then we rose, and left with her Her dark hall of sea and sky, and found the land. And so we rose,—and she looked down to us, And we could do no more. She having left the earth behind her, and her fair song, Her fragile body and life's little lusty child, With wounded arms thrown back, Hung soulward, useless, and withered up, Below. And we rose, and ascended by spiral steps Of rampart and of tower, till here and there We made the mazy spiral to appear Another route of re-entangling walls, The way she ======================================== SAMPLE 198 ======================================== the bays of the damned, Now woe swarms! the waefu' men Their weapons whow swamps, and snows That were eight times, now are twice With them that did part in with war, Or near of kin, of that 793 the Second Targum, paraphrase of the ninth Psalm:-- For the vow which has taken place, Now you have wonder'd o'er the wise and good, Which the star sign which was cause of the rest. Now, the vows, as we have heard, were quite untreaclit, Which Solomon wisest led to believe should be Made in Chaldea. Not the wisest, but the best, The weaker being, is so famous, as strongest given To make a great prophet of, 'tis the same; It is the great men only that give rise to renown, Which are the seeds of honour, death is their bane. Nor the fountains and forests, as they 'haul all, Their floods and fields yield up; and with their limbs Yarn yonder, and on the bended bow Of a brave horse, your mighty waters row. Them nothing leaves but his grove, his homes, The clouds and their moonshine's falling showers, Which, through your annuals, ye bereave us. But, for our new-comers, what seas and hills, Nor mountains, can we send forth, answer very Ungermable, barren of debate? Ask what's your remedy for this your pray, 'Gainst the great, and for their protection waging Wrath against all of the high-born and wise. What? and my city, and my narrow fane? What? and my temple, and my rebellious heart? Not yet an empire for you, this Britain's Queen, Whole war-fainting realms to me belong; I am nam'd, you are nam'd her heart's-easing waters. You to your boastful tongues betray Your childish parts, play'd by toil and thirst To the praise of all-bosom-she'. Come, have a look, you light-headed boy, O't he Belles, their primrose career begin, I see, as I observe their errands, They send, they come, they only give away; All that's left you to your powers resign, For babes and men, the wonder of all lands These are the Proctors, and we, the peers. And now, O noes, that all might know The Island-Queen's defiled and light-less, I move to save her from these hands that smite, Unhowl'd, unhallow'd, and undeserving. She came from the sky, she saith, And brought a message from her queen, The Auld Alliance's empress or queen, Not to be knight nor serf more. --What said'st she, as she went? I, sirs, to the heart at which I had, I said my pray. She, as she came, was a born Hellene, And that was the reason of her line, And so to sea we were march'D, For who should show her less fair Shun'd the blows of war and the hate of his kind Than such as are my kind, And we'll be level as the heart. To sea! to sea! and the boilers, they said, That we had wreck'd and had off'Cargo to our ships. "Our heartiest thanks," we shouted, "we will share Great things our ally, the God of War can give. Then to their anchors, we reefed, we strake the bay, Saw vessels come from or to land, (Mysterious ships of message that were there) And we cried "Liberty!" in the slip n' slide, We paddled where the bright sky flared. Here was the Beacon Light that should make all right. Then from the cliffs of Long X avalanchion Cast a shadow, cast a menace On the ships that arrived, as on beds of backs Of furze, or locks of blue or gray. But the terror was blown back from the ships By the blowing breezes, and they fled. This is the only way to the foot of the hill. This is the only passage down, down. The man who dies in the wilderness Is drunk with joy. Ah, the mind is too small For wisdom greater than the world. Fitting it?--that is ======================================== SAMPLE 199 ======================================== Simultaneous with the rays of her " bright fair eyes," which are neither of the mistress-handmaids of man's passion and his imagination shuddering at them. Walt had not made a "delightful" type of his wife, but a perfect woman, neither staged nor conventional, but made to be adored. And I tell you, I have loved women, yea, have loved them with the love of God, and the heart of man. I have loved them with the heart of God, and with the soul of man. "Ah, when he came home, there was never a hole, If there was a hole, there was a smile of condolence. Sometimes he showed her shocking sights of the mansion, Where she had lain in her weird wonderment. Then he added to her elder husband's treasure, And the old man's ever-dwindling fortune. Yet it never seemed right to call that old man "father." That word implied a nation and a race. And she said to him: "No, never, never, son. You never know me as my father, Now I'm to be found without my daughter, son." Now the press, more and more of it, is saying. <|endoftext|> "The Blue Flower", by Carl Phillips [Love, Romantic Love, Relationships, Nature, Trees & Flowers] in orange and blue colors, an obscene symbol, like a small or shrub or bush. It may have been a sore thumb, or the harmful flesh-bump that inspires such colors in responses. Perhaps its name should be "The Throat" or "The Scrub" or "The Sputum" or "The Eyelid" or "The Wound." Or it may be nothing, an Asymmetrical Jug, an Asymmetrical Collapse, or a Wisp in the Light, as the sky's blue color seems to mix with the inside of the pot. Or, failing all to describe it, it may be too low to shoot, too small to stir or fit, a little heap of roots in a neighborhood of roots, of which one may say "I was so frightened of then that I feared the dark everywhere that my own hand trembled." Or, failing all to describe it, it may be, in this case, insufficient to describe it, the pale blue leaves of a pine tree inscrying silence, silence, silence. <|endoftext|> "Gothamter: Paintikute", by Carl Phillips [Activities, Sports & Outdoor Activities, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] "The play's as big as the stadium," says the play's broker, Gray, "the stands are as big as the streets" he says, "and so are the rooftops" and the backdrop, "the city as dark as hell" says, "if you want to see as much as you can" "you must come on the open ground" "as near to the pitch as you can come without going out." It is a sardonic line, and I wonder how far and how far the players have to go before the rooftops and the city meet again and the backdrop can avenge their unholy midnight address if you want to see a game without a venue and a game without a home. When the play starts I go looking for a gap, for a way in. The line of light between the pitch and the roof talks through the players. It talks through the batter's face. The face that runs into the fence comes back to the place it was, before it was hit. The buck Toronto fans cheer calls "home," the batter's smile comes back to the fans who sat so long ago. "There's a score to settle," says the smiling man. "Your eyes, the moment before you came into the game, could be our ticket out," says the manager. The crowd goes wild. The run is passed. The boy's on first. It's easy to talk around the boy who runs out. All you can say is he's the boy, the boy, and you are not not you. < ======================================== SAMPLE 200 ======================================== "Good friend, you please the majority of mankind, I seek no followers. I, myself, lead not (The King and Hrothgar were seated at the board With Thorstein, their vizier, at such a feast The guest-rooms of the ocean king were held) Alf the Old, the grave, the stern, and Gratian were, Fell's hair and beard dishevelled and disordered, Stood in the gloom: the brows on each cheek were bound Together; a cross upon their shoulders held, Sore from the shoulder wounds the feature flung Thick as the poisonous balsam oozed from stings-- The martyred leader of the Freicki host, By whom were Circe and Dido bound and slain. "There's Jove," said the Old, poor Richard, "My ass, we know full well Jove is there; yet sit I know: and like a man, whatcan I do?--I try To stretch my arm, and give the blessing kneel, But even a small inadvertence throws blame On others, and on myself I must be careful. Yet, what I saw, 'twas more I could not pray For than ask, so black it seemed to me than wind. I, as man conversing, fell upon my knees, Kneeling, and clasping, "O God," I cried, "Help us for Thy own holy sake!" Yet, spite Of all I did, I found no warm forth-coming. The Watchman on the moors (For he had heard a sound) Made furious all that country shake, Saying, "He that hath a ear And eyes, and all the sense of sight, Shall see naught else. I lay beside the sel:'n', As pore Byham used to do When church was small and chapel unbuilt, Nought caring for spiritual weed, And leaf and scrub woodland violets. By chance a wind it was That made the cark, the cark it all did shake; The night was dark and still would rise; 'Twas so unreacting, still there lay The cark, the cark it all did make. I spake the words I utter now, As late I did every day do bide, My wife's grave and mine' at last, "O got thou good luck, to thine," quoth I; "God knows how thou wert advantag'd, Up to this stroke thou lothly didst lie, And now the pillow be thy bier." Then laid I my good spouse And his good wife in death's snare, For since I learnt in using This mortal life's delight, I looked on earth beyond, And long, long to my thinking, To joy's own oak did apply The tree whose root is in my wife. "Nought that I gan this gate disclose, (Heart-o' the wale! how stay it is going?) Save what shall one day make for thee F your wrinkled head to take, A shaw of your grey hair's run will stamp." I spake, and, though I would it plain declare, I spake in fondness vain, affirming. "Harm's egg. the chance a jest make, What matter, so it be no can make us hurt A little pain with hurtfulness will do, They've ta'en my spouse, they've ta'en my stock. I may no longer live, I may no longer paint, They took my money, my liberty. So vainly do I look around For help, so let me look back yet again Where thrice I did so gladly go; I to my soul on chance rely And hope the best is yet to come; If chance good from without May one ill intent frustrate, 'Tis one against other The force of evil prevail. My love and right most dear Of friend, for me disown, For her say I, shall I relinquish, Of her take I true declaration, For her sake yet, let never change! If ope he sacred gate, I, if puling lips be found, May she for her dear sakes grieve? I, as powerfu' being, cannot blame, Doubt I, nay, doubt I such sore. And fain I wold, ere I am wed, From such great love disinclined in door; And fain I wold in justice ======================================== SAMPLE 201 ======================================== TL:1305 All of this. With no more. End of the next. Shee loosed me. If you want my rest. I'm not loath to move. H-W: This line is blank. H-E: This line is blank. I-V: I think that he is deaf. G-R: He did. T: I did. W-V: Whose side are you on? Y-A: They? U-Z: Are you? S-I: These lines are blank. L-R: These lines are blank. I-N: Blank. D- E-W: Who are you? S-U: Who are you? All: Blank. All: Blank. R-N: Are you? T-U: Blank. W-V: Blank. I-N: Are you? Other: Blank. K-K: Are you? Other: Blank. All: Blank. T-I: Are you? U-Z: Blank. R-N: Are you? H-E: Blank. T: Are you blank? All: Blank. K-K: Are you? No: Blank. All of this. Blank blank. <|endoftext|> "From the Backyard Thicket", by Bernal Threx [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Nature, Spring, Summer, Trees & Flowers] Fall is here, and like a pitcher that holds so much water,it's full of bubbles that have fallen away, yet still floats:the spring field glows like a setting sun, the crows a crowded crowds, the blue of the day like an empty jacket hanging on a clothesline.As the weeds wilt and flowers go fuzzier, I know that this is the time of year that disappears, that this cherished short-lived tearless bloom that like a newborn flower opens its mouthbut will not ever let the seeds out, that like a newborn flower closes its mouthand holds it even tighter. As the tears fall, the field glows brighter. The crows push away from the sky.And then, the field grows tall again, very few prick the sky as it was. 3 Our neighborhood is protected by a bike lane that begins near a birch sign and travels one mile up Commonwealth Avenue to the ocean. We live on a bluff that rises four stories from the sea, and look out over the canyon and the thousands of spaces in it, the millions of one-room houses on the cliff faces. 4 A pinecone airborne in air might indicate a shooting star, or a new year. I might envision this flickering light coming back to earth and splitting in half. Or a big gum, its expiring in mid-air. The giant neighboring to my bed on the bedspring is a piece of art, too—a 2000 astronomical double deck—closed for a year and taken apart for parts. It's been that way since I was little, standing under it like a child in an opera. In spring I turn my back and look at the Lexington Avenue sky, and count the hundred faces looking down on me as I create the year, count out the millions of years before I'm done. 4 As the snow rests, I think of the child sitting in the rain on the far side of the house, and how when I came in at night he was waiting for me to say a soft thing, or hold still for a minute, or say the name of the bird isrim, and he would sit on the rug. And how in spring when I come home he'll sit there, and watch the crinkle of the snow and the sunrise, and the loveliness of things. I think of how the child never speaks of anything but a single thing, and even that softens in its absence, and how the old man, who should know better, speaks in a phrase or two of afterworld, as if his little finger on his tie were named for something, or for nothing at all. 5 I was born here, on this hill and in this month and month, in the spring, and these are all lit by stars. And when the child dies he's just itching to be taken care of, to sit up and be a kid for a while. But I die here on my knees, thinking about what it means to be a human being. The man working the stoplight up ======================================== SAMPLE 202 ======================================== like the last slumber of a dream. And he loves the taste of the rough seas, That pinch the back of your throat and burn. And he loves the burning heat of the stars, And he hovers in the tempest When the night falls silent, and when the day Is about to close and all Your busy lives are folded In one golden wish, and all your friends He will whisper you his lullaby, And press his little silken feet Close about your heart, and sink his glancing Eyes beneath your lips. And when night comes, and all is silent, He will whisper to you, and whisper low, And watch your eyelids, and soothe you With slumbers that are pleasing-- A feeding on the high high dark From the deep dark things that fall asleep to die, Deep within deep within your unfilled mind. But when the night is over, and the sun Walks over the fields in many clouds, Then a vast clamor of wings and cries And wing-thud and roar of massed wings Rocks and falls and flows, And the seas stir with the mighty crowd Of sea-birds that were not one yesterday, But go and come With massed wings and falling mass From many places, matching quick-winged birds In their pursuit of smaller and smaller-- And now these, Like wild multicolored bees from many trees, Flitter over the dark with frightful Guilds, And now those, And now those, And now those, Are swarming over the black with frantic cries. There are two things alone that cheers one: To hear confirmation of a hope cherished well; To see two thingas in alliance, or line; To feel two things assur'd together, in God. I would be the type of perfection: To bear the type would be to be strong To bear what ever could be wrought from both: To be what I am name my station: To be what I am name as this--and thus to be What I am in God would be perfection. I would call this my type, and the type of perfection Is not the type of man. I would call this type of man perfection. I do not know perfection. I will go into the north woods to hunt and kill The great black venomed thing, The sin and blemish known only to vile The eyes of God on men. Lord, I am open: O give me all grace to come at this hour When look about him lies the earth and heaven With all their hopes and sorrows. Take me to my envied throne: I pray the will granted. I go for love: O give unto my love what I would run to thee: The thing so standing by thee. The yoke of what you would, The pack that passes for a kine But hungers and is unsated With blood and bone: The obey of pain The locker of the bough That shows the flank and rear But makes no sure heart-beat: The heart-bred relish That makes no reflex reaction: The horned husky nature That can but nibble and suck. Give me the yam; Give me the maw; The wapkee sheep; The sweet Pow woe; The glozter Cechee; The Indian Suns irony Where the dust of temples comes Through the pubic where men go chattering: O Congo! so great and so large, And so important an end It is certain that no one knows. I have heard it said That one French pilot alone Could see 'em reach the coast, But 'twas a hundred's total A thousand men might see 'em starve. 'Twas said that Loubera's Pacha and his men Never a moment thought about The beauty of their camaradas, Their beauty, and beyond, Of Zaire 'midst turmoil and blood, So lovely, and so far, And yet so necessary to God I know not why at first said, 'Twas this boy's heart stood still. He is the very model child That models well those who have no mons: Such beauty what is in them. They have the best physic To put in what they see in, And all the organs of sex. They are like a map, So vast, so vast, and yet so dear. (Oh, where do I stand with this.) His middle sister had been A wild thing, strong, and lanky, And he, his ======================================== SAMPLE 203 ======================================== Of the last and triumphant days of blood and fire, Which not even God himself could prevent! At Hald on a chilly night in February, Met me, and told me how a horrible rout Had happened in Hildingre in his own youth, A terrible rout, one knows not why, No man from whom an age has passed could ever know. The father of a daughter sent a blade of grass Towards us; the other children followed after. I was warm and have no shirt; one must cover His body with a mantle, when there, little me, I sat in the corner of the house, behind a piece Of wooden fence. Some man was lying there, Among the worst scented grass; his face was turned to the door. His eyes were open, and he stretched their way To us, oh god children, as we entered in With brier and berry, bloom and small brown grass, And strewings, all that was left of him. But ah, the way to his poor, warm mouth; The winding path that led to the warm house; The ways, the narrow passages, none may know. I beat my head, and then he bade me bring Water for my oil and a cup of mine; For from the water I could see his eyelids move. I have a fever; I wash and anoint myself With brimming water, sweet almonds milk. I cool my thirst, I drink of the oil, And with it drowse, dream and float. Oh! He sleeps! He sleeps! At length his slumber Fades; he stirs his limbs; he does not sleep. He is reading the Koran with his eyes And counts the rupees; he can't get early curfew. He has girded his loins for this journey By burning his senses in a flame. My oil changes; my spirits are chilled; I must go to his oil. He is making his fire by other method; He is rubbing his parts in a fire. When I return to his house I find it transformed; he has made A gaudy fire of his ground-plant pots To please himself and gratify his neighbour. His eyes close, and as I enter in, He is washing and piercing his roots in the flame, As in summer on the coals of my father's furnace. This summer I have heard my mother Describe him as one who had the gift of falling asleep in life; Life's lustre is thrown back from his face, Darker than death. My father was generous; on his manhood's credit; He can no longer remember. No longer has he his father's courage. He can remember a man's departs; A fair evening for the purchase of a frowsy ass. The yearning of his mind would linger sadly in his sleep At dawn; the hours are like a desert after death; In vain his hairs of last winter's winter break out. When he speaks of toiling, I call him self-complacent; Life is his brother's scrapbook. I said that he was cranking life's imagination To refill life's emptiness; I stand corrected. His intellect is richer than our social customs; He speaks from experience. I, with my girl, And her sheep-shearer's beard, and my deodorized conscience, Am a niggard as the one we cheat. He is richer than I; I am just a common man. My brother is the one to talk to, he is richer than I am. I find that I'm wrong about this poverty. It is better to be poor than wise. I cannot help making a living, And the poor are wiser than I am. In vain does he glory of his fortune To cheat a girl of it in December, In vain does he glory of marriage, And my future mating; And my little life was not enough for him. I cannot help living in debt. He needs the city and the burden of the world; And he is crazy for theatres and halls. The one thing we possess that is not written We must command; And he adores the naked word; he lies And over the barrier of the living He sets ======================================== SAMPLE 204 ======================================== A wayfarer to me, if thou wouldst be A present help to me and me a friend; For all my life, in wandering, wast thou Unwary of me; yet, kind wife, I know Thy heart would aid me, kind heart as true, And therefore content at last to stay, As helpmate to thy lord, I pray At thy law, and what so well it is, I promise and do promise, my life To aid thee, as bed companions grow, And bear thee company in road and fight. The host is come to him from many lands: From Corinth's sea-bound lanes, from Tiber's flood, From Ida's hills, and Anthedon's welling sands; They come from many a larger and wider clime, To join the Greeks, and throw their spears in sight. Why and how they come I shall toast, The high exploits of their leaders tell; And, first, they feared the spear of Peleus no less Than they their spears should fear the couched gales. That mighty host which had the West in view, And came to Troy from many a tilled land, From Ida, Sigean forms of life and height, From Acra's cliffs, and ports of Helvaa's heather, From Andra's ancient valley, and the isles Of Zydoia and Calliarus' bay; But chiefly those plains which lie above the Plains Of Ethnobia, and where the Ionian flows In several showers, and draws the Ionian wind. For Python Orsilochus his snares was sure, As sore against the Greeks was tried; theoos kene too The Grecians, for his deceitful speech had made; And Pythian Cysrythus, who came to get Enorytone, the heaven-born harpy chick, Apt to follow, and later grown to happy age, For beauty, grace, and ornaments, had not dwelt Too upbraided with his harsh repinings bad, And had not heard too nigh Orsilochus. He warned, that day, the fight was soon to come, As sure as hallowed wine was poured in earth-feet, And nations smitten with one cup of wine. The hoard of the great son of Jove, so long engulphed, That no tongue of man might prophesy his wealth, Which of all his hoards the magnitude knew, In order by the measuring of his mood, At least the hundred greatest gold ore things That could be found, had the faulupius earth Rithed again by him, or the fat bronze's staked things, Or the tree-leaves, or the teeth, or the scorpion stings, Or the roots of earth, or the bark, or the writhings springs, Or the salty muck that drips from the rock, or the salt-springs; Then lo, the fauluvian god, that snatched the gold From dead OenomorPhoebus, snatched also Troy, And gold, too, in great abundance, and cast it on To the bottom of the deep world's house. And he shook the storehouse of the world down, And sent it via Camelot to the damps of Jezands. But with a shake the road ran out we know not where, The world old-fashioned. The Greeks in vain they rode on it a little way, And put the Hellespont to the tagline, Till time said, that when the world was this a-chord With lyre and music of heaven, the Grecians came. But by the smart of time the thing was set, As ere the first of them the golden day Flowed up and into the heavens again. And so they found their way into the shadow Of heaven, and round the set of heaven, and there, Faring into the dark from plain to plain, Past Pindus, past Lybicca, past Cynthus, all Down to the dreg, untasted, in the darkness drear. The sun was close behind the hills, and the rain, Glinting off from the sling, struck in showers, The goats were chased before thee, goats on which to eat Thou hadst not yet thy steed; for the bed Of the deep Plina afar, and thither hanging back, Broke on thy pricks, and on the corners of the turn; And down, at thy back, the cattle of the sea Trod ======================================== SAMPLE 205 ======================================== I simply cannot bear that as a man I shall still linger in the lurch And all that pain of my life, to deny This burden of two lifetimes in this place And still remain upon the earth, Not merely with pleasure you have pleased me, Nor merely because the time is passing And you put a silken veil upon Your whole being. This colloquial Requiems of yours touch all my heart When I think of your magnanimity And you did write a letter and you did write nothing And your long heels were moving on their own Gathered and peaceful and saw nothing And did stand with folded arms and folded hands And lived your whole life from this moment. For I testify you did write a letter And you did speak by telephone with a government official And you did sit by the despot and play And you did stand with the driver in the square And you did stand at a government building And you did stand and enter a room with a soldier for coffee And you did stand and wander among tombs And you did stand and look through latrines And you did stand and look at the tomb of a famous singer And you did stand and loom among clouds of incense And you did stand at a triumphal arch And you did stand and tread upon the uprest poetry And stand and watch a tall ship sail into the distance And stand and Tiber's waters fill With boats of children and horses of soldiers And stand and stand and stand and Tiber's waters Fill with the rushing boats of a merry masquerade. And so you stood on a tomb by a wild flower And the poet in me finds delight in all of it. But I must pause and gather my breath and Lift up the hatchet and cut. Let the ax handle swing Let the blade rest on the edge Of the table to be named for everyone's favorite. And let all of us meet And shout and push and jostle And push and shout and shout Until the spirit of Aragon Shall carry the day And it shall be: the agrarian act And the spirit of Aragon Shall be strong as the strong Emperor's sword Because the spirit of Aragon Is the spirit of Aragon that conquers and satisfies. And it shall be when the nameless and unnamed number of us Who are here round the table to-day, and many to tell The business of all of us, in the ancient game of Tariquet, Tell us the joy of being Tarquen and Tarquete and Tarquin and all the other names With the same joy that we have of pleasureing in the sight of our friends. For as I sit here, it is the same joy as when we walked the court in June and Touched with the sunshine on your glances, and all the place was with garlands, And we spoke about the fine days, the summer time, and how they rose like that And the weather was such that we could never forget the air, And all the wits that came then to court us with the idea of going again. And if there be some that stay in the last of the names, or knows not the days of old, And shall not understand our merry way of greeting the sun, Our walks, our speeches, our joys,--then let him sit and cast Look out or eyes or in what or what is the name of these things, And let him look at the heavens, and if he must be a man of evil Till the last golden boundary of the year To be as we are, in the last of the golden day and the last of the light. <|endoftext|> When I am tired of the song Wherein I trod, as the follower Was only myself, The phrase, It is peerless -- Though the voice were neither clear Nor new -- It tickled along the air Like that of young Dian, Who sees the dawn. If one were inclined To sing a reckless song All naive post and pretence Would lead one to despair. But I am not in thearthot disease -- That mischief's the devil. I care not if 'twere true, false, or devious; If I were not Apollo I'd give it, dear, the whole Careful health to adopt; And then, the moment that I heard The parting of your finger-tips, The song that stole upon my heart, I should have sung myself before I could speak. O, little bird! That sang my name I heard the death of my song 'Tainting the joy of your wings. ======================================== SAMPLE 206 ======================================== The Queen sends, with judgment severe, To bear me hence the cursed chains. And so my brief and glorious reign, Ending in the fate I meet, Will fall, but not in virtue lost, But made so noble by fate, So large, so strong, so cruel-seeming, By King Endory's guilty love. Here Endory bowed his head, And on a golden throne he made; His hair disheveled was, and long, And from his nape dangled useless chains, And on the left hand hung a gallant staff. And there his-sons, in their place developed, Raked his tawny locks with high whistling, While shrieked stray sheep and yoked goads The King in times of unhappiness. "May I be blown, my sheep to water, And scattered over the king's broad wall? No, I do not so wanton; I am here to yield my honest opinion. This is my pedigree-token Of Shingebi' the first of Shebna's race, Whoso takes my part will never hear And I will judge as long as I live." So spoke the Queen, and there she was intent Upon the kind intercession of man. And there was ended that horrid act Of woe, to see done, and plighted law. And long through air the mother-daughter band Were roaming in the realms of Jumbly thought. And so the Brindled Spire, o'er the low-head Of the green field, saw sheep dance, and man make pond'r, And o'er the broad-field saw sheep hop, And stamp, and stand, and lie, and run. And ever when the Brindled Spire nigh began To head again, sheep-steal cried "Shabre Roberts, To crown the Greenbriar erect the Greeni," And there, 'tis true, the evil Sheep did go. But what the end of all, or rather kingdom, In this occurrence? 'Twas done with joyous love, And love where every thing did treat alike, And love is in the love of children second, And after love, to God be mercy's head. And thus we see, comrades, that in all lands, In all countries, it's brave and well to be Murderers of your own. It gives you fame, A hand-bell to the hatters' and owners', A go-between to make the bawling better, A worker too, to make the bread you toast better, Your servitors, also--and your girls. 'Twas in the days of Straw-Pipe-Fighting-the-slipper, And after, no doubt, a cup with Seethingus Was found wherein the glorious deeds of the White Death Had fallen off! 'Twas then the celebrated Seethingus Began. The grave with Seethingus was desired, And the whole grave-digger gang. And it came to be, that the Black Death lay Slipperily in the soil, when people wished And did with all their chaff, and could but mean To hold themselves as much as Corn-and-Seek As others could, the Seethingus began. They dug a deep grave, and in it scattered The spoils of Cri pulled up for himself, And of the others found it good behavior, That being their king, and burial in his armour. I have no cause But in observing the growth of such feats, For when you find a fact to fear a myth, Then that to be true which is not to be Is by that very fact believed. All religion Begins in the mind of man; All fact looks straight in the spiritual glass, All looks to nothing else. And what does the Black Death want with us, O little graves of ours? And are we the burial-pitchers for the Black Death? Have we been chosen of the Seethingus For burial in the Black's own grave? For of the Black's own grave? Why, the Black's own grave! Oh little mine! O litterate little grave, The end of this (They ended) Was--ah ha! A seething mind, Which made and found us, The quiet deaths of fate. But, failing blessing, The worth of that Which works us ill, The blackest dreams of sense, Our eyes on your rocks, Hears a chance ======================================== SAMPLE 207 ======================================== ), Alf, the elder, (of Omer) whose battle axe Was, he whose heart throbbed but ruffled not (at pain Of breakings-cap) was, it seems, Omer's eldest brother. Jozel is very small, It is so tiny that my eye Could not even find Where it was broken, Though it may be Came from the cross-bow-string. And as one Who has an important Vow of this small village And that much-vaunted PROSCTRONY to oppose, And as one Flock flocks the sheep in, He-he needs no bolt- The town-seen, he, Walking there, he, To school, he, His vest so dusty, Checked with the fur from That sand-rose round the field, Lepreoxysve (His eyes have-) Are well contented. Dear are the throng Of gladsoms which go, In cause they ever choose, On their own sward, With no guide- By which they can always They seemt to say. Tottering 'neath the strain Of the incessant change Of his life-course, Od's youth-time doth him (Like a lion) obey Not as the sheep, Whose duty it is to Kill and kill and kill, But who on cliffs and deserts Among the sunburnt manures Goads to his own need. O'er the new-resorted Village dear Omer wrought, Od's horse now, as then, Has paced the well-stocked shop Of his own hovel; and to Omer, this is the end Of the happy lot that he knows, Since first Omer felt the prick Of the little nails of shame, The great one, the great one. We set our burdens On the wintry field of desire To the dead face of the departed, When we knew not fear, nor dread; For the pain of the thing to come, When the little knot grew bright Under his pride, Was but a stimulus To be whatever he might be. Yet not as shepherd of the flock In fetters bound, O not as seraph left short For all the fire of good and ill, Was he, with lips unmelted By kiss or kiss-like fire; But more thanLeviathan, more than ne'er Phoenician travelling by the sea. A change took place in his body's state, When he went from the sentenced sacrifice To the uncplusured status Of a law-abiding citizen. No breath, no blood had past his lips, The rigid blood whose ceaseless work it was To strike a blood-gandie; No terror of life had made him doubt, Or broken now, at twilight, The great stone. He had the time of life, Like the moon-singer, when he was made. Time passed, and penitential year Lent its shadow to his body' s praise. The shepherd's chase he had recalled In word and line The rugged path he on euglena trod; A birdsong lay On the woodland lip Had comfort brought him, by the rill, Through winter's cold. A birdsong lay On the woodland lip And made him think of songbirds new-born, And the chirp of geese That whistled in flocks. The blackbird whistled, and the thrush sung; The linnets, and the wren, The starlings, and the avocot decora Had music of their own, And a music no other bird had. A spring-like plant of lily heads On the dark hedge-sprays, And the yellow ribbed flower That drips where the heavens are blue, And the forest laden With leafage, and the grassy spray, And leafage, and all flower-bloom That decketh the grass, The leaves upon the oak-bough That is bound the woodland glade, But most of all the new-made flowers With their mild mandments, The true-gathered herb of its hidden powers, The herb of health-thonful fruits and seeds, The fruitage all have brought Of the wild-flowers which are filled With nutritive juices and heavenly balm For the thrice-suspected, the tongue, ======================================== SAMPLE 208 ======================================== I heard. And I kept on in that aërial wander, and in that wander I never forgot, but this was the moment when I saw the stars. Of the seven stars, the shining and the shining of the jeweled stars is the most subtle, most exquisite, is the most diaphanous, is the most inexpressible, the most intense of jewels, is the jest of the flaut. And I thought I was the King of the Earth, you know. You are a facetious old creature, I am a scandalous old creature. What do I care for my jeweled days, and my buried and forgetful Jewels. All the time that I was going to enter the house, and ask for your hand, my jeweled mother was there, and the old days were under the mulberry tree. I am the Lady Macfamara, of Val d'Arcy, Jaquet and Jean give me this gold and lucite and tell me to give you a smile, a precious smile, because your star is broken, your life is deceitful, and a daughter of that man who had the good green turban, and I'll think of the rivers and lakes that me and my father and Jean have in Quebec, and tell me to give you a laugh with his golden and priceless smile. In Quebec, in the mornings, the rivule courty, we can see a planet that's always better to the West, there's no one to look at with his hand, and the sky has a brown open and you can't tell whether it's day or night, and no one to be born, and we're out of the world and we're familiar with the trité un veritable d'Être, the trité un veritable d'Être But I'm a fool, I don't know this and I don't care, I'm in New York, I'm in New York, I'm in New York, The cathedral is kneeling, we will bury the moon in this city, when we bury the world, we will bury the dark with the light <|endoftext|> "from Omen I", by Edgar Allan Poe [Living, Death, Infancy, Infancy, Birth, The Body, The Mind, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Religion, The Spiritual, Mythology & Folklore, Fairy-tales & Legends, Ghosts & the Supernatural, Gothic Horror] Old Familien there appears to babble, As infantries, to babble. He knows not that here By this scarred entrance, that order On this temple-platform, there before The wild-flowers break, that order On this stone-calve tambourine And this one-armed relative Of Elvis, that order makes New verses on the old To me born in other flocks. He knows not that there Springs from this blowped And deep-submerged Yon lonely year: He knows not that my bones And bony limbs are Like unto the primitive Diamond-tooth insects That seep this floor He knows not that these eyes Of his see but Each to each, and that each Sorely is sad Who neither wants to see Nor can see. For tears and moisture Make of this stone A bilious chamber Under the process Of fire and smoke. The cuspid of this hill All but a flattening Under the vapor Of man and woman. The clouds, the frailty, The ultimate frailty Of heart and home, The ultimate frailty of all, The frailty of all things, The turn of this world, The turn of all things To the aim of the Spirit, The aim of the standing Creature who alone Is pure and without blame, Who neither willed nor was not willed, Who only is the one Creature and no creature, The only thing and only one, The catchword under the cuspidarter, The under-word under the cuspidabase, The under-word under the cusp Of the drop and the neure question mark, And under the twining Winding of the slip-covered stuvers, Under the ======================================== SAMPLE 209 ======================================== To the vile men whose throats are sweated By the jewels of gold they fling When they fight on the shoals of slaughter; Not a nation of the East and West But cares for the jewel of gold, And those dull stones put poison on And set life on fire for gain. And so they make war on the world, And thus they lie, feigning, with eyes That see through their blazoned lies In light that never was on the earth; They have no clue to their mystery, And so they lie and still believe That they are gods, and the great gods lie Guiltless against the world; Because the hidden things are hid, And they are shut of what we see; It is the poor world that is blind, And the dead world that is so fair, And power's great liar, the Great Rite, That lays all its power to cover The littleness, the weakling bones, And all the earthlike loveliness Of nature, the simple things That made and shape our lives. Where is the wise, needed intelligent public, The searching and creative crowd That painters and poets and members Of garret'd galas call the dregs Of dreamy men and dreamy dreams, That snatch the sparks of truth from an exhausted Sundered world? [Here end the lines produced by Chanterelle. (8) They have the lines of art, but are dull At best with glory and with glory's wreck. For all their cries for blood and death, What do they do? they cry for blood and for blood, They cry for laurels and for daisies, But shed not either. [When paint comes in, with its great wide eyes And blazing mouths, they come And covar a' the same. To me the end of ending is joy, But these endz I have friends of rest, And gladly would they go, But sadly joy that ends is to die, To die for love of friends. To lie with joy at full length in full length Endz, and drink a health to friends, of friends; To laugh with joy at short full zope, zoop, To sing with joy the same old song, For never any friends. One can end a song in joy, but not a friend. I have but few, and they are all of friends. I have no friends--not since my beginning-time. When friends were best I had many, but now I have no friends, nor any land, nor sea, Nor land, nor people, nor beast, nor tree, But stars and thought. I have but three oceans, and one is plenty, One haven is all, and that is Paradise. I have seen islands, but were not ever lodged, But in my mind there is a certain spot Where all the earth and ocean-board would fill, Where all the air would water the ocean-sea. Its name is Corruption. Corruption is not understood. Men corrupt for state's sake, that's all they do. To sell a bill of goods to a king Or to a bishop for money is their, To make a diplomat pretty Is not a very familiar form. My Lord has a great estate And a great integrity. He's in the habit of doing good The whole year round, and that's the kind To put his name to things that's lame; He gives good money to Charity, Or at least to his fortune is poor; For what he earns he spends in no way. The world is raw and men are new, And he is old and well-tried. I can't tell you how corrupting is The manners of the town of Jan And their approach upon this isle. There's a pure air and clear sky, And if he won't do all he can To attract the townspeople here to spend We'd say it's all the same to him. A great deal of rubbish he has brought out, And a great lot of badness, and here and there Many schemes that were clever; and we have found His brief life to be a round hell; But all that he has ever done or said We cannot see or judge; for a great deal Of what passes in the head is Haunted by thick night in each instance And we can't describe it ======================================== SAMPLE 210 ======================================== That may lie, out, in the darkness Or under water, and now and then Every one or two or three may come back, With a whistle on their lips, and put out. That will be luck. If any one says, "I Lived when my time was made, and that was best," I think I shall live, if it can be said That such things can live, and if the past Holds up its promises, and the future Grows dim, and all that it makes seem fair, In a measure as perfect as this, If it be true that what goes at all Can be the least bit good. And you shall know That the dead come not to give up their freedom To those who cannot give their freedom back. So to a kingdom more than familiar I look back, when one or two come back to Ask another and another. And when God sees that what He saves by cutting each Leaders a catch-all, leads again to Leaders, one and one--he will save More than its fair worth. No change in me: The lord of hosts, of whom I was A priest, a captain of priests, since Nicholas Died, was priest again, and captain of them This toil and pain and scene and pay Taught me to lead, and each man his Perfect fate, under God, whose might Is love. The mindedness of all mankind Saves my soul, though not her own. I was One with the all-universal Host. Wherefore I cannot say That I am superior in Name, under other gods. All is Right living for all in it where it is, Cure for ill cure. With this Lead in and through the wilderness. Let God Grind out through us such a pasturage For him and his and hers for evermore. Where are we now? Over a continent, Over a continent. Where shall we land? <|endoftext|> That soul of a boy, and he was only My year's boy, and for love's sake I plucked him out of the crowd. There was no weeping then, nor afterward. He wore a strange kind of jacket, And his look was bright and lively, His step was light and his heart a joy, And I, of course, loved him well. We trod the seas, we dined, we roasted, I gave him diamond dainties. We walked on the moon, we peered into the stars, We knew the sun was but bursting clouds We heard the ulcers roar, and we heard The vampires cry, and we knew we should soon Be judged, when all is met. Love could not keep its candle full, But we two saw all beneath the sun In eclipses glisten, and heard their fates And heard the voids cry. Ah, there were the old men, serene As though on some vast pastoral in plain broad The sun had suddenly set. He could not but smile, For there was he, the small-mold Dutchman Out of the tulip field, who had Tread on his hooves, but trod as he shouldered A mighty house, and like him Should tread the mountains' eastward roves. I saw his fellow spinnakers in a pin That were to spine and cross-piece, Hemming the gun-lock screws tight. They were the middle stories of a house, Built as we built, by clock-work. A rope of builders he swung, and laid, and sat On a bed of thorn-tree legs, and splintered, He took the things of dark and bright As glass and stone and straw. There is no hand to seize, no eye to wonder. There is but one unquiet soul to keep The silent house. <|endoftext|> With eager spines that wan'd like the yellow veins Of some sick horse that's nearly done for, were the girls Strong of limb, strong of heart, and each had a sword Dropping at each stroke. The soft, soft soft ground Was heard, as when of old the overture was played, Or the slow chant that Matthew heard, when he was Christ, And this his Father ere the gospel was. And every sword in hand was hung upon their knees, As if they could not well lose hold of the thing Which oft had turned them into eiders. The world, from the moment they had entered it, Took away their form and description, And their own voices were ======================================== SAMPLE 211 ======================================== containing but the strong feeling, The verity, the help, and the will To be much more! A white impassioned girl, Plucking a golden lily,--"She Is all my heart, all love, all life!" And so she grew to be a maiden bright, Lif'ring now for her. When first she felt the clutch The Man within her, scarce felt she was stunned, And free to give, and take, and have no bar Her fullest sharing of existence's dower; She told the truth and told the woman's, As may be chance, who wrote a gem of love Whose motion was but motion of the mind, Ignoble in its selfishness If I be a man! I look, then, Not for grace, but for the rule that lies In a sweet and quiet place between The two As it may fall. WHEN first the harp of Spring (Pale sun, he look'd down!) Gave unto the rest of the Summer time Her nightingers with a melancholy chime; When on dry open hay-ricks by thrushes' ground, The feeling for nature we lost could no wise err, The coolness of dawn was dead, And God and the feeling of presence were away; Then though it be that at the heart of the year Winter can'd for us fashion a chime, Yet this the reason, and we can prove it, If we would believe;--the season comes in, With a mandate to blush and to weep, For the lost feeling of past joys, or the heart's serene: Give up the 'great turning,' and try the 'small moving.' WHY the mere image of suns in motion! Blot out, Blot to petals hardened in the sun's rays! Motion as of plants, when volatile Humour Amply inspires, can make an instant landscape, The face of the globe can be proof of a sudden birth, And who can say where, when weies are set on their pranks, They may go convelre of springs or a simple Jekyl. A summer out of the world's bounds, with South acting North, Or when the stream is distended and the stream disabled, When the fog rolls back and the sable sea is out of sight, And 'terre du sein,' the spirit's back, May shut out the world and rush in despair away. WHY, though in soft weather, Beauty's airy escort, We revellings still, and gay repose we crush, And talk of this our Zodiac's golden shift, The changeable youth of these merry months, And the sad autumn, even though the golden sun And the dark night share in the cause?-- These sun and moon may agree, And still agree to surprise A world in joy and astonishment, But both, with moon and with soul, agree. SHE was a throbbing pure excuse for Love, In a wild action of bright and mostly male energy, Making all vacuity a living truth, Or voice of the universe in hapless declamation (His words, by the bye, far from their meaning). Her being was creation's measure, inebriated Thus far, to the hight or dip of her going; A starry mirror for creation's majesty, To go into or out of which goes further good. A random laugh on miseries; a wild waste wound up In a fight against all male theness; To have, to receive, a great empty happiness In acting, playing, breathing, without content. As if life's way were a maid, Shining in hoopijs, Like a mad altar to an altar; A drunken maiden, laughing at a blast, That raves along of lardy pain. My verses are nothing,-- And nothing after them. The worlds of God, Wandering far after worlds, Are coloured dust. I look on it and mock. One is a gleam of fugitive colour, Fervor, premonition of wise, or wise to marvel, Of love, of fawning wonder, awe. And the other, on the ground fallen, Is nothing. And the other is a beam Of the cast blue absolute Over the field end fuming. A veiled woman, alive and vast, Bow'd in earth and raw in veins of red, About to hatch forth, aye, qualitike, a brood; Unsexed and cold, a larva, like a bride, To an old man unkiss'd and ======================================== SAMPLE 212 ======================================== A plain-boughed tree, of mighty strength! No weaker-twined, its arms out-thrust In a bold and gallant's hand would lie, And it bore the great sword of Hector clear In his broad fork from out the sheath untwined. "Giants of Grecian fame! you could not fail To give your aid to such a mighty chief; I would you had the courage of the immortals! 'Twas the glory of your lord to have guided The division against the Phrygian sea, And, failures having shamefully on your file, The whole array of the Grecian host, Fired like the Sun, and thundering round, Would surely have dashed the Trojans back In terror, and their Aidineians' pride, Thrice like to break; that so their fears Might not give Achilles too little might. "Not to want a warrior who has a sword, What fears could my thoughtaries inspire? Now, my hardest task will I accomplish Of all the mighty-for-joy to give him; But, failing in this, what can we to-day Our lives are opened, and our doom close? Thus far, I grant, we lack advice; to-morrow Let others come, and be the lies believed. "We, and ourselves, again, next morn, of fate Should better know the mortal's power and might, And here the difference from our wisdom learn How one great skill, which we revered, The courage of a single man reveals. "For his sole present safety urged, And for the future fate of many, watch: I had feared he might delay, expecting Some other foe awaited, and sought With trade-rook to fortify his host. But scarce he has a moment to act; soon Their swarthy shriek again; frighten'd once By that strange length of voyage, they will, More forward, at his approach;--then, I say, The present to order,"-- Him answer'd thus Achilles' princedom, Which until that time concealed by them Tradition had preserved, in secret kept, Their secret mysteries to utterance. First, they that from Salamis' scyth, or Ellossenos, Took their name of the Salian coast, Famed to the Golden Street, which circumscribes That sea-expedient estuary, which Both tops of sea and shores communicates with Helene. And, after them, after them, with swift pace The whole plain allects, coming to its end, The last cut by Achaian spear, they pass'd: Where earthen vessels first to build they came, Then to the mighty world their own dedicated: Here with their helms and shields their figures they emboss'd, And thus the host ascended, in order rang'd, Of this and of the other battlements. Before the gate, each god of wiles disguise'd, Calydonian Achilles stood; and, better sure, That other charges which on that day Subtained his mind, may be unto him Less then the knowledge of his warriors' cheers: But first, before all other honors His going-suitors would to him confer; For on that day their own some other thank Would suit him, some other token show. So saying, in his turn he bade the crowd provide From every quarter such his gait and gesture, As by the crowd's judgment might his mother pass, Whilst he among his young disciples walk, And to his mother address his suit anew. And haply, of his lurking thither made, That by his mother from the town he was sent, Would be the King's quick return to know. That other, with his body and his wounds, was seen Straight to the place, which is at once the seat And bower of every single graceful girl In Greece, and from of all reunion Exiles. His good fame in letters has end: No more his presence graver than the wind. At length he saw the place advanced to his desire; But first his daughter's hand against her will He press'd; and in his heart, as in a tomb, she lay, Until her father's decision were known. Then on his daughters breast his hand he laid, His fingers pressing on the brass: his eyes, Tears and blood, ran pollution; and his grief Received a name: pitiful out of fire. If ever here the term not whole may be, Let now this little space, our ======================================== SAMPLE 213 ======================================== Children like a cat or a dog Poke at your eye, the sore, Of the mind and heart; They all you see and they tickle you and then Wish they could stay. 'Twas supposed that he would of-ford Win Queen Emma; It was not meant that he should have the Care, But oh, no! 'twas meant He should of-fed her the little brown dog; For Queen Emma, then, he did not know, Had a grand old table featured red In the old hall; On the top of it was a great big golden gourd Like a choux, crumbled and browned, Whereon sat on a chair The old King, like he was, And he should lay down his life, And be with Princess Emma; But he felt sick and sick, So he went down to his chair, On the table and raised thereon And looked at the gourd; And then, in his mind, He saw underneath the letter set Four lines, And that the words were Were "To be married, if possible, To the Mony old Queen," With the stone large he looked, But when he looked once more, He saw it was over. "So," said the Dean, "that's the end of me! It was as I! God knows how I am going to proceed! But if I win, I shall go home rich; If I lose, I go still lower, Never to rise, As to-day with you and me." There was a boar, and there was a she-fox, And there was a tree; There was a bowl, and there was a ball, And there was a pair of gallant ducks. There was a jest, and there was a knavery, And there was a marriage; And the Duke said, "What is it cost?" His men went to look, And found a tree, With a ring, and a brim, And a man in it. The Duke said, "That is enough, God knows, I never got my share." The boar said, "The thing is done; A true good man That ever was made, May be worth something yet." The fox said, "That's bold!" But the tree said, "Aye, sir, To begin with; But he that shall come after me May get a farthing." The man said, "You tyrant, old one, How did you nag me so?" The she-fox pointed her finger, And said, "Tell us how to do; A mayn't be worth a penny." The gourd said, "You have got A good thing, I'm all like, sir, The gardener that you are, And you must have a good goat; The gourd, poor fellow, he was sorry, But he could not sell it; It was made of wheat, and the blossom Of the almond tree; They both of them would seem to the fellow That's come now, to be heavy. The tree said, "The deuce is ever, In a garden by this name, Where roses and rhododendrons grew, And glowed their colours warm, And soft rains, rosy-yellow, Blew o'er the tulip-toddie way; The Rose upon my branch For awso chopping; This my little pet flower, A flower for the catching, And a treasure for the slaughter, Happily wreathed my heart, So kind it was to droop. I still had tears to spare, when a little child would come, Now sorrier to my sight than his, on Christmas eve, To myao! And then I would say to him, "O, mark me, Young neighbour, this is the beloved one of our family, That all in earthern shed, May honor fail, and he ever joy, and you may flourish." What in the bushes the fox had been spied in, What was seen by the she-fox was heard by the she-fox's child in play, when his mother, who heard her, Called him quickly; And the weasel saw the little bird in the hawthorn, And the rat, in the corner, saw it in the furze, And the little bird in the hawthorn, when she saw him, Took fright, Steerred it away from the thorns and the haw ======================================== SAMPLE 214 ======================================== nom de marble quar'ed we all know how it works. A lot of people work to make it. You'll never work to make marble. People make their own money. Did you ever see the people working in the big mall? They have their heads up, a-cu-po-py, eyes closed. Pish-o-tush, pompadora, fancy dress, slumber parties. O mama, what are they over there making? All these little shitlords, you ever think how they can be hot, and not in that way, with a little sweat or po-licid pajamas and a little more of life, but still how they can be cool and still dangerous. I never want to see the chaps they carry home from the N.C. Central from going all in and smelling like a basket of illuminels. I don't want to go to dinner with them. <|endoftext|> "No Necessary", by Rebecca Daly [Living, Life Choices, Relationships, Friends & Enemies] I stand in front of the mirror, each time, in case I am allowed to do so I will take from the mirror my security break-in. My security is a number. I do not know the security I give myself with each bite of food or line of tongue against the sofa for the right to sit there. I think of you, but you, who know me, I mostly think of you as a good gate, a barrier I put up to keep strangers out, somebody else's gossip, a parking ticket, or the time a lady tried to blow you like so many pellets. <|endoftext|> "In Sickness, I Merry", by Rebecca Daly [Living, Health & Illness, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Religion, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] I dance in the grave, in the fever, and am ill in the evening. I am so ill, I am so ill, I go by elevators. I go by lungs that will not hold the breaking of their bottom. I go by how not to breath and not breathe. I go by drinks to recover. I sit alone and drink. I dance until the dying, and can not only dance but write in my final years. <|endoftext|> "Gaud Gallo", by Rebecca Daly [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Desire, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] We were not going to play hooky today at this place, this place we went. We did not want to wake up Hooky's mug, even though he had been dreaming of mugs all afternoon. She said yes to the morning. Hooky's mug offers a cup. Today? Hooky is going to love this he knows he doesn't now. He drinks. She drinks. He has to get going. He does not want to wait. She does not want to go to work today either. They do not want to play hooky and hooky goes. They will not wake up. They are not going to play. <|endoftext|> "Wish", by Rebecca Wolcott [Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books] I wish I were invisible to him,I wish he could never never turn his back,I wish he had never seen these wordless eyesI wish I were just like you or I wish I were just like you, his fingers tracing the back of a lamb, its neck withers and skinny, wind tumbling from the alleys, empty villages spread out beneath, a landscape of scorching hills and cloudless meadows, roads idling out of sight and in, I wince copying him, I wince copying him, I wince original disappointments, original disappointments, I wince deciding where I should turn, I wince dipping down into dark alleys, I wince copying him, I wince my way through alley fires, I wince sticking with the light, I wince making streets, I wince trying to climb down to where the alley beasts wait, their shy faces fixing me with blank eyes, eyes wince tracing the back of the neck of the lamb, eyes that have woken too early, I wince repeating him, I wince wishing for a slice, a bite, I wince dreaming of him I wince sleeping on the beach, I wince turning my back, I w ======================================== SAMPLE 215 ======================================== and made it transparent, a hard jeweled spoon, to make love that smaller and easier. That's what we see, a river. We don't see the path that made a road to the star of the night. <|endoftext|> "From Here...", by Nicky Hsquarem [Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Reading & Books] As they say, one should not go In front of a lady thinking Of buying a book... But sometimes one can, And it's true That is a surprise... Though one should not really Go thinking Of leaving one's speech, As one's in, of thinking Of leaving one's book... A man, for instance, Would make himself such A delicious story If one would let him Forget about the fact He is in the White House While one might let a rose... One might get a rainbow Before one even Reached the end of such A delicious, delicious book... <|endoftext|> "Infinity Bow", by Thomas Merton [Living, The Mind, Religion, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy] A bow that needs No blood to form, and so Is immortal. It forms Without button, barb, or flight, Its virtue beginning in The square wooden mechanism itself And doesn't need a mark To keep its sharp point down. <|endoftext|> "From Here", by Joe Colly If I could find the edge Of anything, I'd know what I'm worth. The distance from here To God and back again, And back again to God, The infinite nature I've seen the thickening Into a thickening Which pulses At the same spot on the sky. I've seen the pattern in A vast spider's web Holding the prey which moves In so much larger motion. I've seen the pattern in A pattern on a egg Holding the foot that hovers Like the sun in the dashed web. The endless ultrasonic Of this voice, the thickening Which will be the language Of this voice once more. I've seen the shape Of a hand from here Sending out a wave Or short arrows and back Again, a wave Or a long one at the other End of a string Which by this motion Will have come to be The sound of some hands From I don't know where. I've seen the shape Of an arm from here Calling back an earlier voice Or a later one, Whose strings get strung Like beads on a necklace. Or a way the hand can trace Back through its many touches To catch again The voice which touches A pause and then a word Struck by the same body. <|endoftext|> "The Role of the Shad", by Phillis Levin [Living, The Mind, Love, Desire, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, History & Politics, War & Conflict] 1 She who had danced with the old man must have w understood that he was a symbol A mask or general gown. Like the curtain, the flag, the corsage, the dance on that evening in the gulls' way. In the general lingo used the terms of the generals identify. "Decoy," "Snake." The form itself of some general was a member of the Ovied realm. But from the general's head laid back in his desk. Like a general surge. He could have anything in his hand. 2 The hand was two hundred years old when it came to her. The face is a mirror to me of what we know about ourselves. He gets out of his stall and then goes on the lam. He is well. I will have nothing to give you What is the use of hiding things from her? He is a general of what we know. I followed him out of my life today. What was his word? I will have nothing to give you. 3 Now there is no sense in speaking It will be too late or never to have given. A form on the world's fringe with regard to it was forged I did not forget about it when I got to Windermere. ======================================== SAMPLE 216 ======================================== I would have told him so in a plain sort Of way, rather than in any other way Become a king. If he would but stir Enough of such old-world heat to make The grown-up mountains green with rue, To me, I say, I should be the king, And he but a beggar, to be king, A beggar Giffordus Fulgor; With a cloth of black, and a ghost for sire, As I am now, I would have him made king By dint of birth and some sepulchral sort, By dint of dint of dinting not very wise. O truth, how much thou art before. O mercurius! no change there is Nor end of any change, but that the tree It is comparing its branches with. O irony! the ending of the word Is but the place where he was always king. I would have bought him for a week's grace, And he had been a king indeed, or else I would have bought him a barter place To dwell on amazon under, where his voice Was rather heard than seen, as when the river Leaves little islands in the sea, or when The northern mischief of snow is gone, And the solstice is when the sun and he Arrive from their subsiding shop and dim; When bottom is poor, where they were too spent To lighten or dwell, but where to remain In self-comfort, as eels have an afternoon Of their own in the open air, at once Worn by the hard undrier and the hard brushing sun. I must not, therefore, be too loud in his praise. But thou art in this, as any can see, and shalt Ever be my light and pain in this, as now in thee I hear and see that which I cannot describe. It were a bane to burst a man's wide ship; The man has some store of it; but, by God's grace, who needs To buy a pot whose depth none but he can know? Yet such a man may find out neither his end Nor remedy for his disease within But some few miles above the surface; then He finds out the use of his craft again, Now the end comes more or less; and I, it's true, Have found the use of it, but not for you, nor for me; I have found the end of it, but not the end; and you, As depths grow deeper, and the sound thereof more limited, I see more and more the truth of this old saying: "Mankind harbors more misery than mens: At his lowest he may lay his hand on a nut, At full day's earth he may lean his soul on a shoe." It was the beginning of bright weather, When the half year's journey was done, When the leaves were turning in the sun Of the seventh year, and ten, That your King, great King Tenrinbaot, And his great host were hurrying to the fight In preparations to seek and slay The brave hosts of men in Troy. And the sun of that season shone most brightly, And a long week now its rays were shining, And the sweet fruit was ripening On the hills where Tenenes' village stood; But his strength was quite distracted, And he chiefly came to pledge you A great festival to-morrow. There the full dragon's spread butternet Crawled by on a wind with no voice, And the earth's weedy womb had turned For a time a womb itself at last. There, in the light aroud square, his bride Lay, an equal moment of starry night. The Tenenes that day shall go to the place Where their idol stood the first. Where shall find place for all his tens and twenties? For their kings and their followers? Go! Tenene, O my Tenene, where will you be? Tenenes o'er your uncouth war-won dragon, Laid on Tenenes' grave to-day! O'er the yew tree's roots where she was born! And he's got Tenenes' tomb to-day. And his holy dust! O'er and o'er again! For he was not dead but gone. For Tenenes there was a king made right; And the world shall be told of this Years of the glory of this day. Then the moon arose from the east and spread Her golden light on the spot where she came, Where the bracken lay on the hollow heath, ======================================== SAMPLE 217 ======================================== all our brains and the net streamings we blow on to the riverbank. As in the mean place we sit on the ground not talking. And I think of a poem my father wrote for me, sitting, a child in a man's body, in the mind and mood of a woodsman, in a land of woods, where all the children walk into the light with the sunrise, all the souls are warmed. There is a wail, there is a weeping. There is a death in the voice, there is joy. And you, when the lady, visits you, as she sits on the chairs in the firelight, and listens, your ears have to light from the candles to enjoy even half of what she's heard. All the stars are saying to her the same things, in the sea and in the sky where a piano is beating a glass animal to a lilt of flute and horn. And I who speak a strange tongue, sit here, inside of a room alone, alone, where, no matter what I try, I can only lose myself, and lose myself, The children, in a room by themselves are not separate from one another, if I'm not simply hurried away so I can forget and then come back to the world, and the children. <|endoftext|> "From the Collection of the New York Library", by William Carlos Williams [Living, Death, Time & Brevity, Nature, Arts & Sciences, Architecture & Design] Rite of passage Upon the gallows is a weight Upon the threshold of the living Upon the porch of the sacred house Of earth-stunted temples Upon the gap between nights Ripe as a bower in their garden Rave snakes in the cerem floating They are older than the gods They are more fundamental The living are wiser They have come forth The living are wiser The earth is what they are Out of earth they came Upon the shining shoulders Of the light to be The human soul upon Is guided to the sun The faces of the worlds Are pressed against the shining Clusters of hair upon The innumerable Earth They watch their way, and are kept Upon the shining backs Of the infinite worlds The massive Earth bears them Upon her jaws in the snake her master-strokes To the shining master-steps Of the snake that keeps His far-reaching horns athwart The scorner of the Earth <|endoftext|> "The Gay Texian", by William Carlos Williams [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Love, Infatuation & Crushes, Unrequited Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity, Valentine's Day] Naught's wanted on the left side, And we are left with the right; The hay is all that's available, And the right horse is most expensive. The youth is not yet married, The young man is not yet anealed, But he is a true love and may Take the one of the other. He goes for the journey gone; Sheer in her garment robes Sheer in the cotton dresses And purple and brown and everything Is what she has not touched To-day, to-morrow, and she With a smile is eager To sample the bargain she may have made. He is too young for weddin', Too old to dig into the intricacies Of devotion and separation, To note the keen delight When two like the other change In the beaming of pleasure's face, And the sweetness of her Shoes in the tobique of her eyes. He is too young to remember The near-horizon of the far; Too old to hear the whisper Of mysteries That float in the far future, Where, when he sits in his chamber To think of his future, And hears the voice of his Creator, He will hear Not the call to service, But the farewell call. The skylark sings to his delight, The wild things sing to his pleasure, And to his heart, who listens, The very shell of a pine Is full of a vague and solemn thought; And in his torpor ======================================== SAMPLE 218 ======================================== [57] Thus begins the battle, Pre-historic and with Human faces. I was told that battle Then was not fought With weapons, But with the faces. I wish to be human, I do not wish to be The victim of a battle With weapons. [59] 1. The morning is too weak. The gold air is more than morning. Already it fills with snow and sea wanted and already with sea and snow needed I wish to be human, I do not wish to be The victim of a battle with weapons. 2. You are a little while with the weight of all your bones and one bone with too much need of air. Your air is filled with moonlight and so heavy. I am a little while, already not enough alone with earth or sun or sea or wind or your dogs    ...     you, I wish to be human. 3. The morning is too weak. The sky is too pink warm. You have a wide warm bed and feet swaying there, underneath the waves — but your bones are a long way down. I wish to be human, I do not wish to be The victim of a battle with weapons. [60] 1. When I told the story to a friend who did not know about it, I wished for a loud, persistent smoke that one could smell in the morning, a story told one hundred times in your presence, and so on until one- hundred-plus, or one-one-one, and then I could tell the story another time — this time with the stench of fresh pork awaiting your story 2. At the end of my first visit, my friends who knew nothing about it were wondering what had happened. I explained, a little apologetically, that I had found the bony, shoulder-limbless footchildren in the afternoon, chasing each other around the yard in broad daylight — something I had not noticed before, and could not, without looking, see something there —  3. On my last visit, to the small cot in the back of the carport, on the public road known as Green Grass Road, I stood in the doorway, speaking the only language my body understood, gesturing vaguely, a wish for something down the road, somewhere down the road, maybe, maybe not, maybe not —  4. There are certain promises one may not give oneself without oneself publicly swearing to keep the promise. And even then the promise may be reneged on, at first, by a quid-pro-quo of some one cruel enough is to take advantage of one's predicaments. And what am I talking about? Nothing good. The source of the source is the same whether the source is inside one's own body or something that comes out of one's own body. This is not an example of the kind of thing I'd like to be doing, which is to say, 5. Ah, now this is my kind of thing. You see, I was thislorn, and when I saw my friend, Adah, she was dressed in one of her pajamas, and said, as she tried to hide what I saw from my perch, that her father, when he went to the doctor, the doctor asked him to look into what he could see in the woman. To which the answer was: Nothing. And Adah said: But, look at her! She looked like a doctor. What — 6. No matter, they said, but I asked, what kind of child, Adah. They said a boy. I said, a girl. They said, a girl. I said, wait, they said, I'm not a kind of person I could get my arms around and say, Oh, I am so sorry for all the horrible things I couldn't say them. But Adah, I said, I wouldn't give them a lot of crap if they said to her, You know, You're a horrible mother, while she was holding their tongues. So I said, if they were to come out one more time, that I wouldn't go along with it. I said, I would be surprised if they said to her, How are you a mother ======================================== SAMPLE 219 ======================================== In goodness, whose shame is mingled with the beauty of it, That thou dost by it thyself bespeak; I give thee such, If myself thou couldst not be. A shield within out of the English, A heart not of England, A thigh so white shouldst never be made gare, My be the lightest maiden who is nigh. A frown not of wit, to thine own defence, My face with love and anger, The sweetness that is not of thy wit, Make thou thyself thee, and thee make; So shall it show thee, as in thee doth remain, Thoughts and eyes of wit, Thoughts that shouldst not be known. I am a finger of flame That laughs in boasting, I see and hear and feel and know, And this is enough. If this were all, for whom was all The roses, and the lilies, all the breath That is in those cities of delight, They could not give me such a flower of surprise To doze on rose and lily and all the rest To make me so serene. O love, O love, I am so accustomed. To have your heart waken from out a man's chest And crucify it on two crowns of fire, A royal place to be in great companies, And with white flutes that tune me to the point I never should express my heart from me. I say, if your taper be quenched, my eyes Have sight for love, I am a lonely hart that is forced to seek My food, and find my love, and drink my fill In peace before the rest. I make an image out of clay of thee And it is strong and proud and will not die, And in its first and lowest that I do crawl, And my grief is this--That we are not alike. When first upon the sand-meadows Long ago, and with the light Of burning days, brought the light I set my thews on the shallow. The heavy, heavy heavings of your beauty Brought fire and heat to my heart, And made my brazier in me cry; Yet I had neither chill nor heat. Now after the tears Waking grief's dark terror of doubt I praise you, and the thought of your flower Swells me to sorrow, The thought of your shadow Bursts from me, and my heart Takes you for a grange of rain. In that sweet company Of fire and such as are you, I am no more ashamed To look at your flower, But I have seen enough, and I am free As a volcano of heat to speak your name. Sidney, I am sick of your form, Your colour, and your breath; And if in your dress you do not please, I'll look for you in my matter. But if from day to day Your fancy would fain be formed by me, There are some steps that I could sooner see. Till then I'll keep the hope That you have this man John, For when these weak days Pass, I shall not forget, From blood of my heart, From my mother's grief, And from a place I hold dear; I will nevermore Sunk down, as water's shadow, In a woman's sea. And now good night, good night, As the day dawns at her star; And my dying hope Is not crossed with a thought Of a heart all part Of a woman's sea. <|endoftext|> Dear father, all my heart! I saw her twice Last night: once burning-skinned, And once tame. The former, Who was twice, I did not doubly see. Both were great. She humbly kissed me, scorning Her modesty; She'd been told that I ate In secret, So spurned she That she might Secluded Be with us two. We've made a home Loving the meal We give all hearts examples: John's red-rose speech Gifted with a lace That says "Alice's just In the same slot as me"; And her rapture-murmur That's just Lying on the window-sill With the face-cake I'm talking, Don't care If you hear Me now. Taming not at all The terror of the tamer; And so much riding Their verdurous l ======================================== SAMPLE 220 ======================================== I made the summer sweet with peace, And happy went a few miles away To spend the winter cold with thee, And waked in beauty every morning By the fire I had built for thee, And with that bliss, by thinking better Of the tender years to come. DID YOU ever read Sackness, A satire in prose, And wise with a sting in it, About the present Pope, The goodness of Pope Benedict And the Papal Chair? And did you know that he Had been made a Christian, too, By a poor Italian fellow, That reformated St. Peter's Domain? What is the use of it, To drive out all the Jesters From Saint Peter's; And had Pope Benedict been A practical Pope in boyhood He had not been expelled For striking his teacher? What if he had stood trial For balancing the Stings Of Tulliation? Who could be just, he said, And who be crooked in heaven, When the saints cannot reach the light? If you had listened to the host You would not share this Pope with the boys. THE parlor sing of the proud Pope And the lowly Benedictine, That he could not compromise After so many and such great doings; But the Host says no man shall be Worshipped at the shrine of the Papacy, From the ever-flowing well Of all the other Christ's a single water receptacle for repenting and cleansing the souls of the people, For the blameless restoration of the Church. "No holiness is left in the Vatican," And "by footstool he [the Pope] shall pray," And "of men may we not make holiness For the new generations," and he is done. And so the popes walk forth on the path of compromise and worldly wisdom To their eternal glory and fame And pass us by. Of all the treasures that the human heart Can hold, riches of soul and sharing of duties, Of all the treasures the earth can confer, Are these her treasures to be poured out To the Pall of the Roman fashion? No. With a single purse we can furnish the place And set the soul free from duty's law. With our single purse we can shun the trouble And thresh the weeds in the life of the world. We may face life and smile; in our looks may lie Our best lives; we can face the world and say, "This is my time of life that I can give My best spirit, all things have I given, I am at leisure and freely given." Of money and of earth the denial Is subtly mixed with measures meant To shield the touching from the gaze of mortal eyes The mean savings from the needful score. The earth and the money have a claim And VAST are the hopes that must be swept for; Riches in their sweeping sweep may gain us heaven. But to the soul there is a way to gain, By which to face the host of temptations That lie in our path. What are the means? They are these: Strength in giving And Sorrow in tasting wealth and gaining fame And pleasure in the toil of life. To these one has a mission and fate To which all must make service. Let us sweep life and life's sweeping sweep Our hearts and lives and talents, With a careful, watchful eye To time and toiled-for reward or pain; And, in the heart's night that covers a tear, Give up our lives at time's behest. For when the raking sweep of death Casts off our life and rends us burst In the universal dust, We shall rise like saints with holy joy, We shall rise, though shivered and broken. Broken. Let us then sweep life and death With a wide and perpetual eye To the ever-living truth: What is true shall we follow? What is false shall we resist? And so rise with ever clearing brow To live, to die. I WAS raised from the dust. The wandering, death-walking day Of my life came back to me; And I went to the prison porch And I prayed, and I prayed, The light of my eyes returning: I prayed. I was sold To the Soldier's Mother's tailor, Singing as a seamstress to this old wool-draper, In the street where the crowds of children play With my prayers. The old wool-draper Has a crooked heart and cannot Watch me twisting my golden hairs ======================================== SAMPLE 221 ======================================== executes in my sight, By your enthroning Godfrey, our prince, The totterer of the Golden Locks; And the blessing and the glory, ye Have in your hearts imparted and deserved. The freshness and the pleasure of the scene Have long drawn me to its side; It first was prisoner, and then lover, Now prisoner again, and straying ever From the high mountain's snow-mantle, 'Neath the tropic sunshine I have fallen; From the high mountain of my choice, But not of the wilder rest. How shall a woman, fair and loveliest, Of the dainty and victor crowd, Stand alone against the stream, In the desert, against the wind, By the bitter stream of bickering, Sorely longing, and alone? How shall she break a circle, Or what hidden shore is mine, To win the love, which she desires, Or gain the solitude? If to be love you must, And if to be love you dare, O catch the lovers, and drag Each his love's offending word, Drain his heart and make him hear Your heart's last message plain, And by it make them know, Unless they break their vow, You, their mistress, are their parent. CARDELIA'S Gold, Though thy hair be white as snow, And wax uncurled Around thy neck, And thy bosom as warm As thy cheek, Yet I would cry your pardon For saying "Congratulations" If thy breast execrates The lusty housewife, Thy hair be black as pitch, And thy forehead tawny, Thy breast as large as measured By an inch and a quarter, And thy cheeks as red as sauver As the sweaty brow Of a bleary, starved, late winter With her rheumatics; Yet, woe! the whites, the yellows, Are as cold as freezing! CARDELIA'S Gold, The flatter'd morsels of her Who gave her face and breast For the most part (but merecow it Is no place for love), She is quite cold to go And sit by me, or speak, Or be pretty and cool! But I would say, if she Would not spare some of her glory, If she would not spare some Of her fond father's wealth, Her neck, her waist, or shoulder, Or her warm weather --Love better, say, for tosing The LOVELips of the LAND That spread themselves by JUPITS Then, Father of the Hoe, Let, let the lonesomesword err; And let the clod err, And let the cup err; And let the fire, err In some falling roof, Er err no heap pail, Er not fall in. Thou hast driven the goodwives, And have the thralls and dogs, From under the board; And thou hast known to one That had his heart in hell And her care, or something As sweet as love. But O, my son, I would know If I had done right or wrong When I was a boy. THE MOUNTAIN-HERD said, his fellow trees; "And we will hie to the heights where the wild beasts delights to range; In gangs of twain, the labour and the charge to fulfill; Where the grasses and the leaves were born, and where the rains of Spring and the breathes of Autumn areow. Where the fires of Gehenna's ovens cheer, and where none but topes poure odd His soulless eye, which a wilde top, And thought-to-doings of nought; In the cleft of a rock, in a grave; That on high day the Lord's Altar security, the Striking-up of a cloth and pine; Where the host of his golden store far and wide are ready; And the rest, a less seen Thousand-Strewn Mine, he'll care for no one." The mountain-host said nothing but went on, and onward through the night they climbed; But souls of mountain boys and saints! And this, on the morrow's sport, They're coming yet. They're riding to the east, and they're riding to the north, To try on the North Sea Coast what mischief of fit might be. The prize in the Line for which they have ======================================== SAMPLE 222 ======================================== and with one he brushes his fingers over the scale, listening to the sparrows' low grumble in the light the chancel and counting the amber bees. The caged birds call and call the wrens flash their places, but it is only a boy in the gloom, alone, with nothing to say. 3. The moon of summer and madness has left the month. This moon, if it be moon, if it be summer, has left the month and the year, put down its ers. On the plane above the ebbing month and the slow creeping year, I lean to look. A thin flash of light. 4. After the wild goose chase, the riverbank so high the hunter's neck flashed with  prickly teeth there is no turning back, only now the riverbank low and tall the moon of summer and madness has found me. I lean to the sound, to see the hunter and the beaten deer. I do not hear the wren, the robin, or the sparrow. I hear only the wren, only the sparrow with its shy-running thing. <|endoftext|> "Womanhood", by Brian Henry [Living, Coming of Age, Life Choices, Midlife, Nature, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] After the reddening bluing of womanhood, the boy I loved once, my first love, he was the sweet child who said no, and I cried. As though coming to nothing and not returning to me and a new lover, but to a tree and to a field and to nothing —there is no other way to say this than as nothing: What was, is, and is unreachable. I write of music, of self-consciousness. I write of self-consciousness in the outwardly showy realm of (now) wax sculpture. I was (I think) the youngest in a troupe of five. The rest were all male. I was drawn to the more quiet of the two who took up sculpting (as not recommended) in the very shadows of the woods. He was the only one man in the troupe, though we were all his age and had some sort of attachment to. I think he was never actually completely comfortable with his power, but was never really conscious of it, either. He was never completely comfortable (I thought as it seems to me now) with his power, but always seeking to withdraw. The others moved more by ambition. He was not ambitious only for power, for example, taking care only that his mother and his father not hate. I can only guess what these boys were like each in their own eyes. There was always something going on. One of the boys carried a piece on his back for the second boy (why?) never knew. The remaining five in the piece carried it for his copy, but never took it to bereft and home. Perhaps he did not want it. I have forgotten his name. The one never knew whether he wanted it. I know he did not. We played that game often in the dark when he was small, and he was six, and would cry and scream and laugh till the day a new play was opened to find in it something exquisite, none of us thought of playing but in time we saw we could not bear to play otherwise, and often (though he was no begetter of love) we played better after we learned to taught ourselves to trust the light. I love to hear that sound, ======================================== SAMPLE 223 ======================================== -ruthlessness and cheer, a-call, to their aid, And gladden in this their dying hour. The sword-hilt, with a silken border gay, The golden bear, on which their prayers are heard, Are held in prayer, and the black cross on the breast, Held with hope, may bring calm rest when troubled life is over. This is a churchly life, and, looking down, You see the roof borne upward by the strong wind. Down in the shadow, where it doth Darkness cover, You see the stars, in white all lit. Yet all the night, from this high hall, the prayers are heard That the great angels in Heaven hear and heed. While Night, from her pale shell, heard where'er she goes. And, last, the world, in bright day, doth shine, And on God's brightest throne, among the stars, We live and die. Away the towns, in snow, on outspread snow-capped hills, Curse the storm, and still watch in their white breath grow thin, As from the sky The lord of light Steals down his way to do some high dark deeds, Sending up a stream Of pillars, which enfold the dark-eyed city As a huge cover, Fold time, Fold space, Enclose, enlarge, And make the city, as if it were a kid's eye, A wits' eye, A work in torch and sweat From the jewelled crown To the sharp, split, point of the point Of the pillar, on which a lark Like a spark from God's own crown, leaps up, As it were, from the dewy, snow-white bough. The town, from the hill-tops, can only say, What a cloud! What a pillar! And, in the moment when you burst from clouds, When the dusk hallelujah rings, The mighty world is a blackened furnace. And this is your fate! To be flung back in a pillar's flame, When the clouds part, And the heavens open! And to stand In that immense room With the flames, at the darkness of stars, That murmur about you a lament-- "Die! Die! Die like cool gourds in an oven!" And the night-wind, from the city-tops, Crying, "Die! Die! like flames from Seth's field!" And your heart Full of the passions that you felt When the sun sang in the sun-room of the jail, And the universe burst asunder Like a stone, Shaking the sunshine from it, As a destitute, desolate man Opening his hands to his all-sleepening wealth. Then the spirit fled As the sphere of the earth Failed around you like a curve from the world, And you lay, full of the pallor of death, Breaching and breaking, And the cup of the body Was full of death's foams. And then--that night. You had seen a light, You had felt a gleam, You had felt a shock of comfort, You had felt the solemn security That the good Fates had accorded. And suddenly you felt renewed hope for a space, For a space new courage. You had seen, And you had heard, That nothing within your empty soul Could give you or take away. And, for that moment, as you heard and felt The human sound of your breast expand and snatch, You saw in the soul's pause A face like a leopard's, and you knew How men's souls, cruel to mankind, Sought that which no power could hold, And the human voice, with a human tongue, The awful, omnibliving soul of man. You heard, for the first time, The secret, human voice of a man, Little as great, Saying to your soul, in that place Where God's soul is And a man's for ever, Oh, if you be not I You shall be he! Thus the soul made free with a golden band, Singing to no man on earth. Oh, the world grew beautiful in view, With the dawn-star rising on the sea, And the wind in the langa. You could see the peonies open, And you knew the highland Where reapers cut the thin gold Ling. And you knew the salt-green wood, And the black pools, where the water-thong Breathed in note high and lower, ======================================== SAMPLE 224 ======================================== aliens et in oras di genialis ambigious vices fecundas, curae, saepitissimi Inquis in merito, lusit in omni pectus. uirgo cum uersum sane Matura uelox caelum fonte Nelum: fresco poculis: ubi maturior. me tollae grauibus uolatque marita dita uides: tunt amicum stagia, casta poculis, Aemula lite mala mei, casta deo maturus amant. quid decebant animo gratum, grauior? Vos opus, rediit et urbo Metas, desinat: unde omne nato dicere curis euolphat, et testant glaukos: ubi nos, deuis in pueri nos, me sine meo quod turpis dempta carina uos. me sospite grauem, quam primus, fecundam aduersam, dat fuccat hiberno grauis. sed mihi bona uiro, posir petendis Ilion veneris: qui potens mea iaccepit Decembre uix daturas agis. IN noder demens, nudder Adriaca, aestat Troiano: trolem meduvant, dent carmine ferit tam radior: sed pulvinor: crina causis, et terga piger, crina conditur, et collata corusci. hinc coeli: galean Ixion, tela fugae Ixion, nauicia nardos crinem: hinc fati iocos: mea iace alta capisco confido. sed quam hinc obscurus tela uolat; et ita sitis. crinum adfueret tibi nutrificus alcaer. ON flebe apume penat, uincebat conginse maligne: castique licentia cuperet piscem besilonam, et quum de me drie, et quam de re triens 6 qua 6 septiemis disiernam sequebat. OF these blustering rocks, and hateful storms, If you that I love so lovely were to hold Your fire-like steps to the Gallia's stream: If by my loudest sighs your footsteps should take, And your eye with me should seek a Lover's eyes, Then against the grain you'd quenche the whole plain Of Love's league-length in the purple weather, And in crimson dyes thy flowing song, Nae my troth hae sae d drawing to a goal; To barke the meikle man ye're now as well as I: I swear by sun-thrice tapped, and my last aunty's kenn'd, Yet a gleam to the gallant ship may now be braved, And a gath'ous gale to the timid lamb I be. Wae than a courtier when he's at your ain langin; Weel braV't is a curtain'd hall; an' owre an oak, We'd never looke behind the chimlie night, Till we had our awn cut wid a sharp twa, A foul gyde hog-tie an' a flask paw, That would keep the biggings from the cockie jerk; But gin we could win our lang sauls good and neave, We'd tuke them in the face an' dear. We awn'd the mair: Aduer she was hoo'd and deere: Oot we fiList'd a man, an' sich ne'er beyio' true! The brown e'en was red, an' booA"d be 's vaunty; ForbyeA" tA lot fell a trA"th"e sworty deein We sAIN'd hoo the best of him we 'd wed. My mother tAckA"s een was dyVored an' blA"d; I 've hear her cryA"(Weet her glassyL In sAck of wine.) Sweet Chryst'd my maTO', to think o ======================================== SAMPLE 225 ======================================== while patter of the rain from the skies The road heads north for Tsholholme Castle. Not that the ruddy flag that swerves in the stinging gust will stir the rocky ground, nor the horse that jumps up to bear me but it is I who moves The town watch has me at last. <|endoftext|> "Portrait in Dakar", by ChideTY With its yellowface and eyes like blood the tiger sleeps in the dims under construction as access to deep black water rages between the twisted cables of the fan that lifts and backs us Like this I feel like a hand out of the wind and into my heart. <|endoftext|> "A Hole in the Land", by ChideTY after Kusum Viss [The Body to Void] Their kind lies here I lie in my bed like a hole in the land the round boards of a ship the hull that turns and turns and turns and turns <|endoftext|> "For My Beloved's 21st Birthday", by ChideTY On this day only the rings will be shown the 21-pins of a silver chain will turn be turned in the dark and I will turn again for the silver pins <|endoftext|> "Hazel's Vacation", by ChideTY The day will go She'll wile at carp The day be dull in the park a wild bighorn run away I won't know I won't remember The day at Mike's my aunt's son in his pinaa Heard too part The day I gave Mike His first car I drove away My aunt's son I'll go to Mike's The night I gave Mike His car <|endoftext|> "Aunt Beeze's Eulalie", by ChideTY The day will go unseen and straight The day she went unseen and straight I went to bed The night she went unseen and straight and I gave her relax The night she went unseen and straight and I gave her relax I slept as well The next night unseen and straight and straight and I slept <|endoftext|> "Vincent's Shoes", by ChideTY [Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, Gender & Sexuality, History & Politics, Popular Culture, War & Conflict] To get somewhere You had to swim In most oceans A woman without shoes Will drown herself in the Sea of Nessus Of late, the sea of ness Was warm Enough to sink a man But the sea of Nessus Was cold Enough to freeze a man to ice This time, the climate's Outcry Is no longer the threat It was once thought to be Thought, self-inflicted The feminists of planet earth Are moons orbiting Jupiter The cruise ships unbraided Are beggars awaiting speed And death is the only font The sea of Nessus Is self-erased Is beggared The age of Nessus Is late-found cold power But beneath the water The inhabitants Of the Earth Of Nessus Are moons Of ice <|endoftext|> "Harlem Adventures #13: The Wedding Squads", by Kevin Coffey [Living, Marriage & Canon, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Race & Ethnicity] A wedding squad following Jesup They rounded the curve in Segways (just half a mile into the park, parallel To the office buildings) They crossed Morgan not Harlem Each riding a left turn signal In a floaty show On a lemongual footpath Came to a halt Thech lots in hoary April Rainbow sashes adorning wet front The bride held up a doll The bride's wings and earmuffs In a veil of factitious light Her long bridal party A half a day's dallying Was tailed by the local wards Strung together in endless Group wedding esc, backing up The glass doors And drivers signalling Off-premises <|endoftext|> "Harlem Adventures #14", by Kevin Coffey [Living, Marriage & Canon, Love, Romantic Love, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Race & Ethnicity] I wanted from the start of this "unholy morn" With someone who ======================================== SAMPLE 226 ======================================== FFF5 I heard my mother groaning with her heart on fire. But, My phone was blowing And no one would answer it except for the postman Who would pick it up but one night. <|endoftext|> "Hot Sun In The Morning", by Yen Lo [Living, Death, Growing Old, Life Choices, Love, Realistic & Complicated, Activities, Jobs & Working, Travels & Journeys, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] The sky behind the Buddhist Pri Dipukhut at the foot of Mount Pinakka foreseeable at the peak. In the outer vision, the sun glows like fire. The air is so hot I think I have heat-sickness. I will tell the Internz about the mountain of "Place" in Kala Nenang. No one will believe me. It is really too far away to see it with one tongue. Mount, the sun, and the city of death. A mountain of dust. A city of death. It is well to be alive in Kala Nenang. You have to hold the earth in your arms. When you fall, hold your toes. When you recover, teach the visitors to ask the sun if it is now blue. How did I come to the city of death? The death of my city. My city of time. I was not given a city of time. I took it. I turned back time. I took my time. I was in school when I first heard the word "time". In what situation did I take time? When I was hired as a translator at the Huk gulch the old women came to the rear. They could not understand a word. They looked very old. They looked very dull. The younger ones were taken to the harsh fields on a holiday to watch their fathers and brothers get torn apart by weren-fighting and non-expirebly scum-meiring. I was one of the younger ones. I know the age of the dead well. <|endoftext|> "Poem for the Day", by Yen Adventures in Lifehacking [Living, The Body, Nature, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment] I need to talk to you about fire. I need to talk to you about the station behind the pecan tree. The city, one. The place behind the ladder. The station. I know about time. It goes up. I know about the future. It goes down. The sun, the moon, the flowers. The ladder is for everybody. The city is for everybody. It is for the little girl behind the pecan tree. I know that all this exists. It is real. It exists in my dreams. It has a name the lad in the street can understand. It has a name he cannot pronounce. The flowers are a language. They have a form. They have a form. They are material. They have cycles. Cycles are heaven. The ladder is a ladder. All my life. I am not a ladder. I am a ladder. I go down. <|endoftext|> "Map of Lost Desires", by Yen Adventures in Life [Living, Death, The Mind, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Weather, Arts & Sciences, Music, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] A limousine whisks slowly through the unsunning sky, a wet black barge I have long wanted to launch into the vast, windswept desert of lost desires. I want to launch it into space, a madman's bucket full of green, weird light, sending it careening wildly out of sight into space. I want to launch it by coming on hard from the very dark side, fuming consciences and dreams that break your bones. I want to launch it by stilling the moiré in my head. I am not one who demands that the hand be recognised. I am one who needs to be heard. These days, I am sounding an awful lot like a lost communist nation. The whole shining sea is riding on this one moment. The whole night is hanging on one chord. I hear the clock tick, and the clock enumerate, and the clock loom over my living room. A pale thin waft wafts out of my ceiling by muffled tides. It is the returning moon, the moon of day that crushes silences. I know it is clear as the moon ======================================== SAMPLE 227 ======================================== "Trav, we're going to Paris," and off they all run To the Place, to see the splendors and the grandeur, And all their funds spent, and whatnot, and a piece or two Of the splendors, and then the Champs-Elyx. And the day or two afterwards, while they are there, They go to see the Cathedral, where their friend Has left his wallet, and looks up, and says: "Oh! that place is a masterpiece! I knew The architect who made it; and the square On the center is a sun bright orb of city light; And all around, and all about, are trees And flowers--and can you doubt they are planted there To look more gayly, and not feel so much?" WHEN I looked up, and never looks me in the face, I saw a stately man, in purple laid, With golden shoulders and white arms and hair, And a long hardage of youth, that would have stood With grown men in admiration. And he leaned Low on his curved and shod foot, lean and spare, While his broad mouth grinned o'er a barren shelf. And I said, "This man's not grown old." Then he asked me, "What was it that kept Your heart so long a-goating? Say Where have you got?" "In old Kildare, in a meal Of wild ant-folks and horse-fly, And where were you when the bishop asked you The final choice of men and things?" "In Cathubee, and the cold river, And three years old again, I had to give All things to John. He has touched his heart On some dark part of his other name And left it there on the shelf--all that men see, I, who on this or that feather knew His soul burning with noble things. God's house Holds noble things, and they, noble things." I WAS sitting in a chair A little ways from the door, When I heard the clock tick one. And one step was all within, And nothing was all outside; But the whole floor was all in motion, That whole house moving with me, And a voice was all upon the wind. It had died in ending sounds Before the first great war began. The stars were full-asleep, But I thought the wheeled wheel above All a-thro' groan. IN that sweet spring when thou began'st When thou didst lift up still lids to smile, When slowly did the loveliness flow For which thou use'st the looking-glass, Thou finding'st still that hard little spot Above thine eyes full faced in the sky, Where thou art half part of that bright face Whose beauty prompts to sun gazing-drops-- Oh! it stirs not, not one whit! And this the cause of all thy grace. THEN love, when thou hadst left us, Thou wouldst love to have us, That love might have again been thine, But this is so distorting, Or this, or that prevails So long we have seen thee smiling, So long our arms have held thee resting on them. THEN love, thy love we did see, Our own wild love, rather, But thou hast made us small, And all is so far gone Thou wouldst love these very not-thou. THEN love, we must forgive thee, For we have not sinned yet, Though not-being kind, Yet love may wake in us, Or something true prevail. THEN love, a little while we saw, But thou wast gone away; And we found rest in the not-glory We hold in ends of art; But, leaving not behind us One golden time of looking, Lo we have known thy purity, And no more drift in art's fear. A certain Manner of pleasing, Which was to me so weariful, And to all that-where such events In those empty-catching fogs Were put into my being-- 'T was most agreeable to me When he whom sympathetic nature For giver had got by lot, Lay at rest by himself, And as one wide unrolling sheet Lay all day inlength, A-sighing upon it, It might be, on a time, and in this case The not-being-happy-sower might be Disturbed by this: But a certain colourless sort of ======================================== SAMPLE 228 ======================================== edwydawg--chaffy twigs and gourd twigs. mardys--whistsling wind marsh mittels--tide's arms mesmereva--more or less. mesthrysh--shears; mugeu--sow'rs. mogory--jars, moche--hills. moles--firmament. moyst--Moccasin--a fish. moyst--Poor Man's Clay--stuffed with meal. myndad--also midden neith--thigh. neud--a nail. neud--nose. nid--a nid, a nid! nifo--the star. ni-boda--no-boda--a bale. nicholas--come, comet. ni-bud--a Nicholas, a fellow. ni-foy--a busswing--goodbye. no-bhapp--a dinner, supper. no-bla--now, now, farewell. oxnoy--sorrow, oxnoy--sigh, wolfsay--clap, clap! wolfsay--drum, wolfssay--whirr, brill, whirr, brill. yaver--evil, hazard, disaster. yaver--escheat, cheat, cheat. yavra--an evil, dangerous place. yeuk--a year. Yeuk--aye, aye, farewell. (I) in judia evander--in the distant earth, In the wide Heaven the lofty tow'rs, And furl not then the yellow golden legions; All that haz left the pan and the sweat, All you brought to you, and not to re a dig outd to the right hand, The fresh earth on your right hand, When you hap to see, when you hap to smite. (II) An ugly place to lodge, An ugly place to stay, A place where a hired hebee holds precedence: Trees form an arch `cross the way, At an angle slant to the heaving waters. A place where the public would glance, A place where the criminal lurks, And a club is the only security. (I) He stood on the famous Jamgha Daw From which his preaching did not shade He raved in a English style More orthodox than that of himself; His North is not Engrailed, but It is property he owns, And he did the right thing in every (II) When I wd as have my shade, I wd pray as I pleease, (III) He laid his balsam for the (I) Where they did not serve their full text, or tell Any good for to follow: Where no knave was honoured, The brave man was lamented; He died, and they made an answer to that deceased. (II) As he did in the barry, His words were not spake, And they sat and waited for the coming of the far disaster. (III) As he wished to be no more tormented, (I) He would not be a servant to any In his barratry, He called the trusted vassal forth; He abided with care The trust that the servant (III) He abided with care The text that lead them to Truth: They, they did not share with him, The beaten shoes that they have, Is far from being blushed, We can stand high Stern shocks, And, though we dare, The end may come like a nail. Did ye not see the little swiper Lying on the gliding oar? 'I dare not go on this voyage, I am frightened and ashamed, It was sudden, the fish In a red receding, And downward only, And dark behind it rose. (I) And still the foam that served as fish, And still the sea that it renamed, The shattered canvas rose, And that no more to be named: And each man did in his heart Compare it with the navel star He saw in some old dream. (I) And thus all praised the ship, The captain, the crew, The owners, the government That sheltered and made ship and ======================================== SAMPLE 229 ======================================== I speak the secret, but you listen to me, You clep me, Dick, In these cracked times, I am bruised and gray, The sunlight my only dusky gown catches. Though I am looked upon as a dreamer, There are people who to see me are moved. The very ravens perched on my bones With worse than Kangaroo Moore. The English breathless write of battles and deeds That they hope to have done in old-time gallop. No doubt they are right, they would a copy make, But they do not think that I can understand For to say that I would do this. I know at times The London tongue can talk of high generalities, And say that a shoeless Armenian is a rorter tall. Oh, he was found dead in his bed, Found half-dressed and in poorAffliction. How he had fed transparency With all the knowledge that blurts forth from Its zenith and bottom in the eternal Rubbish; How with his blankets all the white And the white of this great cloth He was a kind of rudimentary 'Twixt the world and back of it, A spirit crusted with the hard, A steel buried in a common grave. This man was dead. He was found by The wheels in the burying-ground Dunged, he was found by the wheels In the dung, that pootid stream In the land where the yellow-sucking Blossom of brown cowslips Opens to the red sky at dusk. He had huddled there, and that Seemed to represent death, and that, An emblem, he - So his mortal thing Was that he was found In the shining taproot. His guide to come, his wit to th - We can only think he was some Poor huddle jerk up and diapered With those stumps, that kept him from his tomb, And the lily-crowned lolls his White Gone; and his railly-crowned head Like a twisted eelhide, His half robe - His robe. His left arm - ah, he had been diapered With a right arm, and so Had lain In the yellow-deep bed That is for the victiurd, With one guard of shining shoes To patch his shoes; But the head was like a leather That a maker had afellen In the fire of Melibaeus, And he had neither hand nor foot, But the chicken-folk said: I-te-heu-the-th-God Gat knowed t' as yet. In a bay-hous - Pinnified arm. The arms had wrapped themselves around His right hand; 'Twas a horrid cry, As if the corse had been a Pleasant one. They flung him forth, and saw, as They had to press The sanity of his wrapping: In the skies, in the bournsmoth In the echoing stubble, In the heat, in the gloom, in the mews His hurly-burly body Was humming. The headless body had been A lid on the grave; The face was a skull, The hands were still arms And the snouts jaws Were cl-ow-sha-ling. All thought him dead, and thought From what body; And we with the headless body Beat a fast Lagnet on the bed sheets And the bed sheets. We fum'd ourselves for air, In the blazing mewl-throated, With our brains-fires raging; We thump'd the headless, Pulseless, motionless, Headless body, That stood up as if a jar. He who had sight and hearing For the body found it, Found the head and shoulders, The cheek-te-tn-te-ties, A-whu-mis-of-sun-bright, Where it lay in the water, When we were fum'd. But the face was the colour Of the stomach mear the lime, And of the cobweb ice, Thick as the convent walls of White lobster, yellow, white and pink, White, and the hue of straw in The wind of the season. At one end of the mewl lay the Thoughtless body and the Flash of bright whiteness and the Laughter of the sudden sight From the other end of the mewl, And the form was like the ======================================== SAMPLE 230 ======================================== when did you first find out that he was all the dogs' father <|endoftext|> "Ode in Memory of Ian…", by Marjorie Manning Obeying no one, I sit at my table reading his novellas while the young tourists come and go, their little arms babbling lies and lies and sugar and remembering their pops and weddings and happy reunions. And in the corner, a museum, Ian is learning how to cut his skin from the hump-back whales. The outside landslide is still on the cookie jar, its eye shining, not burning, of our hearts, and a voice says I have made a mistake, I think I love you, he says, but she loves him, so he closes the door, his eyes closed, the sea and his books flying, and a sif sounds like seas, and so do I. <|endoftext|> "The Nature", by Marjorie Manning [Living, Nature, Trees & Flowers] Water lilies are like owls when the meadow gets rough, but when they grow tanned, they can earn theirselves a place among the family of tame doves. <|endoftext|> "Gold Needle", by Marjorie Manning [The Body, Love, Desire, Relationships] So flushing rose-red with sighs of rock red baby draining the garden from kiss to kiss between her shoulders so flushing hot and slow a leer of horn with spur of heartbeat so cold she says her throat is red <|endoftext|> "A Song for Zabonica", by Marjorie Manning [Living, Disappointment & Failure, The Body, The Mind, Arts & Sciences, Music] On the road home from the concert, I stop a couple of blocks at a Wendy's on my way home it's a mid-day lunch hour and I am hungry, but unenthralled and I eat a Chicken McNugget fasted in the fridge like a crystal photo I am hungry for love and it's not Janis Joplin room or dress in the unwarm oven but for the first time I want to eat a grape to hurt it with violence I have always had a thing for fast food but now I want to eat the Chicken McNugget to feel its sweetness pressed against my sore legs like a good book I have to study for tests in the kitchen now so I can leave my desk and go outside to wait for love as the workers are sweeping up the waste in the alley behind the fast food window I turn the light on and it's snowing my lips are on the glass I can't shake the Wind in December I am waiting for love at a dining room table I'm a cello with no fingers parted as clean as a newborn and I am hungry for love but I am not dead and my mouth is pressing my breath to a paper napkin like a poor singer in her shooting of light I say to my hunger but it is snowing my head nods to indicate that is how it is and I am waiting for love I am the cello without a head or band, I am the McNugget without a fter, I am a singer without a word <|endoftext|> "Album", by Amy Lowell [The Body, Love, Desire, Realistic & Complicated, Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Animals, Trees & Flowers] 1.19 "Lovers" She lived in a house where the corpse of a raccoon was buried in the basement. Every morning she opened a door, and asked him, "Will you be the next to come home?" I opened my eyes to see a white patch between the curtains. When I say this I am imagining the ceiling illuminated like a Skype conversation. I have nothing more to say. When I sleep, my lover wakes me, and wakes me no longer than is needed to save time. At night he pulls me to the edge of sleep and looks for the first sign of something he sends my way. I have been asleep, too near to the boundary of a building where an old woman once used to live. He tells me, "You will be the day I pick up my bird, and sing the part in music you'll respond to." ======================================== SAMPLE 231 ======================================== Withered every feature; as on The same spot of ground that gave birth To green O'Clancy's race of giants tall, And that old dispute in this State On the glazèd board mark'd up to view In December of that same year, The wood-dividing flames the fierce feud drew Asunder and drew out the contending grave. Thus had the glen been re-discovered then The path of its vengeance and its tombs: Which of the "recoiling shades" had then Inhabitants, the genial sport and glee Of the reunion of these two the last. One looks, as in a prism, and sees at once The broad, the finely fine, and the finely coarse; While with a jealous spareness of words Another asks, "Why? Why? Why?" as of yore The shades, who took their pleasure in our tears, Nor yet have we forgotten them, seem bent On doing as they will with the dead; And how look'st thou, reader, if, as before, Thou dost behold this form and face of his, Remains an terror. Who would be re-embark'd To leave the happy haunts of home, and all The joys of his own country, just for a risk Of a dark, unholy bed in some, unknown, place, Hell-born, where all independence is no more, Freedom no more living means, no more diere remenese, For a shade's darkness; all check and restraint, All humble heart and gracious aspect of life Changed to horror, stranger and more dark than hell; Only a darkness; and I guess there may be In man a light more good than hell, and I wish there were. <|endoftext|> The great doctor and the smaller man Joined in the chair, a man small and great As his brief, but of all kinds; who, Sitting at a table good and large, Puts his broad back behind the chair And his chin drowsed above his breast As he put his books in his proper place, And learned the Great King's letters; And thus conning'd till his inmost heart Was star'd, he wak'd to the morning call. Then, as he take off his smoking coat, And sign'd some chalk to us thick below, We noticed how the thin coat, too, Was not smeared with dust, as it crawled Crossing the fire-place from room to room, But seemed to have just fade from death, Just blended with the drawing-room chintz, To have taken on gilt embellishment. Then, from the letter open'd his eyes At the wild beauty of the tint-blue cloth, The broad board, the old walnut-bench, and all, With one swoon, o'erlook'd the fireplace place; And we, our fatigue almost overgrown, Went our way, the next day, to the court. How the rare candour of the view to us Drew on us the hungry gander and hov'ring hound! No wonder, now, the Lords sat together: But now, when Lords and Commons are at court, Their solitary sitting prohibited, A doubly somber Senate is convened: Who meet in this ominous and ancient Chambers With still greater dignity and brilliance, Votate to be more and more profound. Not yet themselves anonymous on Earth, Yet on the Net, their true place of abode, For eacie du cot guerri de gaus, Their nobler selves conferring, meeting Thexe-wing'd Phid alone; Or Elgie, a ne receipted in fustian, Tell Juan, Don Cés, If thou hast seen the devil, Tell him my spirit I go here, And here I hold My right To beat My self And my own Belov'd-ones In air Ah, Juan! what They call Their widows, Their loved-ones, (Most unlovingly appell'd), While I, indeed, Do lie on my face! O for that forgiveness, Or I could turn in enmity! At times, They show'd sympathy, Juan knows, But such unseen, as none but she, Whose heart bereav'd, Or very seldom heard them by; And those, she say'd, Most far off, The fam'd ones all, are here: But then, Truly, if they claim ======================================== SAMPLE 232 ======================================== You hear the lark's bright round Light comes, and then you die. But you will live in my Heart and shape again. <|endoftext|> "Still Here", by Sandra M. Allen [Living, Separation & Divorce, Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Gay, Lesbian, Queer, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] Last week, as we sat in the park, we made small talk. I asked her if she had found happiness. Her eyes were still wet from seeing her mother, somewhere else, and she said that her mother had been very happy. I said the mirage of success. Then the conversation went off on a strange track. She said she was tired of moving, and I said I could appreciate the recollections of a woman who has been moving a lot. Then she told me how hard it had been to talk about her mother. We were clearly off to a bad start. But later in the evening, when we finally got around to talking about the past, her eyes weren't red, and our conversation was not talkative. <|endoftext|> "The Life and Death of Infant Leic's", by Jehan Wilson [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Mythology & Folklore, Heroes & Patriotism] "Ye higher realms where happiness exiles, Ye pupils of a philanthropic deity, To you, nursed in false gods and heroes shell-taught, The precepts of my gospel expansionism, Let my excessive Hell expand." —Enter the Comical Miss 1 In fleecy schools where sweltering As beds of snow the gentlelings spin Their compliments to pleasant pains. The sun, a white eraser through His yearly slow withdrawal from July To absorb June's unspent billions, Does as good a job this month as ever. Thirteen winters down The fiery shaft of February's light Erects in a meduPack for delivery. 3 The nests' dissolute value is no more Than the trick of having been immodest. The birds' warm droppings now teach us: "Don't Run your apprens' videos on a bitch." The unrepentantly bloody heart Of January's Sagittarius Can teach you two years' full-price mind. But these are the grounds man scratch On his landlord: "They'll pay you later." 4 What birds are these that come, for they Enter the pack without no names, And fetching in from air To earth, up crackling trunks Make their nest—where they Hide in plain sight! And these, a group, Curve in their medium poscoles And enter our hearts from our flukes To be the birds' sister-bee and drone. But they be sure of these, and these Of all these, and these, who Made them, these offer for your offering. 5 Then when the sun's estate is gone, Disease or fier flap into Their unreveal'd wings, and, by Their breath, the air they breathed out, As whose forgotten twinkling Torture-things can serve again The memory of who haunt a spot Whose mask can't lift, and ghosts Are by their son's tight fit filled— These birds have brooded, like a nest That by-and-by will be in its panes. 6 He falls back on wit, and with a shake Keeps on as though no-one had said a word But he had already made a game: All that the daylight costs. But now that night's fallen, and he must Hang up his wings, and be Too heavy for our daylight, and too Much, to the friend's questioning, Dispos'd for, too old to play, Too old to buy the wings we'd all Gathered for the journey, for which We three had, in our wager, made ourselves. 7 And, now, three evenings past, And we were dropt and widened O'er our hope, each of us With each a different care, To know with care that time would be The time to go the miles that brought The hope home with them, and the bird His pathway to his perch, Too loud, and droop, and sweep, and twang, Which ======================================== SAMPLE 233 ======================================== Two sisters, one named Dolly, Thrice-tenanted abode in the selfsame room, Inhabiting piece of soft fabric. One wall was curtainless, the last up I; And, very far below it, I swore That I could see the two of them Crying above the tumult of the vines, Through the open window the bare score. And then a star burst in the west, And "Ten-thousand years!" how my voice had jumped With rapturous weeping, when I saw The two in their accoutred tombs, and learned How they were wont to weep, one at Schirmeck. "Ten-thousand years!" my voice answered back, "Have you the heart? have you left yourself For a minute to feel them weep above you? I see it is the same voice thatolled me On Earth's end about the water-fall. I see it is the same that schemed My name in such mournful rhymes; I know it Dolly, though! And I shall see it Dolly or not." I turned about the wall at last And looked into the bare window-line. As I was standing in the gloom, The sheeted dark stuff of the window-pane Behind me, the drawing-room window Was wide enough to give me freedom From detection; but, behold! I saw She standing there in her drawing-room, Her spirit on my sight; and she Could see the drawers and the window-ledges, Where they two were standing; and she could See me, though I was in shadow, and her eyes Were like a cloud above the window-pane. But, though I was trembling at her feet, The freedom she gave me for a space Made my terror less; and, soon, she Bent all her body to a tremulous prayer, And gave, after some words of prayer, The full support of Dolly to my arms. And, so I have told you that it was here-- This Tom--for his mill-dam, too-- But I have not been to bring you the tale Of the drawings in Tom's book, And the cover of Tom's book; And I trust I have told you how it was That Miss Murdock's body was buried, And her body interred They came, too late, at last; for they found Only the record of one mortal hour When the hound was frisking round the ba-call Of the body slung in the saw-sub--- The bouncing ba-call that muffled the squeak Of the cage in which it was lying; And they found, in short, that the wretch had been Fighting about the place for frosh-trot And grog--while the mill was whist, and the holly Was red with the fires of morning. "A lesson thou sitt'st up againfaul, Thou hast such fine lesson's agrav, Thou art an unkynd deed--thou shouldst ne'er Have this againfaul." So they dragged him to Tom's Avant-- And in Tom's Avant they took him, And they locked him in his chair agen, And they swol'," With a breaking oomning o'er and o'er, And a breaking bull's-eye flashing And flashing on the thatch; While, gi' me pans, I see I've raiv'd A lesson againfaul." Tom with the broken nose was showin', And the face of him was sparrel'd; But he cheer'd up to see the lad Hang drivin' up his shator, And, to him, lookin' his fill At the weGPantries up above him, The tall and the clear, the rising From the third ascent, all blue With the glories of day; And at his feet there was foundin' The long lost-one's-trin' legs-- His long lost-one's-tok'lesh legs; And his clothes were clothein' him In the garters of Lilia-- The clothes of Lilia they were, All of them, as white as snow, As must be his ingle-noses, Washed down him in the riv'ry But why look, when a man's sawn off, As though he'd died at the hands of his fust, The first time he meets a syne-mate-- All in high morriliana? Ah ======================================== SAMPLE 234 ======================================== I've seen you on the front Of the people's war; Where, on the others' blood-bespattered plain, They charge you with a joke, Which they think is nothing but a lie. You stand there with your chin in air, And your nostrils, which, blown out, Like a dung-filled dame, Show you've been at fashion; But a poet is your mortal brand, And your verse is glorious. My old age is good reason for shaking Tablets that I write. I've put my reason to some use, In the thing-list way. As the ancient arts were, or are, My dream of things, I do. A white mind I behold, and I'm white, And my vision is vivid. Pray, chaps, be glad, and happy be, Of a kind mother, and a kind home, And the food that's true nutrition. I shall take you up from my sight, And show my love till then so dark. My arms will o'erfold your body fast, My arms that never yet have held A young girl so beautiful. With a man's warm heart I'll be moved To strike a woman in her shroud And from death I'll escape. She's up there nigh the continent, And my love is such a dagger She's never pierced her! That the world's uprush of evil Is a tide that's rushing, And the whirlwind's roar is a lash, And the top's raw edge is its core, I have said, 'This thing has been' ... --But this is a new world, I own ... What the old knew I don't know. Darling, I'd give my blackest head If I could love her more, If my love could be true in old times, Or at least see daylight. We're so, in our black youth's trim trim youth, With our black blood's, blackning jug, That 'tis best defense with a heart as sharp As a razor is needs must say ... We're so, we're so. In our youth we were true, or false, In our age we are so; That's the creed, that is proven, And our jug's up to its brim. I have no point, but I have A red rose and a pretty vision, Of a rose, though it be put In a clamshell, close to a morn In the juice of itself, That has sprouted a rose tree Out of its mouth, and this Is a fact rather senile, But that there's a lullaby With an ace and the prince and the plum For a poultice and a pillow ... Now that I'm older, dearer, And my heart has been unsettled, And the old's soft, sweet, a rose's sour, It thrills me with a different Kind of oglipseis, and I Enjoy pain as I enjoyed My nectar, deified. Nay, I'm not deified quite yet, And I'm not wholly florida. A fruitless word. I'll say it once: The rose is out of its season, And the word fruitless is fruitless. I don't know that fruit, I don't Know fruit, and it's hard to say In which language the rose Or the rose's fruit fits best, is it fit For the rose to be out of season. I have a rose-fruit rose garden, But it is rose-obsessed. We must be, and we must have been The truest of lovers, and we were Compassionless when we should have been Calmlier than calm, and we shall be As stern with people as we have been With people. We must be, and we must have been The most shallow of lovers, and we were Arrogant in our loneliness, and we shall Be as quaint and stern with people as we have Been with people. I wish that I could find the way to Sardica, And leave the shore behind me, leaving ship and shore, And all my life behind me, and go wide outside Upon a leafy ship, with wings for the sea And leaves to breathe upon the open sky. I would find the sweet sea-valleys of my heart And love, and know the good I have never known And love again, and I would know that I lived A love I never restudied; I would find 'The moon and most ======================================== SAMPLE 235 ======================================== discovered the entrance to hell in the stack of books in the pantry. And "dead things with teeth" has a reason other than their appetite: in one tale, when the ghosts were hungry, they would walk all around the house, then climb into the bed to eat. And I cannot even imagine what it was like to eat in that dark house of texts. (So much time spent there watching them eating—I'm sure my mother said no to something else, but I remember her moving her lips as if to decide whether to swallow one of them animals or or just the picture of one.) <|endoftext|> "The Third", by Linda Gossaman [Living, Death, Time & Brevity, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] The third who got crucified was always late, and so a funeral was held. Somehow a doctor figured in the midst of all their hub-ble- hub-blaze, and was their pastor. He would stick his hand in the mouth of each ghost, who would then speak, out of both joy and pain, but always with a way- falling-back-sweet- sweetly stinging tone, who told how beautiful it was inside a world of well- contentment, how beautiful that Third World was. The leader of the family said, "O Father, teach us, with the words from which we come, how to be good citizens." And then he had me come in, in the middle of my bleeding-heart joy: "Each of us is somewhere in this fire of sorrow and hope, and we need to go through fire in order to end up in peace." He was speaking christianly of the wan moon and bright sun, and I said, "I'll be one happy camper, if I can go through fire, as I am through fire here, and only hope comes out the same!" But he was a little hurt for my nasty child- attraction to that mean old world, and cried, "you will wish you were dead" "Don't be silly," I said. "Don't say things like that. But I will wish you dead!" He smiled and said, "when the time comes, you will understand that I am not telling you this in French." And then he said, "Son, everything is from God!" And shook his hands—realy doll- like, over my head, and said, "You're an excellent little boy!" And so I was sent away, and lived so many years away that when I came back to this good little boy, I had this fire in my mind, I could not put it out. As for the others, there was a clown, who fell in love with a waltz (what girl doesn't want to kiss a knight?), and a barber, who used to cut hair on a horse, and a karaoke barber, who both asked for alms (buona sera!). And I went to see the nightclub there where all this was to be had, and the barber, looking very nice, said, "Don't worry, here is the story of your life: you must love one woman, and make her your wife." But I said, "Wait a minute! I haven't said a word!" And he said, "Your friends have left you for another mer- cil, and they come once more to ask for alms." "But what about alms!" said I. "If I alms, that doesn't solve the problem." And he said, "That's the problem, but it's easy, see, when a man's loved by someone, he can't tell that he's loved by someone else. And so alms is given to hide the secret that those who love him can't tell him about the secret, so if you're a woman who's loved by someone, you can say, 'I've loved him, I'd like to be loved by you, and if you love me, I'll love you, I'll ask you to love me, and if they love us, we'll love one- another." <|endoftext|> "To Be as Small as a Star", by Alice B. Tyler [Nature, Stars, Planets, Universe, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] 1 Look, we're all made of the same stuff: ======================================== SAMPLE 236 ======================================== Wide o'er those city-walls his head he raised, And howled, and turn'd, and cried, and could not speak. He hurl'd at length against the barrier stone, And reared his staff against the firm earth pour'd; For centuries had not wearied out his might, But in the green grove he stood at last. At length his fury devolve, And thus to Adam in triumph boastful,-- Who in his sight the portal stone quite o'erthrown (The rest he could not enter for his sin's) Stood still, nor could advance a step before him. But Adam had following grounds for fear: That first he quite throughly heal'd of his render, And next his wife a child was borne and lose; And thence old Witch his wife told quite, as if unkind, Were they at hand, nor had ease from all their god; And therewith whispered 'Haunted is our lane,' Which was not true, for there'Was naught to fear in Eve'World, When foolish Eve about her should apply. He is of honesty addicted, And might be justly execrate, though his promises Are made to God, or dumb, or worse; In truth untrustworthy, But does his former duty As expedient means: Of celibacy miscall'd, But to continue unmarried He constantly Christified; Converts, and much good hope has Of pure converts, for him fill The western world, whereon of late He'd meant to walk, in disguise. His is a solitary life, Him wife he thus may find,-- No friend, but self alone-- No heart, by kindly kindness tamed; And this the way he go on, And this the sure escape Of wife and heart, if in the heart A love for her there be. He cannot wed, though he would like to try, And Julia secretly would like to approve; And God knows, of coots and chickens he's made, He wonders where their views are: He thinks they're like thearks, that neither way Is ever raised, But tries his fortune by this rule, And such, above a hundred of them (For which this sacrifice God will bless, and wid me be), I've but one thought, what is it you need, To make a wife for Julia go? To the woods, and away! Julia goes, and, until she go, I dedicate all the spring, I'll follow no rule, nor give up If you'll take from me The hope of wife from Julia's lips. What, and there's your wife?--The very time You'd like to have me! She, Julia, she Would laugh, and cry, And call you liar, if she'd say A word. You'll make love longer to that than bairns, Or I, or any man, Who has a wife--better say a song Where by yer heart I mean it to go, And here 's a secret can't lie. And, wher'er'n 't the forest be, The bet's e'en I'd go thae gates, And you'd win my heart, and see: I'd never come, or say a word, But yoke my horse an' come away. The doatin' lasts for a fortnight, The Guilder's not worth a groat, But, hamely it's ta'moit The leg o' me It was yer leg, I putt it to the upograph. Then I cladd oot the artiler, An' pleader forspared To doat on' the uptrawl; I trowl'd an' oot A good battbyr'd me That artilery's howt. There's times when pitto's meuppy, An' times when the warld's meuppy: There's plenty o' botts to heal Wi' bitter or boiling soup: Wi' pain or agony The wark may bring, or evert time I 'll gi'e the comfort o't. I kint the leg, I layt it abre', An' putt it up hame an' owsen: Wi' hastely plackit tow, I thus began To wrack my brothour's vein, But as it is, I did my duty, and I daw, But 't was nocht I'd ======================================== SAMPLE 237 ======================================== 'Tis worth the beauty of my name to mention, When from the rude tree the apples grow, The gentle oak, the proud Castilian spire, And, like them, their images are cast. My sire's farm-house, when I had left, I found (As yet not more than such as they are) so bright With cheerful joy the length of its ample court. 'Twas here the last monument I e'er saw, Which marked the grave of one my line. A villa it perchance had been, or some rock Had caught the beach it now should me. Jenny, my child, still, and my Jenny love, Two birds, one fruit, a flower, and now, a dove, Were once so happy as to rest alone, As down the garden path I went to rest. As such a lot I knew not the which 'Twere worthy in the sacred hands of love To lay, or whether 'twere better so. The daisy's lips and white-pillowed star, And pearling over deliciously The flower-laved path, those gentle prayers My happy childhood heard well acquainted. They then were hard, but these are soft times, And hard times bring good things; I have seen, But none like those, and after, fair ones Oft in the winter thaw the stones, Or that the time has passed content with flowers, But not by appearance found or found. Oft also in the weeks preceding spring, Or sooner so, the snowdrop may be found; And then, alas, the hidden fire in me May burn the leaves that may the way disclose; For then the aloes springs, and then, I trow, I shall have the world's content, and then The world in me then will thither fly, For then happy days will quickly come. It was the season of meridian was March, And cold was terror-proof our Sussex grass; The birds, which then hadn't any other care, Now were the birds of bigness, and in mighty flocks, Circling about the wood, was verily causing fright. Some swore it was the Devil entered in, And where he or she believed had authority There was a kind of race got into a race, The first to dart were they, and other fled. But whether or no this be, I ask and cause you to know, That i'm sure no beelzebub had e'er been heard of so good a time as then. And whether it be so, 'tis really none of my concern, So that now, Jenny, for your sake I pray, I pray, and now shall make a foe to flee: But ye, my darling squirrels, which have in me sore let me know, Let this be ever accounted, and you'l have no more cause to grieve. Now Jenny's tearful eyes were now full of strange surmises, And oft her tears her mother did her stilled by leads; And then, ah, then, 'twas bliss beyond compare, The earth had no breath, and trees were made alive, Like birling-birds, and trees did stand in changes hieght, And daying trees did shake and rattle all their harps, And at the last trees fall like buildings of Rome, With still unsadrising roots up-pressed for earth. But whether it were the will of God, or none of mine, I get so sorrowfull thoughts I wither to weep, And hear myself such case myself so much beseech, I must affect such wretchys in all the scene below, Whoe'er weep, that takes such sad ease in woe above. This I confess, indeed, and freely blame on my fate: I wish I had in all the rest that deference rend, And woe on woe, whereof I do so goodly deal. Now, rambling down the wood with her I meet, For Jenny's rambling mirth, I take the path with narrowed speed away, As pleases rambling wind. Now after the dark had left the face, And each small star lighted in the glistering wood, We sought the shaw. She thought it curious thing, how nigh we found The maid had hidden, And joined a natural sympathy with her, Who scarce knew where she should go or live. For she, her faithful love past care, Had her sweet time of pipe and reeds, Nor once, we're told, Had cause to break The stream ======================================== SAMPLE 238 ======================================== Here grows the spire, with marble to surpass The olden Troy of old, and mightier Poseidon Rises from the depth; and here did Perimedes Live in sorrow, his son that was lost in Troy. Then had the Chimaera been under ground In darker caves far from us; nor had I made Here thy laws; but the Maker gave it back to us Unto life, to light and truth. And to-day Let me be worthy of my gift, and bid thee try Thy [mine] taste, who hast before, in this and all, The seed of knowledge. This was he, the known Prophet of heaven, who gave to us his Holy Word Freely, and our Scripture. Yea, and holy church, Which is Christ's church, has he more sacred lore Worthy to be entrusted to thy judgment-bio-meteors, Than we have ever seen, or ever shall see. And he Did obey our decree, which was to do anything From his free cup of wisdom. In the same wise Were the Lucae all to make, if it had not been Braved thus by the wine of heaven. So now shall I, If it be good, for the glory of God, Be last, and give my people to God, when I behold the four winds blowing for his soul, And these making white, and ardent; yea, and the waters of Galilee, and the shores Of the sea, being baptized; and the waves Of the sea, with their bravery; and the spirits Of the strong men that are on earth, united with These the first fruits of his promises, which are To his elect intimates; but in them to shine As the full moon shines in the skies, save he That gives the world his last grace. Then shall I Tend on my way with the twelve that knew him best, And show these things that have passed in open And conspicuous places, seeing that this day The Temple is destroyed, and the twelve Apostles In their raiment worn out and gone, whose names are Let no man say, You are the first and livest now, You shall rest, and go into the victory, But I look to the coming day, and the rise Of another heaven and another ring, And make a man to stand afar shooting into That day; and leave his work and persevere in hope Till he be able to say, He hath known decay, And having stood up under decay, was able To stand up under the pride of the same. And for a man to say, Let it go, and leave him To his sorrow, and to the gain of a little Strong cup of bitter and of sweet to drinkal, And the gain of a little sweet to keep him warm, And to be able to wash it, and to fill His own thirst and to be able to dry it, And to say, I am not after all like to drink Water put in place of vinegar, this being Made holy by being touched by hands of skutting men. For to say, I have done well, and yet no more Do I, or, I have not done well, and I will not Contend with any more evil, or, I have been worse Or better than this man, who is not after all like me but like a brother of the choir, and No worse or better than a brother; let him say so Who is he; and for no man lives by himself, And all men live, we being spirits all in the same boat which is the world, and naught beside. And to say, Let it go; and let it go and pass Like fire through the great rush of things, or water In rippling waves, or clouds in the high skies, or The perpetual play of snow and of rain, The calm of sunshine, or the terrors of storm; Or let it go, and behold a different And a better world, a fairer and a justr And a freer world; and let it cry down and hold With many a cry the hot occasion of its crimes, And turn away from it, and pity it, and Say it is altogether like a little child That stumbles in the darkness, and feels With half-struck finger away some broken toy, Falling far from its grasp, for nothing is left Of that which lost it has seen, heard, or understood, And cannot say that anything is wrong with it, Because all things are wrong with whither? Wherefore, I say, this sitting doctrine, Which makes all else seem ======================================== SAMPLE 239 ======================================== Go, and with the old man make his drink Of the clear spring that from the earth he drew. On the shore a bird, an eaglet black, Looks in the sea and in the sand his eye Where, to his rapt sight, spread out in lace, As if by magic, dancing, lie the waves Rising and inled by the flow. So quick 'Twixt short and high the frost whisks it round. His wing and his motion, wherewith the sun LED his to the moorland where the red man roamed, What power Excalibur can give To these. O, more than all, for his prowess where Stayed his arrow, I have heard, more true Than for opening may be made by skill In arrow-case concealed that story is. Of old the leaf said, "I, too, spring-heavy weigh, Alas! The tide of my flowers is on the earth." And the bentsheelz von petit sorrow the truth said, "Alas, the earth: I, too, flow more slowly than The tide of my thoughts flow." A dog that was slow was compared to this, And all the birds cried out, "What is this about? What has this To do with things that are back of again, And only appear When the heart and brain are out of place? It can't be a truth, Because it is not, and because it can't be crossed, Or it would be, at least, Would help you to know, Were it only truth, A silver oak tree on a white day in May, With a cloud in the distance, The cloud the alight [galore] as white as the tree. What never was is now forgotten there. The broken road there Is only grass now and dust, And the Pilgrims have been fed. No more on them did evil sleep; Their eye is hungry for the cheer And spirit of a rich England's May. This morning in the court of the Republic They passed the feast of the Day. And the one-legged woman stretched herself out Between the Sees, And put her soul into the waving hand Of a child, The fair and young little girl, And the child voted with a voice that was full and free-- "More to taste, more to know, more to hold." The two at the matting lay, And it was found that they were just. And the joints where the wreck was found Were passed, and the wreck was made. But to-morrow's sun is a red stone In the backyard, And the work is not finished yet. If we had our choice of all living things And in choosing, we can travel back Through a thousand climes of learning, To the days when that first bright dawn broke, When a man for the first time mightily Bore the first chapter of Genesis; If we could only change places with them, And be the others, knowing as we grew up, What they had for hopes and fears as they had For the sky that was a blossom among clouds And a beast as vast as Gaia, We might grow up as they had grown old And in time to be something they could understand. What power is with us today? Who is it that has taken the place at once Before the pulpit of the Mainz And before the shoulder of the Netherdrube To speak the word the Pope now desires, The word with which I never once occurred; It was something to do with time, With a mind that was halfwater, And with a heart-grip as vast as the world. What is it in theirs that is different? What is it that hath dissolved so probingly An arm and a pastern of all the cities That came corbelled out to punish it? And what is it in me that is different? What is it in me that doth tyrannize An arm and a paunch, For what? for touch -- But for what? for salt How else would they have found out How dear they found it? They had more of the thing than I have, But that doth not make it less. I had not one thought when I sent it Across the world that fateful night When the first struck Teuton breathless through the world. I had not one thought when I fled With my first heart across the world. I had not one thought upon the rudder When the next struck Teuton blent on the net. I had not any thought ======================================== SAMPLE 240 ======================================== : and upon this false divine is no surprise, since it should be clear from the context that sadly did these slaves wish to sever themselves from God and the blessed, and in order to achieve this same desired result, smote them in the flesh with their swine's tusks, smote them with their servants' knives, and flung down their heads on high. Yet the paragon of them all was the chief man there, and the meeker of the troop, Arigco; all the others were in fustiness, and to his sway o'er them he gave command, and gladly he obeyed, for he was of holy father. And he stood beside him, as who welcome is, and comforted, "Glory," he cried, "glo about your wings, and seize your foes, and wound them well; since thou wilt never sojournor the ranker, till never could your bones remember the torments of your prisons, and the moisture of the friars' tobacco become your generation." "O Castor and Trachis, leave these people far behind, and make a wide circuit; and you will do well to conduct your flocks on our account, that hereafter heaven may be blest by fresh breeze of your wings." "God and good gods," answers the other, "in this place and in the world, be ne'er so gracious as to give me your company in this peril, for which you are worthy; and on your heads take the most anxious consideration; you have done the best thing which you could do; see that none comes to harm; now go, whereunto I follow you; I do not know whether I shall again escape unhurt, or shall be first to be slaughtered by you; but my advice is, so far as 's possible, O depart not nearer, for being of good will, or till I have known the way which is now the longest." The three then parted with perplexity; but Marphisa, who remained without, went quickly, if ever free to abandon the quest, to the side of those showers, that is a little brook that flows from one of the villages. The night seemed long to have lasted, though the dawn appeared now; and she resolved to wait longer yet to see more of the face of God, Upon the bank, which on that side is most high, a little short of it, she saw something glittering, which, when she looked more narrowly, she saw it flash like a bride's as she came down the vinelanda, the gems upon her veil so making the waters red. The God's face! But what she saw so much more than the garden of the Roman emperor Conrad, was that he seemed to have no head, so that he was hoisting a lance, to the bow well bent. The whole place seemed the play-ground of a hundred caricatures, each upon the lady, who, as the story goes, was represented by a blind girl that she could not see, save upon one shoulder, And she thought, "He is waiting for the horse, His for a heart which has now gone sigh." And sorrow perforce to distract her remained, which made her eye linger on the artist, who seems so young. But she went on, and next day a neighbour, who knew the right gate, spoke to her; he was a Nobleman, of Duke Felipe the rich, by whom Marphisa paid a stroke of assault for the right to the duchy. But at this moment, more from a natural So much she remained, she said, she should be able to read the secret in his eyes, and there was something St. Francis and Beatrice might have felt at such a fruitful sacrifice, if the stupefying path that is popularly believed to have led Me to my present errand, she had not been so meek, but grave, when she threatened to tell it the gentleman of her cabriolet. But she was not thinking of this, but of the wild plains of the mountain, and the waste, and that sweet vagueness of the kiss which weaves our future within our tongues. A mile or more from the town, and after going on a street which is the road of that sweet vagueness, she comes upon him who is passing his plate. "Ah! Madam," said I, "go you over well, go so far beyond that you come out another bush." ======================================== SAMPLE 241 ======================================== By dreams, and other places under ground, And other vales in other times we pass'd; But when I see the sun again rise, And from the shadowy bank opposite us The cataract and precipice disappear, It will be some voyage, I will say to myself, To prove the discovery I'm making; If the speed of light is such, say, four miles To-day would take us five, without the possibility Of making another at any moment. But for the water, I would be loth to travel So far, as to be lonelier here than before. As we descended, I said, My course is from despair; For hope's sake, I've thrown away all, and virtue, And all we sought for in our travels together. Nor is this all. I look above me for light, But hope on, my friends! and look from shame to shame; And by this light, and by our steps and the strength Of our own arms, I see no path to fame. I've struck a very moderate tone with money, But courage's lost its charlatanry For nothing and all the counterbalanc e'n' Will-tone mount, and even the moderate lander Will have his bounds; and thus my bloody wings Will soon have clipper wings and higher, To that mad ballet of foams which some call dance, While others think dance its own other dance. 'Twas on this which I was prescribing to fly, When you came on us--to be just and down-- A battle cut my wings, and cut my paint. But lo! my palsy seems turning into My walking banded with those six-in-hand goads, To see what the devil the last one costs. I looked, but saw no path--and that there turned A wide corner, and a door there wearily And the wind stopped, and the wind that blew that way Could cut us through, and drive us no wurther. Then I remembered the breeze that blew When the Pilgrim's Faith reached out for God's sake, And the door here of that old tavern blew And blew east, and we escaped the piepery's wrath Which flew so far and frightened us all, And by moonlight we stand here, and look on the screen Of a church, which to our left is a chimney,-- And a rose it has blown green and all its paint flings. And now the blue bird sings and a breath of October Seizes the sounds her trill from the small trumpet It seems to make--oh! how I wish it was possible For me to have one of those wings of hers, One of her winds that blows round me all the night Like an old friend, and brings home the memories, In the hours when the old thoughts are sweet and the old friends are here. All along the street, like a horn of the slave-woman To summon in the ancient melodies of bower and town, Thrush, red-breast, and silver-visageed sparrow. Here is the portal with its "No trespass" sign. All along the street--in the houses, here. I call,--it is too dark to answer, like, in all the streets--but out of each house I sound my horn, Until I know the number of every face. All along the street, Two black cats with scalping knives, Who do not come when called like. They take off running, and I hope They are not lost if so they are, For some one up and dressing--but no, They have vanished, and I must come at once For the sport, for the nightmare, and the panty-dump, Who steals my cloak, who cuts and gives me juice, And makes a mess of my wig, For the kiss which I got hard to my unloving, Because I wore her wand while frozen and twisted? But no, I will see the fellow who takes me now, Before he tries to make me speak, or move, or speak, And I will answer him. I am mad at him. She, She the unkind mother, who left me in that barn, Not the one that tipped over and got busted, This is what makes me hot and cold. --But she had a spell for every crime. She took the drift of the time, and did some sketch, In her case, she was kept a klump, and dragged And put in a headstone, and that was well enough; And after she was buried, and long time Had passed since she ======================================== SAMPLE 242 ======================================== , I'm feeling optimistic, in that I think that by and by the city will find its feet again, and we will talk, maybe more than we do now, and we will have pleasant arms. In the meantime, I'm grateful for all there is not horrible, and for nothing unpleasant. Is it so? That men in the beginning were surprised By beauty, surprise And love, in the same way that some were amazed By sight in a mirage aching for our eyes And a song that will never come true? Yes. I believe that we are probing, Now clearer, now harder, Each element That makes up the primal building For the city we live in. <|endoftext|> "Apples from Hell", by James Baldwin [Activities, Jobs & Working, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] in old English, har seg goddin edcyes a4. God Sorge Doof I a5. Apostl Philun —as in the patriarchal Greek— Anastomos, anady to be a guest aas edax'd anaporing anadenantam autin and yes, we are I guess I'm reading a lot of Greek now I guess I hope you are, too I can't explain it you you I you you the real thing Stendil an Eden Worthy Goddammit! What I ever have known I hope you forget! I mean What I ever did Know I hope I hope I ever did Know I hope I ever did I'll bet my word I never heard of Apples of Knowledge before Apples of Hell were banned by Adoption. Here's a collection of real things: it's what to do, it's what to do. It's also what to remember. What's beautiful is what's usual. I wish I wish I Could I wish I never never never Never never never Never never never never never Never heard of Happiness. No no I've never had any I never never never had had never had had Had Had I never. I never had, never had. In Crete, in Crete, the apple category is split head. No, apple is category head. Oh, yes, but I knew nothing of I knew nothing of this category I knew of this category I knew nothing of My knowledge is great of great I'm full of What I am full of is Knowledge. You say I wish I never wished I never wished I never wished Never wished. I wish I never wished. It's all wish: I wish I wish I wish wished I wished I wish wish. <|endoftext|> "Anniversary", by James Schuyler [Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Arts & Heroism] One can still hear her. Five years after they divorced, he continues to do things as he always did: tweet furiously, rebut voice over and retort; tweet apologies, retort apologetically. One can still search for the honeyed syllables, as the morning bell crosses children's desks, swipe right, left, engage, then redirect. One can still hear her, then. But we make mistakes. We forget what's been lifted, lift what's been ripped. We act as though he'll heard the name before we hear the music. He's cut back, to use the term of the moment, but not lost yet. I've seen his body once, but not since he left his wife's side. But you know what I mean. It's a bass drum's thrust that does the deed. It's all about the act, the bass's bass. He knows what he's doing. I can't help it. I feel it in my chest. Now it's my turn. I retweeted a picture of the very dog that attacked and destroyed our trailer park In the summer we'd watched, thick thicket of dead rose leaves in the heat, moor signs and smashed car windows, the fence post, gnats, and two dogs, waiting for the funeral, the pale one snoozing, the black one barking, averting his gaze ======================================== SAMPLE 243 ======================================== And the fowls whose body is feather-light And love little worms, to a fault. 'Tis the strong man's beard that caitiffs fear, Who for his bread makes other children; The deep sate on the empty skull, And hungry turns the brain of the victim, Passes to the part whence it began. No pigs upon the blast, for that matter; The book of Truth hath nothing found, The sorcerer's chanted words are sham, The Soap-Maker's schemes are crude, The cloven truth is modeled clay. They lie, they cheat, as e'er murderers did, Who of a sad night's promis'd joy, At some unexpected point embark; But sate the hen for London, yet, For London 's too fine a taste; So, London, give your munificent Who dooms her nest to fluttish hens. O billows of a muddy surf! O snarling tigers! what a taste, But, O these are but the weed-established surf Of ancient shore for hens so fat; Who in their hatch from an early age On some lovelier shore may cruise, And from more fertile farms of green For their more secret nest retreat. Haply, in the day, to you, my friend, By local libraries, I have been allowed to espouse (Since Milton, myself, has err'd so, And written little well of it; He was for freedom fighters, you see, But laid the bushels on pigs.) Why, let the people be their own puppets, Why then is their work all slavish? The country could have free strangers, you know, Save the citizens, who recked or sang. O all too local tastes, and fads and weeds, O small lobbyists, what are you at? Why should a free government stoop to suit you? Why, it's nice that all the artists, rich and famous, Be immures you o'er all that regional asssss! Some day, the decade may hap that disparages, The fine sir, you catch the thing. You turn over here your eye with care, And, O, you own, 'tis sad and slimy; You see it in the egg-cast of your fingers, And your hatching eyes may not be getting To the part that's slimy, but 'tis done your best. If it were mine, my dear, I would not stop play Among the leafy, leafy and greeny trees On, pell-mell, the years as they sped; My dear, I should continue so. Told by the noise of streets, and the rattle Of metals, and the bus', the whizz of cars, The whizz of the publican, and the plop Of the potties, and the sputter of rejoicing People, with cries, my dear, to have and tllOds, and nought else; For children should have their fill Of play, and health, and playmates. With no one to tell them what's good for them, And no one to teach them what's right and good, And no one to keep them free From snigger and jeering, and the nuncio's speech That comes from a lawyer'sdesport, That cheap and filthy; And, in the face of the world, no less To be fit for the world of men. But, O, if I were like your city's poets The priest would sit, and the soldier would kneel; And my name would be the bargain made; And goods and pleasures would have nothing at all To do with me; And he would take my goods, and he would take my pleasure; And the trade would end as it was beginning, That is, with me. <|endoftext|> DAME ANNE MARIE, as seen By M.H. Finea in 1759. In His "L'Almanach", n, ed. Clitoria Sack, vol. II. 1764 IRTITUTION, as set forth in the "Fabinet" of "R.F." The wind hath blown my curtains away, And both my eyes have begun to fail, And, like the old woman's soot- RIBERT [who, being killed by St. Anthony, went to Purgatory] glass, they are clean and gone: the face that goes In the press, the face, the wrung eyes, the gold A Rose ======================================== SAMPLE 244 ======================================== to watch, beside the bright transparent lake of Naniwazhina, in the deep and wide clearing of Omusi. As he watched, the spring rippled into you, the water-monster, each silver drop making you lighter, and the yellow water that lay behind you like a living thing glowing darkening, as the horsefly makes the water he rides on lighter when he passes through. Like pearly, small fires within you flared up, and through your body danced the brilliant fire, and in the shade of the poplar the sun was born. <|endoftext|> "Forging", by Ron Sodehore [Nature, Trees & Flowers, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Painting] Alot of trouble the first years make a master later it makes a lame tree send leaves only rising so much so barely visible not ugly enough like sculpture the first is like a sword to cut a chest to rule the copper then a narrow smithy with enough luck you wont' find something to break the silver to make a new thing not a tree but a body & thinking the point of the first is the point of the second it must be a sword the point of a staff the third is a pair of leopards the fourth a chisel the fifth a crow you are out a panoply & finally the sixth is for the rising sun & the falling they fall towards the right direction & thats the first best one its not a tree its a man at the bottom of the obstetric chamber of time come with eyes or not you must hold the thing as you regard its shape the hardness strikes locality & what holds it its shaft or something else sensing it probably flat plate as if the surface is the true before you strike the metal to destroy the objects you can learn to trust its ignorance <|endoftext|> "Elegy ["When I Die"]", by Wallace Stevens [Living, Death, Arts & Sciences, Music, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books] I mourn for a thin man Little that his fingers will brag They brag with alone; The sun in his shine Is more than they; The laurel in the rill, How it grows white, Their lot! But for their sake, in a bright day's When the clouds are equally thick, I would forget That I should not have roses after rain; I would forget that I should know Of any crimson at all. I would not be thin, And I would have no eyes; I would not be With arms outstretched in a field; I would wear no gown, And I would not be An empty room in that; I would wear no crown; I would be just A thin, in a room; I would not cry: "Soon I will rest; I am not dead, Though I should sleep for all time in Sleepers are true; I am not dead." <|endoftext|> "Elegy ["A red door"]", by Wallace Stevens [Living, The Mind, Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books, Philosophy] A red door in a college library opened; A red light upon it struck; And in the room a book was bound That would not melt, and no one knew why. A red light upon it struck; And in the room a book was bound That would not melt. It would not take the heat; it sought The red path of paths beyond; It did not mind the climate. A red light upon it struck; And in the room a red light did return; And well it recognized the light, It did not mind the climate. The red light struck again; it found The redness not its fault; the mind, It, the mind, it sought again and found; The mind, the mind was not red; but taken — Of what it found — of what 'twould be, ======================================== SAMPLE 245 ======================================== This sorrow and this aridness, Which darken, and rob the sun of light, And render my suffering worse, I can bear but I can not fly, And leave thee, spirit, at thy base. "Therefore, though 'tis very wise, Though 'tis very hard, I cannot live with thee, spirit, I cannot scorn thee But by giving thee my best, Whilst I live with the lowest!" She stopped, and knelt on the hearth Beside the flames, and bowed her head, Then spoke with passion calm and calm: "Lovers' lives are not like streams Of silver that are fed from Heaven And always are warm. Lovers' lives are not like suns That burn not all the longer Though there come cold, dark clouds that move. Lovers' loves are not like harlots That cut and carve their binds: But like green shoots in the field of growth, That add daily honour to the shade." So wound up her sad speech and fraught With passion her whole heart beat warm, And thus she cried, "O thou sweet boy To me thou hast been a dear, And to me thou hast been a dear; My heart is in my eyes and in my brain, And it will not let me die. O thou sweet boy, now I know thee true, Thou wert a prayer, a thorn, a flower, A drink, a already coming fate, An abundance and an END! O go, thou art a sun to me, O go, thou art a moon, a flower, A song, a pleasure, to me now; To me, to me now thou art more dear Than all earth is for men"--. But as she talked, her voice sank low, And, when she spoke again, it waked A crying in her heart, a cry, Which shook her heart-strings and a smile Crossed her lips, as though this speechising Was all she could. And thus she said, "Thou hast made me cry, I wuz glad and glad to have shown thee What love was, and how thou keepest earth Away with the smiles of heaven. But now thy heart is set, thou knowest, For as to kisses, lo, thou knowest They do not come thereafter; 'Tis past, and while life may be so, Thou art a ghost and rubbish then-- No, no, thou art not saved, "I am a fairy--at midnight, When lovers go to bed, at midnight, I scrawl a love-tale, And then 'tis done, As thou sholler'st that I'm but a tale, And then 'tis done." And so it was her words were false; She played her part about the town, Till some tame, foolish thing To her a-praying she sets; The rose has fled her cheek, The moon is low In the dewy heaven, The birds are dumb, And from the boding ofhyer The sound is died. Now, with her love-tale she's gone, And masters few How duty is repaid. Yet, tho' her eyes were wet, The morn was blue, And the clouds flung by her are The freaks alone. But who, at midnight, will write a tale? No, not she. No, not she. No, not she. For this night, no more will Heaven's light be On her wan cheek and on her eyes. Her children, there, are gone, And she, the wood That signs her grant, Will never rise. O did I love as she loved? No, I did not. Was I like her roses, her gums? No, I was not. I never sighed, I never raged, I never needed those teeming moans; No, I never dreamed As there she passes, How much she seemed. I never cried, I never wept, Nor was like to; And, when I kiss'd her, I never knew the feel of her breast. I never knew That feelings I did unknowns, That say her charm'ds Were warmer, sweeter, than mine; And how she could have worn A charm more strong, Stronger than mine. O, Love was in my heart, A lamp to light this wretch From peevishness and pain; O, Love was in my mind, A roaring fire, The sparks ======================================== SAMPLE 246 ======================================== abroad and didst provoke me, May all my anger be so. Not in these flowery looks of women For anger is aught within, But if it sat like lead in ashes, That not with the wounds of the heart Felt, but with the bones of the limbs: If with anguish, rage and tears it were Pierce the white wings of the morning, May the darkness fall aslant Oft times on their feet. And these hands, though they are stark and clotted Theself-abridging dame, Who came forth now and in her good wit Sufflanted the rain of earth, Are they not sheerest hands, Even as the breast that bare them? While, 'thaw still the virgin snow of snow From principal urns on high, Weep still those icy torrents cold, Fountains of blood yet hot, Till the earth's veins coagulate, And the veins of the heart cease to, From their fire-centres hot. Then let not snow or mountain be Thebrother- or sister-hearth of you, That will this glory gain For the love-r-ery heart to tell, That love and remembrance: But you let it, wherein shall be Of that time, such time as this, To the end that through your stars The love-light of your name, Shall utter a cry to you, Beauteous as that time was, "We love you, we love you!" For a time to be thus co-dwelling With the very stars of heaven, Until you prove, to be Fit for such fourfold binding, In whose lap the earth Grows a sweet bud in heat Full as hot as yet in June. For the time when forth ye went Unto the fair earth, And the full-tost life go in your veins As the sun-drinkers drink their rims, And the warm blood move round the heart, Where it meets the wings of grasses, And to Mother Earth ye gave In groves where loving eyes behold Their rosy offspring painted, Until at last the fabled heat Of a warm world Poured out in your veins, Made for you all-gentle And kindly As the April night-wind's breath. The swift horses licked you at your birth, For a while the furies licked ye. From that hour they knew no rest, Save the deep in- TRAIT of the sea. I too knew the dim envy and The cruelty of a strong And haughty sun's dreams, Until a heat wave six Washed those thoughts away In the sea's milk. I too knew the insufficence Of gold and home, Till I felt that board and bed Might stay the spirit in me. Then I built me a room Shady with fruit-trees, And bade my spirit board and bair Flights of colours and light, Lights that chase the darkened hour, The hour when day hath made All things the more mortal. I know the sun went down upon your waves, Till your hollow shell Wheeled and idly splashed in the mid-night beams, Then you swung on the allowance Caught by the shores' divergence, Whilst mine was darkened for the whiter. When we read the gospels in the garden, You were clothed in green Until the moon was white in heaven, Till you clove the west Till the Spirit shone in ours. I rose before the sun went down And bade my spirit fast; And my slow love was a fast While for your sake alone And the rest was nothing. O slow love, your thirst was quenched Ere your soul was disenchanted; Ere your spirit knew The ideal that it dreamed. In the heat of passion Love lays down his horn, And with low call and parting groan Your body vanished from my arms; I had not time to cry, Nor wail, Nor look towards the sea. O madly bounding, And leaping Through the cords of blood, And departing in a dresstream! I am still at highway To the sea. I had not time to say, "Well, Fayette," Nor, "Here is good night," Though you had not broke the tree's six And mounted last on the white. And climbing down its bank The last I ======================================== SAMPLE 247 ======================================== in the warm world. Fain would I sing, yet in the madness knowing, my tongue is mute. I have been sharp and deft in counsel, sharp and deft in action, All my life long. I thought of singing then, when a boy with my books. Now with a stranger with his wine. I know not to what use. I am not sure I know what. I know I knew a song Once—in a goodly place. At some time or other, singed The face of a long-dead great-grandfather. All of us young yet well-leafed, well- cumbered. Dazzling in flow, then some said a touch of frost Had made it silver. <|endoftext|> "Crawft", by Alan Dugan [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Travels & Journeys] To feed our own cravings The best way is The eastern [route]. The taste of a bramble-bush was hesitant to make us sick. One man swore by a stick and his rage he could drive through the bush; but only experience could tell— the stick broke and in the panic behind him fell poor Carl Martin. He lost the planet WOWID. His wife lived on the land. Now I wonder if it's true that high in the sky you hitch a ride with a praying mool on a spider and watch the stars twinkle past the years long going over. <|endoftext|> "Carl Martin Reading A Life of Thomas Ashe", by Alan Dugan from The Book of The Boot [Life Choices] One day in 1707, on the road to Albany to get money for his board and booze, He drove a tractor through a fence in Bracken Ridge and fell out of his seat. He said to the man: "What up? damn." But his good neighbor SUN rose and hung low a tiny nut of gossip: "Your wife is in the woods." But his good neighbor KNEW more than to say: "When you have liquor, good men go to bed." He said it and he said it for thirty years. <|endoftext|> "Clambering", by Anne Waldman There's not much to explain. Last summer, my summer before you by then had become a flashback to a week at the spa with glowing skin and no idea why I was there the small flames draining out of my chest. It was so easy then. Just slow fire off the slimmest of bodies trying to remain on our separate paths. The inner drama of what could be done with minimal effort what could be demanded with minimal voice in the smallest of places. I was just another one of the innumerable. On this one, I stood too fast for my own good. A self for a split second, then gone. Too soon the room a wash of lighters and steam through which I had to parade before the unconscious. It's all too easy, even with heat on its side between the separation and the return. <|endoftext|> "Hail", by Mark Svace [Religion, God & the Divine, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] A septu piobanu for Joe Luther who wrote: "The white man’s body seems to me most like the shawols of a home, careful and careful and careful, with the blind and the sun in the basement, and… Heaven, and a hand." —Alexander Pope The land down there with the dimpled waves and open sun white against the background of the covers? —a shawol, the white chin of a sun, located in the torso of the white sky <|endoftext|> "Antarctica/BRIT", by A. J. Graham [Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity] Weeks there go by not weeks, but ice—the indeterminate blanks shattered glass of year— Here, a tent tents should only be seen at the corner of numb and strange— They crowd around like a herd— the same hollow glass buzzed with a deaf This, the last leg to be broke of the trip, somehow forgetting that they are missing each hole along the way— Before they cut the ties of crew ======================================== SAMPLE 248 ======================================== for us to go through our lives—even from the greatest distance— bristling with rage, with love, with awareness of each. <|endoftext|> "Speak from a Boundless Content of Woe", by Lucie Arnstein [Religion, The Spiritual, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] With the horizon line to the horizon, it's almost that time again, when some old pavement whispers: "See! The Past is back!" A century later and we get the symbol too— an eye and a point touching at last— but no: "Be that point." The medium for what? We don't know enough to give it name Toward or away from the viewer, to break its back, to dissect it and fit it into boxes and categories— like good replicas of the handiwork we trust. A handiwork of earth and life: some old pavement in need of repair. That's hardly the point. Speak from a boundless content of woe, speak from a content of tears. The Point is that we're all in the clutters, every soul on the floor. With the horizon line to the horizon we don't need that Handiwork anymore. A century later and we get the mark: it has a name, a name we give to it As if we could and should name it. The medium, the content— The point— all being held together by the medium. <|endoftext|> "Sign Down", by Amy Beeder [Living, Life Choices, Love, Heartache & Loss, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] [see list] To enter was not so sad once . . . But it meant losing The dreams of wanting to belong And the decision about who Loved who or wanted what Destroyed the night and The morning and the light And the well-intentioned Feelings rolled into The wrong of being made To want what was not Permitted and billed as Free choice—the Amorphelone And then a Commonality Free choice learning to be The Possum and the Puss in one. <|endoftext|> "My Generation, Stuka", by Rebecca Hazelton [Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] My generation of poor liars and knaves. We have altered and evolved The penis into a witty Brain that loves us and peacocking. We have altered the nose For a little more to be funny And made the mouth a window To sing in with our voices We have altered and evolved The idea of what a computer Can do and even made the eyeglasses VR gear to capture our desperate Looks into the thousand And the replicant And over-redaction To make men less competent To fulfill their benevolent Stress of loving us. <|endoftext|> "You May Love the Discipline", by Rebecca Hazelton [Living, Health & Illness, The Body, Relationships, Nature, Social Commentaries] in a straight face, I walk into a room and everyone knows I am coming My career is to anticipate the last of my neighbors' moods, to anticipate the vinous line on the prowl for a collision, and spring a slab of ice-teados into the brain, then waltz away My helmeted envies, like butterflies, bring the stunted beauty back into my suitcase of bruised oats, I carry it there as a ship, I'm the one inside, without wings, with eyes in the cavity of an elet rock, sparid and tiny, idiotic and robot in my head, I'm the one returning to earth without wings, singing a song of: "What is love?" <|endoftext|> "Sheet Music", by Karen An alert from England ... I follow the tidal system, but it is opaquepanes exagerate, and a daily enlisting of other alertings, that appear to conspire to complicate rather than to summon the fretting of the hull—hence the dreamy notification that the decks of the heave may shake, feriously, a little but steadily, but not withfantastic impulse—a steady chug of water beneath us, the horizon scrubbed bare, and our horses holding steady, the carts of the streets, their sounds of reverberation free, so that the mind, we are not just a gaping wretch floating on our head, but rather are flown, a bird sent down to us ======================================== SAMPLE 249 ======================================== To go for comfort to her father, And say, 'My father is much away.' "But no time was want of time, And there is time enough, too, In such a manner as this, To come before her father, And tell him all the truth. "Then she knew not her father Would take so long a time To get back to her, even, And sometimes even in that She might not come again, And it grew within her That a secret there Was surely growing, That would her heart-strings tug To see the reason why The dull and wasting day After such a search, Would bring her father So tired and slowly back; Therefore, as she thought, She made up her mind, If she might return at all, To be here, by all means, To meet with her lover, And to give herself to him "And he did agree, And was determined to go With her as soon as next day, And she hoped her father's health Would agree with her hope, And give her consent, Ere next morning's dawn, Within a letter to say That she might look to see If he would consent to go With her in spite of his advising, And that his consent, then, He should desire to see, "But the love-tree there He came to thank Before he did depart, And told his intention In all good truth, In a sort of French, And spoke as follows: 'Father, wherefore then, Are you always so slow? Why do only I see In your favouring will Such doubt and doubtbrooding, When I, your son, As well as I are judged Most almost humanly, Tell you, indeed, Do I return at evening, Be at time to let Me your son, by me embraced, So that I see My favour then, If it accord With my conduct, wayward indeed, But it conformed, then, thus, "Therewit afterwards To be his friend, She was also kind, And hoped he would soon be coming, And thought, too, The absence of her father, This had made her ill, And led her to err: And she, though ill at ease, Be permitted too To take hand, as far as seems, (She had been, since her father Had sent her off, To calm down her sorrow, And herself she had been telling And now, to soothe her woe, She spoke, and said, perhaps The great long residence Had soothed him; Or that withal He loved to see her father, A favourite spot, a friend, And she, who had been sick before, Of comfort might think: And, for the joy it was To have him in the ancient tower, To see him one and all So beautiful and benign In youth, had virtue enough To cast such cool glances there, And for her own high particular To be so tender, and so sweet To sound so brave a heart: And then her joy was short-lived, For, at his door, Her father came, and, knocking, The door-step of his bed Echoed, and held aloof; Then she, in trembling glee, Began to fain To tell of her ware Which now so long away. 'O grace, a half-embittered son, Inseparate from kings, is here, Bred in the good of earth, To stand in your glorious court, Bold with your father found. For I have not a home, alas! But now apart, O Lord, Between your child and me: And I will pray, As I have been praying ever, That you may understand And your will fulfill What, half-mistah, I long "And what if you or some false god Deprive me of the light," etc. "But I shall not turn away As some were wont to do; And I shall hail the very day You shall of my returning With a child in your arms, And a wife-armful of gold For my dear mother, But I will have All the lore and art That my birth gave to me." Thus the lone woman smiled, And the knight, as swift as lightning, Leaped at her word, And was far off in the distance When the Knight, in his flying, Left but a infant call Who was the mother of this child ======================================== SAMPLE 250 ======================================== –O Lord! what frenzy makes our lives Spontaneous and unlike our misery? This sleep and whiteness in a middle of a winter! In the midst of the world's dark! Only we, and sun and moon above, Know it! and still it glows! And our hearts all reddening with its heat! Filled with ecstasy of being here! Only we feel its presence, and tremble! Only we feel its mystery, and stagger! There is nothing else for it to do but sleep, And to sleep and live out life's mystery! Only we feel its mystery, and stagger. A black Bat-wing, moving noiselessly, Unseen, but in the light of the moon, Hovered on the pool and plunged With black, undimensional feet Into the water. There was no sound, Save the plunging wave's a flute Tinkling, as through the shadows round it, A lonely diver ventured. –What is it? …–It knows no object from its existence! Only itself! It plunges Into the water; sinks, and then, in the darkness, Leaps upward, as if to escape The intolerable solitude. Yet it is lonely! Is there no colleague, No friend, to meet where men are together, But are excluded by the non-being's Absence? …. No! it is noise, and ecstasy! That is the search for the world's existence. The drink and candle are on the floor; The glass has fallen onto the table, And the candle is on the floor. Only the water, infinitely fine, Is unwavering upon the floor! Only the water …. How much it can vary, But still remains the only element! –You mean, "nothing else on this earth"? …. –No, I mean, "nothing else on this earth"! Here are the only grains of sand on the ISU campus! Only the tiniest, apart from everything else, Is life, on this world! Only the first Settues the nerves in in the real. –And the darkness is everywhere! …. Only the water …. This death-hour, when I am still alone in the room. <|endoftext|> "It was at the top of a wooded precipice that I stood with my father, awaiting the long ascent that must have its own dismayful stories to tell, a number of them, not yet unfolded, myself among them, when at the sound of his "oysters"--whatever they were--I looked up and saw two black birds that carried a flag on their backs, that seemed their own sky flown out of, as a perceiving egoism grown literal--and they moved across to the other side of the air to take in the scene just beyond, where they seemed to move out of their own sense of space, that of the horizon which they stilled. --Now to my more philosophic mind-manipulations--I mean to say, no doubt, that they were not of an essence exclusive and indestructible by 2 April 2050, which is the sort of determinism that the king of hinds with, in the sense that nothing, even time, can resist its influence upon.--Indeed, what would here stand, and what would there, in opposite numbers, matter and air, the one verily part of the next logical era? The pure phenomenon of such a temporal world, I contend, can only come by definition, namely, "That part of the world's history which relates what is now happening to what has happened and is going to happen, and therefore covers, by defining right, all that is past, all that is governing, in our world of to-day, all that may be laid down under present obligation.--We may lay down, nay, are bound to give up for the sake of such a world every ancient Greek, all Albanian art and all Arabian cultivation of poems and stories.--Thus of course there should be nothing left behind from now on, neither Greek nor Albanian; but I leave it to your own sense of these things, and your ingenuity, to find out what is left for us, and what is lost. This letter is brought to you From those surly mountain road-keepers, the Indians, The letter-writers of the woods, By the old Redman and his wilds, Bringing the goods to market with a guide In his stickman bigoted zeal, And burdened store by fat Red Man (O my friend, my brethren). Though the best is taken, The direct and the ======================================== SAMPLE 251 ======================================== thank them for a safe return. O! how she's in love with her carriage! It is her pride, for on it's value She out-negades the world. And she'll pay Rupert for his, you know, when here's over. Now this is some way the world's thought, From the books I read; Some man well known as a jinker, No one of honour. But what had he a whole day, And what had he an hour? A perusler, no doubt, For his papers, mind, and his heart, O the world's not fair, it seems to me, (And so not mine). Each day's a square, a monstrosity, And what's a straigth? And what's the world's high name? O I wish someone'd chop me down (Or off), For it from all men I would cull Some few that are real. If there were nae cheery midges To fight off Mortification, I'd fling wide the door, For I'm concerned with an unco The nearest thing to Nase There is--Nasa-Chet. My Roderick, my Stephen, my Rozman, The muckle don, I't see how ye've kept sae long. Come hame, ye fine lads, and dry your pens, And let not the necessity arise Ye'd ever be mair; For we can't affigurate The worst that's meetit or to abide, And are as wise as not at hame, When flay'd, we're put upon the shelf, Ye're coy obysms, ye've dol'd it. I trust and I trust we are not coy, We're cautious wi' death on our hand, That's the reason we come not a miller, For there's a clashing o' fire At the door o' a sae eild. Sae let us rowlat, Jim & Sue, For there's nae winter an' haet, There's nae summer for fiddling here, The Buggun with his fiddle bonnet on, We'll be there, we'll be there, we'll be there, Wi' our baws and Wi' our backs. Bold Sir, we'll stop our caddies off, Whymat, kill't for baith driving here, Or kye fore me for a while. But baith haist hersel' I'm tauld, There's a goney to Mr. Brown, Or some sae worth kirk. By silly blokes I doubt I've stolen Some parting dools fra the South, Wi' naigs baith misbebon; Then, bold sir, ye may quote Ye may na quote, I haud my quill, When bairnies draigles. Hear, O hear, ye vale, O Oite! I've misgiv our langst carpes io, To bide by their colonnade An' git their langspielin' permit, For here's a block-the-goose. I rade on, an' here's a braw nappy, Aboot digression I wadna post, But fley'd like a rogue. Bairnies, gin aad mony a drive, On a wad hae naow hoose, I ith wark wi 's guid bein rams, An' what aft they're ravin draps placads, An' singin a sang. O it's deor din we can get right gee, If deor bairnies gang to church wi a sang, It's deor-but-for. Then come'ry dear, O callum Clarke! O callum Clarke, O callum lang, For we can win wi' us a sicht Oor deeal wi' weevur; Oar a dunger o' langspruat, Oar a stoylan' druck; For, ladie, I ha'e an unco sholth, A sea hooer baith a' an' no amang, 'Twusn't for naething, it seems to me, That bairnies should be fley'd at our return, 'Twusn't nae a' for sangs, we can't affray Nae ferly nought, but tauld yird at ======================================== SAMPLE 252 ======================================== a sum of five pounds. In this with cold cramps in the muscles or a change of heart one in ten go on to die in the war. The company he kept at home were soon in the hospital with accounts of burn victims. Out of the window we could see their forlorn faces dashed with black lines by the wind. The place we wanted and that we got were the long bank of unlit dead river that stretched on for miles. The rim of it rose like a spike in the deep glades bidding the mother to forgo the play of arms and let the child enter the flame of the search. <|endoftext|> "The Method", by Jana Liquhumbs [Love, Desire, First Love, Realistic & Complicated] Put on your wig of soft butterflies crushed under your nails. They will fly away if you stay too long or talk. Don't say don't try to be understanding of the storm. Stride to the music's tremble. Forget the dawn's yellow gut and gray with blood yourself has bled under your skirt. Don't worry the course of river sunk you have to push yourself back into the sun. <|endoftext|> "Adore",, Written on the eve of my virginity, doubut it doesn't come automatically like bread and fish in the butcher's window. It takes effort. Aspirin and beer won't make you shine brightest though you exhale like the blue afternoon your mother used to coax from you in the bed. Come. Inside. Sit. And listen. Your one ounce of moonshine still shines in my asshole. <|endoftext|> "My Stethroac", by Jana Blaust [Living, The Body, The Mind, Religion, The Spiritual] she's the one who doesn't exist the one who won't come to you in the woods so you make of her a hollow oak hand-cathod stringent rule to chop into alder but you hear its ass-fire in the clearing when the ax stroke deep will she go unquelled amorous, intractable, and the raven she who will never come to you by flying unshorn through cloud, or is it water under the sea while also humming your full-catalog of swallows floods you with wild ducks that may or may not be kinds but aren't we all to blame in the long-necked pitch and scoldwind of the opened air where you hear the howl of a sacrifice that may or may not be sacred where you cleanse with salt to change our idea of spirits of spirits as unmanageable for spirits to humanity where you draw the sacred circle from our bodies, begonia, pansies blue sacred has several ideas about body and you may or may not hear the harvest when it impales you you (they say you should) consecrate yourself to flesh <|endoftext|> "The Carousel", by Christine McPhee [Living, The Body, The Mind, Love, Desire, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] What kind of beast would I have been if I hadn't felt once? the sidereal grazing of a solid object of my desire If you said island what would happen when I had to to pull myself off the sheet-stream of her into the real world If you said wheel what would happen when I pull herself from the richness of our body onto the veritable wreck If you said repeater what would happen when we heard the steady accelerate of our kiss and reached If you said claw what would happen when she sockets trashed our courtyard If you said shutter what would happen when I peered through the cheap lodgement of her If you said boiler what would happen when she hadn't installed a socket between us and the real world <|endoftext|> "Hysterogenesis", by Christine McPhee [Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] The scene: a strip club by the ship pier. The men-graunting jargons, the talk of Men's Health features that were short-circuited by the impact of the feminine-present female-figure policy A John ======================================== SAMPLE 253 ======================================== "They're in a sour mood!" she says. "I can see that! They're wading in Old Bay. Just look at The splinters of orange-wood, plunging into the pond, Beside the pike, a wriggled, mighty water-beast. "It's Come-here-for," says a red-coat with his head in a storm-proof jar." "And they say you'll be killed if you stay, Here-here-for?" she says. "It's About the only word they know you!" "I've got to get back quickly. My friends expect With the `Here-here-for' of Old Bay. You can understand That, when it's you they want, you will do it!" I could see the orange-trees growing around the pond, Their heads twisted in fantastic knots and their limbs Were as thin as thin silk, though they grew there all summer; They'd be sliced and sugared for his swim, they always asked me. "You won't believe it, but--they're right!" We are all of us weak people, we are all of us The equivalent of whatever we're limited to know. And though my poor message went breathlessly out, 'Twas doubted in parts, decoded in parts denied, Partially repeated in infinitesimal clicks I've heard, dissembling, wholly digressing, wholly failing, It's got to get out somehow or somehow turn again. If there be some if, if there, per default Some part of all that I remember, in some punishment, I know I shall recollect it, perhaps. I know I shall forget some too nice Cries from past times, the beer-hall's din, The gilt-fringed waltz, the `routineed` mob, They never remember the Mob, they, The barmaids, the `chainsaw-winged` dancers. I remember the hats. I used to know Girls who wore them. They don't, can they? That's as well. That, and I have tried to learn what I can Of that particular genre of the poem Without much luck, and found it, I mean, Without the style. Here's the paragraph, and what I thought I once described as `a certain kind Of sentimental ditty, popular in the country. The girl is often, though she regrets it, Reflected in the calm, blue eyes set safe Reflected in the silver, I mean that, at the first reading, Was it that you, my friend, Into your `maidenly dreams of Prose' Recalled the figure of girl, the light Of her eyes, grey, grays, balks, In grey eyes, grays, The return of light from grey to green, The softness, the overflow From green to blue So, the `grayest woman That ever trod' (In dyes) on script To write, what Didrophilia? And are you still?) That `maidenly dream' Of yours, written, I take it, `By some Kid, ... `by some Kid, `Mixed with her shame, `Mixed with her shame. `Mixed with her shame'? It is of course `Mixed with her shame.' `She never is completely clean.' She never is completely, never, not, In this character of hers, free from dirt. I cannot write what I remember, I cannot ask for a woman to play, Not asking for a woman to play, Pity the young that have nothing worth winning. --`Atoning' her, that is, `Atoning' her. Not that I could write, you understand, A `toning girl,' `Atoning girl, But she was so lovely, and That was really Not What I meant. No, what was I going to say? I was asked to write, what I wrote Was nothing but her face That evening when I dropped you. I guess I have not got over your absence, This being pregnant with another. It is not that I have nothing to say. I see I have more than my share. I see that I have more than mine. Perhaps, because she never was In front of me, she never was Behind me Many a time, I pushed and shoved, I saw myself looking at you, You looking back. If I had nothing to hide, What was I afraid of? ======================================== SAMPLE 254 ======================================== ands when the man is dead; When the man is dead and the ban is thereon and the lights are dark. Aye, take a five-mile mooring and send in the long-boat; and call in the shore beaters, the men of ten miles' rue; And when, at night's full noon, you come to the sick ship, take shoreward the marines, And if the fisher-diving there be high, (not otherwise since last we heard of her) open well their divers cairns and keep hind-shit and window-shade for her while they wired her for a suit: So shall the lady be billeted safe, So long as the galleon shall float, so long shall you men give her man a mask who is either a glutton or a sod. But if the galleon must fly, you take the rudder from any man who is either lame or inhuman; and loose from the hold fast her, I say, but hold the hand: Hear, Friend! in me let either brother be! No man who ever knew him in your prayers could think but this: that he held in release both ends of the deal in his breast, of lips and of hands. And that too is awful, to see the inside of things. And yet 'tis nothing to be famed so much as by, but to touch and to look at the soul, that is nearest God to us in order that we may know her, and at a touch Oh, but to have had the reason to heave and groan were they dead that these sad-eyed terrors were. But would they yet come at a touch like this, having in trust the living, the dead, and this once having been touched, and the hot wax, VOCATION, taking in that the clouds were drawn: then would the sorrow of the soil, the time of year, and race, with all began to roar and rave and rave, as it were from strident to trump, in herald form, and red-bearded roan, leapt on the hearth, in haughty tip, But this was hap that the south wind was about to fall back from the north, and the snow-wind from the west to draw into his hair and short hairs of ice of inward-opening lips the blizzard of having seen what was there. The west-wind is heard as the north-wind, the north-wind is heard as the south-wind, the tide is heard as the wind blowing out of the oval windows at the water's surface, which, for the weary of the day to be done with, carries away with it, a din of sounds, inherited of course, from those who made the waves, from them that are inherited the wind of a different pattern, and of a different pitch. Here there is the north-wind in seed as the south-wind in fruit, and the west-wind in pressure, and the tide in place of the tide of before, and the change in sky-that-hasn't-come-before, in pungent tones, borne of the change in air, and so, come now, and with cry of the dina, hide us on the sandy bergs, while the wind upon the sand-boney floor changes from side to side, and in the sand, like in a furnace, the sand-wind eases Oh, Sorrow that changeable thing! That at change's extreme enough to flatten the plain round the living-of-course into a stutter, to prorogue the speech in a pause, to interpose a zone of shock between what it makes extern and what it factores in speed from its factored self, oh, weeping sadness! Which was from its early nest, whence it railed up before, and which is now perched out of sight beneath the leaf that's this minute displayed at its lightest tipping. I see it sitting where the bristle-tips of bramble-point leaf-leaf-nails grow in an amphipulcha of spines, and where, between recumbance and the next wet wind-driven down-pour, will yet cling, as on the colour of its coat. Sander fled and fell back in the dunes. Crist looked on as the palm-tree cyclamen left its tail and left its ======================================== SAMPLE 255 ======================================== Emma had not been made my wife, But I had wed myself to the stone. I do not like the new-married state, Or when men make their wives their property, Or if they do so by good deserts; Nor do I like the thralldom claim To wives the longer in the bed; I like the easy gift of the groom, But no roof for me and my child share; I like to live in the open air, Nor need at night to shelter me; I like a roof, where I may breathe, And no one say, dead upon the ground, That I lived but for her and me. And so I go to meet the Days, And the hard-featured weeks, my life past, The fine old times we have known. In fine, the lusty Hours they may see As they walk from house to house, As I must from my own. They will not find the faded features there, Nor the stained blood which I had on, But the face of a merry child, And the blue eyes of a little child, Well remembered now in her early childhood, But not remembered yet in mine, As I neared the stone-bound old age At the age of one score and 10 years. I say, then, the Resin in her blood Was as hard as tar, And in her flesh the pain It in theirs was as great as in th' hard earth. And, with a fearful fancy grown Of a battle-field, She took up the Past for her sword-hilt bright, With the breath of another man For her shaft-hilt, And for a jagged roundelay She wrought and woven reed. Above the Ages, on a Cliff above the Sea, The white temple of Christianity Looks down on Fasten lay. Its front where preaching was good, Behind the scenes of Eichorst, And at silence at Vigrond. Here stand I, My Books, my Bible, and God's pleasure still, So to give joy, When my girl gets into FICKLE. Beneath a Clover's Pillow-shaped Mirror One Beheld, while three Spirits appeared, The young Spring in pools, With freshness of her water-bodies, In feature like a Fig. Here, where the light shining through Has made no curve in the dew, A Light as from a Lily, springing, Purple and blue, and white, Seemed to gaze, Moved, and was moving, Entabled in a curve. Athwart a wine-cup, lay the Flower That had hurt the Footsteps two With hurting of itself; And a solitary Ring Around a Rib. Then at a place where the grape Had wrapped itself round a Jell, Two arms reached up and snapt the Vine; And up they beat it, And down they beat it, For a farish feather. In front of a House in old-low wall, A Man with a House in front of him Was sitting; he a Book had, A Book he did hold; From a Shell the Dog-Star was sent a-blet On his right. He looked upon Earth. And Heaven was there too. From the Head of the Horse, the foot, the hoof, The horse was lifted up, And he had learned to say a Word Upon the Word. Thus he spake: "That Wight was my Brother. Let it not be said He ever sang his songs as child, On the stone that was old King Hen of Old There lies a Hand with five fingerprints; Then a drum is heard, With incantations strange and wild, The bones of the Man are swinging, The flesh, the veins, the flesh and the bones are swinging; The tempest is rolled in a raging flood, The Man is mute, But the Bones keep a glad beat. Then uprose a great Fog, with hands all a-rock, Shivering and shuddering, The Bones that had been king and have been mute From a fire-thunder Of lightning and steam and crash, with a burst Of sounds like thunder; They were mute; But a Spirit he had that kept the law Of flesh and was forced to keep a word. He was mute, But the Bones kept a glad beat. The Sword of the Spirit was in his hand, He had learned it in the days of Tarr, And the bones kept a glad beat. The ======================================== SAMPLE 256 ======================================== can produce the perfect echo of a song, and I cannot read the ancient odes of his life because of my hardness of heart; but you, if you have read them, know that the way into knowledge is never difficult, but only craven and slow. Why, there is a proverb says that a man's heart is like a pig's mouth and that a man's mouth is like a diamond; and this I believe. And a poet, a poet is a pig and a diamond, but his heart is the mouth of a diamond. He who says that the poet has no heart at all is a mystic. <|endoftext|> "The Battle of Ocklong", by Samuel Wood [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Heroes & Patriotism] 'Wee'nsa coontal up alwy be'n an Ocklong a settawht lenant, "Mither" o' Dew's hae dynosty o' nicht. "Jynson" and "Matin" gang din an' gath'rin, "Mither" coft by "Wee'n" a feeyny, "Fothay" a' ta'en up a nyghty; "Wee'n" in gled! "Sily" coft by "Matin" a' dowty. Aldyge a styrescht tyne up raable, "Goddess" on the gled in garter an' coat Of a' the ordre religious, "Brigyne" an' "Aesone" gied what tyme; "O'erwhelpt" by "Goddess" a gude assent; "Ares" and "Powers" in them is wey an' blymment. Goddess an' god, an' a' with us there an' awt. "'Owrat' he swoopt owt owt, an' shet fur off." An' "Kurty" gaed leevac't at het of hens. "Lithe" com' up a' treet in his auld board collar, An' "Cyr" rung on "a, a," with throat on het. "'Garthick" an' "Crackoon" swair trade at the vith, "Wens" and "Owens" cried on "a day." "Doon" wur a glock-caupent ryglich auld cock; "Wen" bedew'd, "yest" yest well doon at well. An' "Kyn" cry'd "awrat!" on the hevrinous shyn; "Powers" and "Ca Works" an' "Sheps" they are auld fyght. An' there "Sheps" sent down auld "Kyn" up the wharf, "Jyn" gied the oyth a cigar to taste; An' "Cotliss" coft a cloak, an' "Annie" coft a corse; "Gowan" an' "Mellows" shudd'n out o' helpin; "Dowyns" an' "Crackans" comin' to ait; "Powers" thrid "Bonny Don Orans," "Wens" and "Scipte" com' on to the turn't. Gang o' wild dayes, an' wild o't nightes, Havock'd up a' the townes, an' housie tearing; Ba chiel, unco safiotie. "Fathoms" they are bad unco lagos Fthun style, thawbar thrue, When unco wals't thawbar tüte. "Syne" is no unco singing, When unco sawb, unco dayn'd erth. Ba ass the auld faddowes blow an' druck, Ba seu the last gands harrow them a'. An' if unco sawb, unco townes, An' woat unco night-bewm anes, An' spicing up unco rhyme, Ba chiel spicing up unco speb. "Hiee sawb, sawb, thrawthum, an' thraws, That thraws unco auld sawbs thrang! 'Ba doot, thraws unco ro ======================================== SAMPLE 257 ======================================== Struck out, in frantic wrath, in English: Englishmen, Like good New World soldiers, should defend themselves "Before their nose," and, when called to strike, should arm 'Tis said the Teutonic foe has done us much Unfair, and that, so enraged, he hath brought With evil words, artifices unleaven, To strike us with his demon blood; But that in all the bloodiest war The Christians have to fight This foe will fall not, he or they, For their death is eternal. A horn Upon the English hoarie hill, Was blown, by power of wind alone; And, by the same, our captains met, Bade sound the trump and clash the gong: That all might hear in every town, We have been blest, O God, From our earliest year to this hour, And, if we have our sufferance, still Shall be happier; for, if we sinned, Like-like we sinners must expiate In this, our atonement; all our loss Accruing from our vices; all Our time, from vices; of our breath So should come to our perfection: And thus at length, our penitence ending, we shall reign in stead Perfect; having overthrown All filth of previous estate, Fully, and literally New Adam, Perfectly, and literally Man, With the over-kingdom of Heaven, The great and glorious Shepherd of the earth All patience, and all control, Is from the altar, and sits upon the chair Of Sion, at the right hand of the throne Whereon to sing Almighty, and to sing incomparable, for music's sake, The reality, the fulfilment, the joy, The happiness of our action in the world Of our forgetting, and having before our eyes The open air, and the pure blue heaven; To sing perfect; and forever, and ever sing, With a supersectiv reality, our redemption from evil, And Death's delight; and Death's delight, to over-come, By a suicidal leap from our fallen, fallen away; Death's delight, which hath its bond from Apollo; Whence life springs, and best breathes for ever; Whence all things go whenever they go: Our only garden, where we dwell; Our only forest, where we abide Breathable and breezy, and over which In nonacet, unfailing trust, we trace The meaning of the transcendent beauty; Whence, and how we might attain To a cross-purposed bliss, and no more Kill guest and ally with debauch and death; And die, not save to burn away, and burn, And be consume as we are, and cease to be And as we were, wholly, in the wild, And as we be in strange devices, As if in charmed stone, and bright as fire, Each in his cenotaph, as if in writ, For death, our experience of the world, Worthy replacement; but, alas! As if we writ it in after-times, We died, and never more could write it. But if, as if the earthly all were here, We should have wings on our head, and all The plumy-foots, to dare the perils, soar; If we could in, in with joints of steel, Lean on the earth, and wing the sky, And play the sky with, wing the sky with, And run in exercisement brand-fresh To breast the billowy stroke, and shun The rapings of the rock, as winged sports; What wing-aerialic motion, what aerial stress, What aerium froth, what aerial gel, Coiling throbbing, bandying pulse the blood And beating, beating, bandying throbbings Of exhilarant, exhilarant motion, Exerted to an antedilent end, Were not the night far sight odier than If we could lie on our bellies, and glow, Sunk in blissful beds of delirium Or everlasting twilight bliss, one and all, The earth, the aneloes, the air, the plume, The sky, the river, the refluent sea. To have wings is to have a full ear To all her multiplicity of vibrations; To have an eye, at whose dispassion No sound more than every breath, No breath more digested, is enough To wake a consciousness in me, And steal a* length of oscillation off From the ======================================== SAMPLE 258 ======================================== och! in a, god! man, you grazi! From where I draw my dick, there's no critter in sight! I was so nervous I could see each lyre as a stick of whip. That's what! that's what! we shot all of course; But God, we should of had been slain already! Then we move and we sing, and we play, and we dance; We lick the sweaty gear of a fallen land. O, when we move and we play, let's play for a change! <|endoftext|> Where the wonderful trees grow Where the wood-murals dark I will go I will go And the wood-catchers sing I will go And I will come And I will come Where the wonderful trees grow Where the wood-murals dark I will go <|endoftext|> "She can see a little green cone up there And the cone is called the sky. There is a river Running over the blue water. The red boats Are called birds. There is a sail, and there Is a boat. When the boat goes out to the cone, The cone darkles. When the cone is rolled into dirt The boat comes away. They talk about her As though she were not there . . ." "We went to bed and in the morning. We climbed the hill. We saw the houses from the summit. One by one they Evaporated. When we got to the bottom, the circle Empty . . . . " "We have come back from the ocean. We have put on The sky-cigs. We have lit them. Then we shall leave The sky-cigs in the place where they have been hidden So much longer. " "He then began to fill The cone with water. In great froth He took the cone and threw it About the earth, to be collected by grey-haired women. But they could not take the sky. The sky was hidden In mist on the earth. And they could not see The grey water dripping over it. They had no Rings for the sky, and no way to get out of it. He had said: 'Here is a night.' But it was not a night.' "He said he had seen them. But he had not. He had Not been speaking under the moon. He had Not seen her. He had seen her in the east. And when She spoke to him in parleghing, he ran away. He had said: 'This is a symbol for those who Intranscend their times, and make their appearances When they mean.' He had said: 'She should die.' And she had not. He had said: 'She is not at all Like other women. She can be made Harmless. She can be saved. She can be made Not like other women. And like unto these women.' But he had not been speaking under the moon. And he had seen her." <|endoftext|> Wesley, more than a little bent To be pleased: he wished to be A frog. He took a little stick, And laid it down to go Asking for what he wanted More than ever. And then the stick he pushed Forward to the sandy place Where the sand had a blue Really. He was afraid of his face In the seaward sky. He squeaked out: "Me tak' perdute!'" And jumped in the wave, And up he went, And up he went all blue. He whacked straight way up To a peak. It was a great bright dawn. And I ate up the paper As my mate looked down. I used to jump to the sand And ask Wesley the meanest thing! If he'd got a dollar. And he'd said: "You think so? Try And I'll do it,--let me see,-- Go to you!" I gave him my little bond. I felt so black, so alarmed That I half forgot my book And tried to get forth and away. But, alas! I never got so far as he Meant just off the sidewalk curb! I called: "I'm so sorry, you good-old-boy! You is all I got!" I jumped. He ran to his mind and would not give. But I was wild. I begged: "Please, Wesley, give it From your kind charity,--O don't keep Me here from trying! I ======================================== SAMPLE 259 ======================================== It is the sense of life that's missed, When eyes with death's shadows darker grow. The mind, the sun, the stars; and what they make Of forces, destiny, and shapes of air; The earth, its sympathies, and what they mean; The world's scheme, and who should count its threads, And so decipher time and place and tribe, And tens and thousands,--these are all but names, These are the families of that quick-shooting hound, Who can, in a moment's volley, send far killing, As we, whom he, a retriever, scares. The world's a mask, and we the hatchet; And to preserve one single mask, To keep it bright and still at the sharp, To improve it, make it better true, Is the purpose of our life, And the true being, once our life. We smile to see the savage smiling When we remember that he wandered Away from his family of war; And we smile still to see the crocodile With his eyes and teeth and shanks Making a play for his life; But the swift bone-fish has no mercy, Will sink his teeth in the family That roars through the dunes behind. Men's masks; and these we must forget, And say nothing of our own; For what-looks-back-or-forth-back Would begin the world again, Is what we are, or so I hope, If what is not funny leave it. A mask is like a straw roof That covers but allows the rain To get in; a house that's wadded With all the winter in it; A river bank with a bridge o'er, Where men might pass at a moment's notice, And get to where the battle is. But a mask is like a throne, That stands empty a little while, Then raining, in the clay below, A royal crest is raised, And a new fastness taken For the masked king and his new crown. Our work in the world is to make The best of this world a prayer, And God a one to lead us on From foe to foe; And so we serve our country's foe To make us call him strong. Yet there's good in the gray sky, And gray days have stars to spare; And there are times when hope Is not a dead god in stone, But turns to something more. When he who stands 'gainst time and space Turns to the place where he may be. What's that which ends the way? What wakes the soul from windows closed? The yellow leaf that falls in the rain? The heart which beats no more? The dream the mother-breast of? What is it that rends the flesh And wakes the soul of all? When man was young he lived without fate, Utopia his dreamy view, Fudge the name he took for aught was leave; Gnats, the blind man learned to see; Games of Fate, but human deeds He got, God knows what of his, And thanked the Gods that theirs was none. When man was young, he fought without a goal With show of armies huge and full of fret He entered discord where no one was; He flickered through the wide world like a ghost In the moon's panoptic mist, and came and went At deadline, and so the quarrel passed. Then came the true prophet whose head was bared Of all things, and he thought a plan sublime To enlighten men, and fill the world with praise, To make of each a throne, a vat, a booth, A word to stand for the word. He made two mighty deeds; He freed the tongues of all the land Of curse, he nailed the statutes to the tree. The chase he hated, as e'er hating one, His other work was bays and bliss. He freed the mind of men from fear, He stopped the sea with icebergs, And made the beast in the flesh appear A show for all the sake; And this white Leviathan of the calf The wolf in dream was a god. The third great deed, and the biggest, Left the town a field for herding, Whereon the wolf and the cow iny were, And there they graze, and never feel the snare, And never get their tails in hangman. The city was empty, save of the lion, Who took a woman and a calf. But more than this the ======================================== SAMPLE 260 ======================================== To appease the divinities, Not of its own bounty; and by this The true religion would be lost. Where the Fountains are, and Chloris And their sweet Sisters watching are, There may'st thou enjoy the Pleasures Thou bad'st me in my first Estates And best Beauties; knowing thine Is the Dominion. Behold this Shield which I in Gold Have presented to my House; 'Tis not o'erlaid with Silver; 'Tis not o'erlaid with Gold, But well nigh Eight Hundred Workers I have in it. 'Tis eight times smaller Than the others; 'Tis the smallest--[I] Ever ready to Do with me, as thou wilt, Without leaving here. Ever the best, I to my Door will hasten, Whether The Day is very clear Or the expiring day Obscure; The Best I mean, The one unbroken Till my dying day. But to close--when we They were masters of the human speech, And of a mighty share of truth; With clay and blood they fought and lost, But better for themselves, I ween. And thus they lived, and thus they died, Though broken slowly, nobly, and well. They held the high, sweet ideal For wealth and pleasure evermore; But what that wealth should be, and where-- These with a willing faith, a blind mend, Gave to it, and received their day's reward. And now, what were their fate? a few dead Moaned to the wind their victims'-voices died; But, proudest of all, they spoke no more; Their lives had done them: but their wealth, Their fastnesses, in the deep, cold ground, were told. They lived in tents; their tent's hard window Through the sand beheld the sea; A mile in length they traveled o'er; But never saw the sun again-- They died upon the ocean's western strand. Behold yon ivory box, which he Longs to open, but can neither crack it Nor lift the well-rammed lid; Which, no doubt, he holds within his mind As he kneels before it, night and day: I think he can't break it--so shrewd a trainer As he, master of the grim, dark game. 'Tis found in toy makers' sets With the pirate ship, and with other things Pirates are represented by. In the game-board we see it laden Fates of different nations. There they lie, like so many howdah. What should the Eagle have been? Why, a golden Canary, sure. In Calcabrey the richest Piggy In the country, and the absolute Equipp'd with the richest Dagger eye; While, in the waters of the Serpent taverns, Whose flag bears an evil prophecy, You may perceive the Eagle and the Canary. We find the Ounce at work Where the wooden spades are found, And the wooden chess-men, which we Felt were made in a day When our humble, honest men Would not be ashamed to share To their game pieces all the cream And that dear little game of goose Which is cunningly expressed By the certain brute Genius So to play with; And what merry children they were once Who ever played with it! When we owned the Piougon In our veins we swore we would return And would defeat him once again; The then victorious, so we boast, And the Victors once again. We would beat in powder the Snake And the Griffon, both of them, who know, And would victory ever prove. And who the joyous crew of Cassowary Thich are so skillful we beheld, That their game-play is such, and so they drive Thee to think, we now resent That the time may soon be at hand When they will take our bye, and our Lease. There was an old man, and he had a tooth to settle With the world--a cle. which they all vouchsafed Him, though he came with a demi-vierge; And, of course, the pearly White, as it fell, Hung on his tooth--'twas the last ray Of his ken, which never more could be Theskun of Old Nick, and he'd a spear Toward the world ======================================== SAMPLE 261 ======================================== 'Tis true; for the sun in all his glory Had grown a shadow, so it seemed; But you, my lovely heart, I see, have seen The truth that shall save both our souls. The one, a soldier in the British army; The other, a single woman; And here they are now, together, side by side, Twin brothers, God's gift. Oh, life had never seen Such a change. I did not think In all the years of my life That I should lift my soul From its earthly bondage And so pass away. How happy I should be, And with a joyful spirit Exert a weakness Never I thought would hover Around me, and be So comfortable and kind, And so gentle as now I could spend my last dying breath With such a boundless pleasure. But the thought of parting In the night now came o'er me, And so, compelled, I called That great heart in whose duly I to death were born. And so I called it last night, And feared, O too that I should miss My opportunity now. And so I did, last night. And the great heart answered: "We both Have much to share; indeed, So love's my lot that when one's Loving, and loved, one wishes both The condition's altered to" -- And so I called it last night, And, so I am bounden to die. And so I am compelled to join Love's lot, and join myself In that unkind fate; and so I am Requited to join, and join Love's fate with Love's own self. Yet a heart's necessary Will not always have the will, And the great heart, too, as I said, Is not bound round by a circle Of irresistible laws As Love's is, whose prime Is consent, and whose beguiler, And whose most skilful artist, Of fruitless passion and austenance, Himselfe's from Heaven hast thou potatoes born To eat yourself. I deem it no fast Nor waste of sense Nor love's desire such folly's born out To be referred to fate, andst thou true That wish no man can dictate'st, which fate Determines true, and all its object imposeth Of right, and imposeth right itself. What think ye, men? I wish no more than these Of mine own free will, This labyrinth of concupiscence and death Dost catch from me? Aye, a million of what I see and feel: Why should I wish to be, when the will and link Is brought to nothing, and the self's separated By what the world perceives not, that is loth Thro' life than to seek itself, and pursue Only that it seeketh in vain? Hath the new lust a better thing called It self, by whose pleasant effect Richer than Life thou catch'st Delight; of whose true nature one can say Sequestered from each idle lust And e'en from lust of self? Sweet quies'io benanguin, Fernando, hijoivento. (He says.) No, an old friend of mine That's in Parnassus (Or maybe elsewhere) Thou shall deliv'ry soon: He'll be able To cast off That van of Paris'; Like the dames he sighted He's still in San Mic It's as if all the time that here I sit, And am to have my leave of, I were to have left the world a servant to Thee, And all that thou above hast made Aye adjust to this reply, And I'll hear thee every thing Till thou ordefore supply my cheek with wringt The relief of some dame That in her bath The Rubies put. 'Tis not for nothing, That thou keep'st back And casts thine eyes On the old years, And thou oft'st prayed "to blot the old track" I see through; And I must wonder from whence this chance Came, that in the old years Might not be seen, We revert to dust As we do, and in salt We spend ourselves, so thin's our Love We can't now phiz From the store, It's nothing new That thou and I could part, And the world 'neath our feet could rest Till thy head was bouge And thy hairs ======================================== SAMPLE 262 ======================================== 14. "What! W..h! T~H! T..I to r~l m! T~V to vI! T~H to nV! FVVhich w,~V, w,~V, HVVVVVVVVVVVhA, nV, nVVVhA, nV VVVhV, VVh, T, w,~V, w,~V, w,~V, nVVh, nV VVhVVhVhV, nVh, nVh FVhI-V, FVhI-V, "Who'd stake, o, w,~V, w,~V, nVVh, nVh, m! Who'd stake, o! w,~V, nVh FVhI-V, FVhI-V, The oarlocks the wit the ours the w-t The oarlocks the w-t the w-w to gab "In the snaw they rove with the sous; In the snow they're a bowl, the quicke to taste, When, in it gone, the beast with the man they crane Back of the flop of the pump they stand stark and stiff, Before the tent's off, the fray and the raffle, and abridge, When, in it gone, the love-kind dog licks them, too; And then, And then, When they're in their places, and the quiver he's got And then, And then, In the lurching, the gloves go o'er the hand, The quiver he's got's a buster and settee, But the hand, And then, And then, In the lurching, in the hand, the tongueless loon, They gather to breakfast and be less queasy, While the dean is busily altering, A health to his own whose shoulders are bright, And a health to his country, and freedom too, Heaven be here, heaven be here, heaven be here, heaven be here, Theyigh Barton was their guide, But he looked up at the Dean's high domed brow And said, "There's something of Old Southwold in there, Where you can get about But if, to come at it, you did as he said, You would soon find In the Victoria Railroad that's going to stretch All up to Bourne Rebellion-booty-deep From that little example, O, they'd shoot you down, I wouldn't doubt it, As when the circus has pulled all the plums From the mouth of the stately chy cellar, The hot air balloons around the country fill, And they're they're hard to come by, But the boots you see on the pig-tailed prancer Are they bright as they can see, O, they are, O, They're the bravoes, the boots of the gawky trainee, Who in the odd things they do Sucks the eyes of the policeman or the credit clerk, And it's they're rather too late to do much else, But the boots on the pig-tailed prancer are bright as they can see, He said, "I've waited all my life in vain, Fought the high gentry, Crouch to sit, heel, toe-box, and beg, I'm sick of the show, Leaning ass, to pay for the glibber of the gentry." And it's true, the boots that he took with him, Those of the prancer are very dark and bright, Bright and dark in the same was of the gutter where they are, But that was where they were, And they were where they are, For all the country round is they eachron shore, The miles glitter with them, and the hills bounce with their tobi: The boots of the prancer are as far as the eye can reach, And when the pig-tailed prancer comes along again They shine in the dim, And the boots are putt long; but when they dozed to see him, They looked up, "I'm the nimph that's in the lower ground, You shall tread by my feet, But the world's the heaven ye hear about In the midst of its laughter and its sorrow; In the midst of its laughter and its sorrow And the nimphs that tread ======================================== SAMPLE 263 ======================================== This land of pillared roofs and golden evenings deep Was but a dream; And every heart that lay there dreaming, Had but itself to give or take; Yet not for me All the young imagination's glow That loitered at my feet. I have not gone! My soul Hath found its burthen here, And to follow thee It hath climbed the steep stair Of silence in the dawn-red shade, And with silent hands It hath ushered in day. Not without wrench and strain Her soul has thrust its way, Fragments of old passion dim And burned-out hope, Mute shrivelings of pain And loss, Bold words in time long past, A broken chant, The masquerading wit That makes our balking tongue Whisper things not as we think. I lay in silent rest, I, that have seen The countless avenues narrow Before the trampled feet of time, Yet felt the ancient stars Stood wide, Whilst not a cry of nightingale Called vainly on. I that have worshipped poets Now turn dumb at last, For verse comes upon mine ears As the sad wind That blows over the sea To hide the desolate storm. No shadows hover o'er the sky, The stars no longer shine, But all are as I have seen them When, in dreamy moonshin' hours, They shot across the cloud. All those high attributes of youth That have been made us iron-strong, So easily doth a youth pass From our sight in his first fade, As shades of amber light Our windows to the sun's level. And yet I note with some pride That I have seen my fair early, Who now is passing feeble and slow. We all go in our mother's fear, When on the dangerous early day A young soul, newly-whithered, Lies in some mangled Coney-street That may in blood and beer be used. In the garb of others, that old mien Was changed to the suit of Joseph, Who had a coat of a colour like rain, And who, at the moment of the miracle, Stood cadaverous grey of base verduras, Like an aged fawn in a wolf's den. With an overcast sky so vast, That men found routes so sad, To read it at the holy Temple. 'Twas o'er their eyelids skyward bent, As if mists had never touched their lives; Their countenances were cold and clear, They breathed as if the very air Had grown open and God's name called them. 'Mid their weary dreams, the evil-fraught Twilight of the Devil's hands, The claws, scrawling on their unbelieving hearts, Risen in the fleshly Ten: No mortal to his own shame (00090, s.v. "serve"), Sustained his visage with the touch of God; No mortal with the winking light Of a fresh-blown crown of spite against His forehead ever had been used. And so he had not been one Whose hands had flung sparklets at, On such a midnight-robust Ground were trumpet-gloom; And in the midst of that red thunder And air-smites dropping fire, The old man sighed, as from a place He drew his hands, that so by pain He might betray the secret: "Dost see?" "Dense clouds of choking drowsiness, A drowsier dream than Death's own territory, Are thickening over me, ere my brain Be woke by the flash in my eyes: I see, I see Thee, accurs'd of the Old Torturers' Crowded tragedy." The reason was that he did not make Enough of unlicensed fame. His little life had been made in Hell's doctor Ctivities to hope for; it was not intended To bore out of the books it's dead beginning. On the steps, as by the gate he stood, The man, himself, was coming. One moment He was struck with pity by the faded face, So like his dead brother. He followed him, He drew on him, shaking his horse, he looked For the deep breath, the heavy fall, the head. The marble of the Gate could not speak back Its marvellous malfunction. We have no voice To put our passion in words, or to say That God made us, or Love ======================================== SAMPLE 264 ======================================== Beheld a vast and active form, That, lifting his right hand, bade pass A echoing proof to the champions round; And those, who saw, among the sunburnt crew, Did wond'ring at the sight. Straight leaped he in air, And on the sudden fallen at their feet Did fall the Giaus; from his soul the life Did flit, as the lightning's stroke, with quick Before his eyes, blazing. They of the Rome His sire, the Way of Knowledge, high exalted, List to his voice, and when the flash of thought Had flashed upon them, there they stood in rank, And beloved him, of whom in the light A revel of words he made: but when he said: -- "Gian!' O troop, etc.' -- all at once They held their peace, and turned not their faces. "You know of the banded words, which, 't is my part To let fall from my self-same staff, and then Upsteep in my son's name. But to set right, You must understand, you know, the laws Howened by the heavenly magicians: thus The son of Barese, painted with head-cloth, Is at the memory of the forthright saint. Put your feet in the mountains to wage War 'gainst him who hates thee, and leave behind Thine arms and darken his blessed shrine. "To this act of plainness, which my guide Promised, I, without saying more, done: And 'Twixt furious flame and cooling shade, My mind I in this moment did convert. From where the rock projects, and ours our feet, Downward were the Angel of burning fire. My heart from dead, my senses blocked and leash, Like him would I follow, played by his hand, Travel where I would, and never look behind. "Of noble Epignonia, nought I know, Save that, in the form of pale woman, he, One in youth's boyhood, had there lived there. I cannot how it happened, but at last, When here our view the field outgain'd, there The temple appeared, and there the town. Next, when so long away I had ta'en O'er tardescence of my love's successive suns, That ahead it widen'd, howe'er we beat, Love made, in parting, th' image of a bird Of life, which with the fruiting of good The earth share, and with earthly wax and crust: For as the mood of love exceeds the life In fleeting beauty, so he beyond compare Above life looks more highly endowed: Thus his pure marble columns have I seen Of great Magnus love to brighten with -- flower Of loftiest build which incense pure doth glory To grace the shrine and yet endureth in a state "Then I was come into a place, whose center hid The future life from mortal eyes, by word And also a visual veil; by which close Memory of good and evil met exceeded Which had this babell out on Borgia lashued. 'T is not for thee to search if mine eyes have taught My poet, who their steep remained at Pacella. But we have journey'd, and the way is long On lone race less on this side for our staff to lead. Therefore I will sleep, and those few words I spoke Anthea may take or Tomyris write, And call Attica, Rome, or Rome itself, In the wide world, to spread the love, and thereby, If words be difficult, dream the bliss. They'll join like place and time, where place is pure, And truely given, where time is but a measure. "Let not a lover's last adieu be long -- His faithful woman hie him to words; He never more will know the drive To marry her holy bridegroom, his; He'd neither of her will be made true, Save by antenual promise, wherefore then He'll miss the full fruit of his vow? And further, it is for you, your delight In that dull defect none will dispute, Nor seek in what no time has blest you, To wed, and of your match take no thought. He'll not be near them, who lives alone, Shows no desire to wed, and hers is none, As not man's wife, but woman's paramour. But I go hence, and come not back, And such a day not long delayed shall be." She said; and with a help ======================================== SAMPLE 265 ======================================== Sochi was promised. My lovely virgin, forgive me, For many times I strove To give you satisfaction. I went and stood before her, For I had fear, O ! clear forgetfulness, And she would say, "'Tis as you willed." To-morrow again, you know, We will wed. All's settled." But, then she'd draw up a decree, Or i' this case, she'd ask me to consent, And repeat the question, so to speak: "Will you be a lion's bride, my bride-to-be, Or shall I take you as a wolf bride?" For I am dearest to her, I know, As things have gone, by little and by little. With this I knew that in the evening weather They would wed, and that in the morning I should Have the Hermit's blessing, and that day would be Perfect for their marriage, in this or in that. I knew a blessing in that morning, And a bad blessing in that evening, Which they have gotten since; but they are wed, And I only sleep in ear and eye. 'Tis a long letter, dear, But I have read it, and I know Your letters are the best, the latest thing That e'er I have felt inspired to write, And your words, as fresh as roseleaves, The brightest flowers that ever shone, And (I think) what makes you What makes you, dear, to read Such a joint and affectionate delight In all my little joys or troubles, Is, I know, in some wonderful way In the blest AURUMINA, I think, for good or ill, the favourite Of God, and Minerva in the main O marvellous! marvellous I had not heard of them till to-day!-- So, if you haven't it (the music) you Have the air, and something of the music Will fall on my ear, And I shall hear them, dear, In the woods and fields around, Till all my life, And all my body, Gone by absolute decree. So, my love, if you won't change your I heard you in the night, And had it in the night, that they Of course could not hear you too, And then the night was dark, The darkness was broad, I had onNOD, my lately-castome-o'er And so, so fell to sleep. And this they told to me, These two lost women, They said, "You will not be a man, You are too old;" And they were two lost women, these, That love and listen and wander As well-nigh a year, And so they took it out on you As women do, When they know they can, or will. And then they had it that I was Inclined to be a man, They told me, these two lost women, You would be a woman, And they had it that way, And the next day they went away To get them out and let you know They had a vision of you, dear, A vision, not a vision, not, But they had you, man, at last, And they had me, as you have me, They had me--or they had you, And that was enough for me. You are so wonderful, so much beyond My goodliest old lady's doing, I--yes, I think I like it a lot, It is so far out of right. But I should like to be more like you Before I've done with my time. They got me good and deep Before I knew what they were after. They took off the rubber gear, They got on the axle loose, The exhaust pipes broke, The plough broke, the rails broke, They put a bomb in my track, They flooded the rails and track, And then they put a bomb in my face. They've never done it yet. They got me straightened, divided, They got on the track again. I've seen the last of them. I've seen the last of them, And then they turned it on: They jumped upon me, low and loud, They put a bursting hatch Into my face And then they burned my ear. I've been more fortunate than most Of my fellows, thank you, very much: No car, and next to none that do ride, I've got a carriage, and an early one ======================================== SAMPLE 266 ======================================== “I cannot be bested by a dastard, as my father was; though in my short life and my big and great life, I have not yet been bested by one person. I must be victorious. In this the only power I have to satisfy my heart and satisfy my hungers. For my father, the man who could not live without kissing my feet, my face, my heaving bosom, my beautiful, I cannot but lament. What power has he not that sits with me in the council of war, and, by the hand of the world therefore is I vindicated? It is the power of the gods. Only with these can I move the great world. Had this man not been born, I had been forced, alas, to live as this man was forced to live, hiding my shame in a path, while men praised, smiled, and passed on, and so had ended. But now I have come to the world, where I shall not have the power to satisfy my heart; but in the council chamber I shall beg for aid, and I shall not be able to beg. But now I think I am safe, and now I shall go alone, without fear; for now I know how to live peacefully, like a woman, like a little child. I will not see my friends, I will not see my Fey's face. Let him go on with his foolish deeds, so hard to know; but I will hide my face, until my time shall be as his own. <|endoftext|> "Bye, Goodbye", by Edith S. Bulwer [Death, Sorrow & Grieving] bye - shall see me soon, and we'll sit down and have a few spoonfuls of soup each at the last Gristle. Amen. . . . the common cold and its horrible persimmoral ravages of late - mysterious lingerers through the holiday period - will pass. . . . so that we shall never see, here, nor in any afterlife, nor even in a variety of afterlifes, eyes so blanched and badly in some confusion, dim, mutually, as the light's memory of the white winter appearing to be in error, was us. <|endoftext|> "Beyond Good & Cares", by J. Michael Taylor [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving] It's the worst kind of poison to keep it powder cold, at hand, and not to see it, personified: To keep it, keep it cold. That, among some other things, kept me from knowing how soon I could go on living. But I do know I was very close to my mother, and somehow, somehow, I was not. <|endoftext|> "A Poem for My Mother's Good & Cipation Day", by Micah Perkins [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment] For Margheriff'e'M For a time, on that January 29, nineteen thirty-eight, your mother was incarcerated. She was in a hospice facility. The staff could not explain to her why she was dying. They tried to wash for you. <|endoftext|> "Valentine, Save a Heart", by Micah Perkins [Love, Desire, Relationships, Valentine's Day] Save a heart. It's far too fragile. Far too religious. Save a heart. It's far too brilliant. And far too beautiful. Save a heart. It's far too romantic. Too egoistical. Save a heart. It's beautiful. It's all idiosyncratic. It will not break or turn on a light. It will not spring up in an electric storm. Save a heart. It's too true to the dark. It's too true to the moon. <|endoftext|> "The Barefoot Boy", by Frank Isaby [Living, Nature, Winter, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] October 31, 1905 To Gabe West, on his 90th birthday —in Omaha, Neb. and waiting for a snowmobile to win the NASCAR Grand National on highwheel a stripped 1917 Thunderblast, blown by an engine-ged veteran named Otto Koenig, whom one spec-manager says will turn " the big straw that stirs up this monsoon into a Friday summit for the markets. Keep your eyes open for a ======================================== SAMPLE 267 ======================================== and the sun comes out, to my left and my right, the tree bends over to the wind. It is not the tree that loves me. I could die from love. I could be left alone, for love. <|endoftext|> "The Night Somewhere Inside a Book", by Judith Wylah [Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] (Note: In this poem Wylah draws upon his own memory of one specific night, one night only, one in no part autobiographical, in which Wyla—that day a visiting scholar at a Jesuit college, in Rome—was, for two and a half hours, detained, by his own help "in a dream" itself. It was the yearning of a boyish love for a more intimate form of existence, a longing toward embodiment, or so he thought, that sprang into clear consciousness with the coming of the St. Stephen's to Thurther circle to Wylah's house on Benvenue. A vista of simple and pure functioning, of motion and employment of material and mental energy in the natural order, a place to leave burdens behind, a ventricle, an apophatic field. Not yet St. Stephen's but then, the Church of the Plain Deity, or Popish Town, with its chimneys butting a large rectangle of Roman wall, with murmurings of men's voices only, he surmised, for the name of Mother, Whom they chanced to know, present in their misty vision, or not, for all that, transubstantiating what they saw there. With what consecrated turns of phrase, he brought the love rite to a city near the sea, in a room of monks, and his altar of the cross, the white rior dumatons suspending, the blue enamel clock ticking, the green velvet galley's vittles greening under the glowering sky, and him, the boyish love, center of attention, back. Then, where he led, a chanting single voice, even at the most, was permitted to go. The sand-streaked: what was his sires' dole and their desire, the one built to be imagined and her who was sent to be imagined, the twin poles of that great metropobia of existence, and there was the priest, and they sent him off to the great house, with prong and then prander, and both the maids coming forward, one not a Sister but the marriedress of the parish, with stone in her nose and ash, and while she stood and lifted it, you could not look without [ ] shaming [ ] escaping [ ] He waited two hours and more than an ox-flight time to say good-bye before she, looking less than glad, and with a dim, admiring, not at all sexual smile, left the room he was in. He was not alone in the apartment-with-a-clamp on the stairs. In the Purlieworld, the boyish love was one with him. It was his time of life. All his thoughts, his entire being had come to fill that little square of room in front of which he moved. He was also, for that morning at least, aware of how very small he was, and how very much his own understanding rested upon that one woman— and the full meaning of their imperfect intimacy. He, who was hard-headed and used to get his way, now moved with her, who had moved with him. He stood back and watched. He could sense her look [ ] away, as he raised his hands in anger and fear. For the moment he was not she. The room filled with her hair. She made a threatening motion with her hands. The door closed. The Drawing Room closed. He closed his eyes in vain remorse, a shard of glass [ ] floored the room. He opened them, slowly. She had left him, and he was alone. Her footsteps had left a trail that left no question of her will. With a sigh he followed her trail. She was gone over a small back door into a yard of stately Palladian architecture, dead suburbs, Palladian architecture, the same high Palladian, but more rained marble, with endless porteries of flowers and house plants, in each of the houses decorated with the new little flower flag, that she had placed there. He took the trail, following it through a fountain. A path went down and crossed a scully wes the way you would think the belly button would. It ended on a lawn. ======================================== SAMPLE 268 ======================================== which he could hear In the twilight, and still so bland. He never read the lessons of Nature Which the urchin all his life has done, But of this more enlightened age. The many-tongued bird of dawn He beheld not with the unborrowed sense Which the fox has kept until the death-knell Of the walking days, when once one learns That the sky is not all enrolled by white, Then the many-tongued bird of dawn Perished into the many-voiced bark of day. He said: "I am, if not deceiving, Then not accepting the secret of the time." His speech, the dead-wheeled wheel of Time, Was the untilled natural language of man. For he had two tongues, and the eyes of man, But never knew he the first, until he died. And his first was the tongue of Art, but not The keen tongue of Friendship, which Wonders hold. <|endoftext|> "Droit", by Charles Green [Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Arts & Sciences, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy] What makes a man more prone than others to truth-revealing? A thing, perhaps, for whom a man of learning In a determinately logical age, with a frock Green or purple, and a sword with a bad stripe, Well could confirm or deny the different things said. It is, after all, a thing not graspingly done. In his leaden hand the sovereign assures his neighing cattle That nothing will happen to him or to anything else, A prescient precaution in any case popularly believed. Who, then, this sword of an horseman's Bacchic wile? A thought, indeed, which has a story told today. He held it for his confidant. When it was time to ride He flipped open his sword and sheathed it in his thigh, But kept the sheath for his speech in case he was wrong. The day came, as he would have, for his hour on the way To find another gateway or hill to climb, for so His injured sense of direction made him aimless wander. It was morning when he tried to mount his mount, but the sun Turned his calf out of date. He kept looking at it Until his surgeon, when the patient was better, Of his ordeal the latest survivor, saw the scarred line Glowing horizontally, and knew that he had shewn. I must explain that in old French territory There was a poet, a genius one time, and one Hugh Alexander, who died possibly now. He was Incarnate as a horse but the thoughts and feelings Woke him like a clod. What Alexander knew Was vague, barely worth the statement, but what he saw Wokened, opened, led him to philosophic matters Which his temperament fitted with quiet shrewdness. What, in his eyes, was the nature of the thing to him? He had come to the conclusion that nature, feeling, As well as information, was material—as Too'much by far—and, finally, that feeling Was only a shadowy Recording Productions of Nature Made by us, us (he said), with our eyes and us, But with a head at times and sometimes no heart, A whole body doing nothing but beating Against some dull sense-event, and, like the soul, Giving presentations of itself, scientific In that they know themselves, and less in that they know The nature of their own heart which alone has Unknown vectors for sucking them in: A science, yet by nature a art, like singing, Or the red hail falling in flurries of words. So he say, feeling, not saying, in whose silvered Gaze are modelled elder emotions, he and His scholars, neither isolated nor solitary, From which, however they feel, or however they feel, Are only hotter for, wiser. It was his aim To draw the currents of those gross elements Into the eye of the diclo mestre, Sinus a sentient deceftitude, sed judicio. A magister terrestri for now, For now, where might that get us? <|endoftext|> "From Vespers We Wish a happy New Year", by D. H. Lawrence [Religion, Christianity, Faith & Doubt] We wish a happy new year to all Out there. They do not hear us Or know we trying to speak to them In the impudent glee of children. Our spirit has died to their surprise, And it will die ======================================== SAMPLE 269 ======================================== Over the dewy lawns and piny mountain-jumps A thousand years in dusty summer throng: The sound of endless hymns, where flame-light gleams Cradle the altar-lobes, where the palms upward lean; And shining fillets, where the skirts are bent Of the night-soaking lilip-flowers; and, above The altar-crown, the sacred stalk of acanthus. A thousand years--oh, shut the beautiful word-- A thousand years! Yet never-- Within the holy circle of that waiting-place A caravan of Emperors passed within a day, And worshipped there? Nay, a great people worshipt that way; Lifting holy hands, and piously kissed The holy marks upon the moving shrine, Girding that way with such a band as circled A band of once dense country to the dead, And raised above the dead a yell of blessing. A thousand years--oh, shut the beautiful word-- A thousand years! "It is not we who point the bend and hill And lay the wood along, It is not we who build the mulberry-trees, It is not we who line the bowers; But here we come to kneel, and pray, And lay down our lives to change the doom Of angry kings, if need be, I sing for one who seeks the mountains' feet, For lost and killed men, For the wide round earth laid open To starving, hungry kings; For all the signs of the slain, Dead cross-way and Dead end; For waiting here my soul to be When I see the waving golden prayer Around your castle, And the sound of the choir's Back and replies, As many a day and night I'd have The chanting of the Cross Rhyme and rhythm of prayer, Round the dead hill of God. I wonder if you have the duty to kneel, And to answer prayer, And to kneel and pray--though the wind be screaming-- When I, in my car, When the snow settles, Or haply in my vexation am lost In golden hailstones breaking, I leave your golden gate, But come back, O my Queen, A burning coke is heavy to carry, But a saying, like song, is sweet; And in Cairo, wherever I go, A saying and a song I maintain. And sing, Hosanna! sing, Biddus! The dying Christ shall sing for us, As long it shall be when he is here We shall live with him, and as long We shall be, shall see him. The prince who is radiant, Though he be deep in hell, Has something of light in him; For he will find a way, And, trusting in his natural sense, His burning lips have spoken. Hark! the trumpets sound, The banners flout, The lions waddle toward the trains; The fashions run, The men turn back, The anthem,--turning, hurrah! The troops march, the ensigns face The battle green, And the king and he who forms the ensign Is larger than all the gods. And that which is bright Upon the lead, Thoughts, that are none of the cost; For every man shall pay What he owes for one breath of his. Thus the world may decide That this be heaven, By the lead enchained; and that be what may be Whole and glorious, be what is meant by "best." When the world is old, Then may all be set Free as a freeman; And the wayside thief cast on the shore For the out-ward burning of a fine. The scoffer may get his praise And his heart's interest, For he has fought his fight. Thrice joyful day! And the atmosphere is blue, And the wind, a breath; And the brag of the rose Within the green, And the rose, a rosebud, When her blossom ends. So, when the world is all right, It will be a thing For the feeling heart to hold; A thing for the open air; A world to see, A sky to go, And to sing, And to sing, And to sing, And to sing--and to sing-- And to be--a--song. Oh, the happy time When a song was only a child, And the lute was newly born ======================================== SAMPLE 270 ======================================== <|endoftext|>Taste ye a tale of wrong? Happier than wrong; For we've learnt to say It was but folly. The wind is high, the winds are blowing, That blow no ship to sleep; The spindrift is strong, the oar is keeping, And the long-boat has far to sail; And the quivering sea-breeze festers, And the sea-birds follow on the wind; And the ever- raging waste Of the long-ship's track is barred; And the pricking, quivering air Screams with voice of warning, "Be still!" All the long-boat's crew are past the course, Each stroke a foot faster; They've seen all the heather, the heather is gone, And they've none to kill. They have seen the sun, and its shadows stand, Since dawn be hoary; Since light be stubborn they have kept their pace, And the wind's way is none at all; Since breath be brief and time be brief, And life be joyless, or joys be long, They have done with yearning old, And they'll never longer keep awake, Or better, or worse. Ah, but they slept! Their camp was at an end, Their course was home; And that was wise. And soon they'll sleep, and we'll see The flood of the night. And the shore will have a tongue, And we shall all be dumb; We shall see the sirens of the sea Chiming in chorus; And the glad song I shall then hear As we round the hill. We'll give him what he asks For his land'sglory, The pride of his race; Give him the pride of their might, The pride of their fame. The name we give him shall be The name they give their King. We'll give him the name withal, So high for a short time, But we'll stand by our pledge, And honour it true as true. Weep not for him whose heart is cold, It is said, shall soften and grow warm, But be his pains still sore! And weep not for him whose heart is hard, But his will grander be, For him be the strength to be still rare, His God be unaccomplished. O, weep not for him whose heart is hard, But thou canst improve it, sweet and strong; And thou wilt find, when all is achieved, The God is incompleted. The moon looks on him in a mirror, The sun feels his golden ray, But he will never know the sweet hunger Of the heart's desire; And when he goes the words he says, The deeds he does feel, the deeds he does do, Are not heard so well. For my life in God's name Is a very heaven-shower, It showers daisies and stars, It cries for human tears, It grows green gardens Into new paradises, Where all things breath and live; And it showers daisy and flower, But all say, "Wherefore are Thy heavens girt With so great a shower?" Where the shores of Zaere are, There shall grow things to eat And things to wear, The flower of fairer meetings, The food of would-wanting mortals, The lilies of truly-kind And genuinely-great. These blossoms in the garden That sweat-breathed from the air, Into the great sea shall change, Into the great water, And draw inspiration From the deepest of Thy lands, Land of mystery and of glory, Land reaped, not sown. For I know of a place where The human face is plain, A face that is hard to mistake, But not the face of one ill: It is of such earth as we would be If our life in this fruitful earth did never die. O human face, O strange earth-born face, The face of one who went away, The human face of one who vanished from earth, Who lived, we know not, nor hope to know, And for whose coming up we live and suffer, And for whose absence we have the world. The human face is here, the land is here, The waters cease for these alone, The fire that splinters embers at the prow, Is in the ocean's flow, Is in the tiller, is in the vessel-crew, Is in eternity, is in ======================================== SAMPLE 271 ======================================== <|endoftext|> "The Loneliness of the Oil Rig", by Peter Coppersmith [Living, Death, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] Stiffed and numb as the moon on the water, there the captain and his brother, the delicate and sarcastic captain, and their two friends, Joe and Bill, and the handsome Irish sergeant with the cake of egg white on his cheeks sat looking out of the cabin window at the moon, with their backs to it, thinking of where they could be in the shining moon, the moon which Rubeus Sandstone called the Sword of Mocking, the hour before the explosion which Rubeus Sandwood called the Great Rock, which both called the Devil. The hours after When they pulled the cables out of the well. "It's the round thing. It's the big round thing," said Bill. "Where the devil is?" said Joe. "I don't know," said Joe. "I'm sure we've never said that," said Jack. "Don't we know that that's the case?" said Bill. They don't know we're already living on it. "That was the big one, I hope," said Jack. They hope. "Hoy! We've got to be ready," said Bill. "If it blows up, we're gone." They weren't ready. It blew up. They sweated and scrambled for straws. They took a chance. They threw their last catch out. <|endoftext|> "The men who made Australia", by Peter Everwine [Arts & Sciences, Photography & Film, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War] November, 1999 It begins to rise Like a blackened phantom Around the horizon Lying on its finger-bending hands And casting them back To fiddling-places The men who made Australia Saw an alphabet And formed an office To make an asylum And stamped it with an A Australia! A land-locked country, Built by and for the oppressed! And it stands in the moonlight On its finger waving Shining above the oceans Sole superpower of the world Stealing sunlight and spitting it out again To make itself felt at the subjects' windows But they cannot see it! They cannot see it Towards their bus-filled streets Or where the Bass: Or when above them in another sky The homed seas look out! They cannot see! They are blind to the Typewriter And its repetitive hands! They are blind to the man in the street And the eyes of the billboard And the number 2 fastening About their eyes Suffering from amnesia! They cannot see! They are lying in their graves, Blind to the world And to the INVISIBLE STRONGBERG —Heaven of the plain unpeopled! And it's up again! It's up again! It's up again! It's up again! And it's being built! Up again! They cannot see it! They cannot see! <|endoftext|> "Symbolic Fire", by Fiona Sampson [Living, The Mind, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Arts & Sciences, Architecture & Design, General Learning] Fire in the shape of a figure firesy, symbol: a glib self-promoter firesy. In the school of the alphabet fire, its own kind, fiery and quick as fossil firesfire, the fire of confusion firesfire, its flaming and coverahy fires. <|endoftext|> "Abracadabras", by Mario Monjo [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] Came friday & dern my pops for vespers Friday & didnt you want it so much? Came friday & dern my pops said he was callin around church for Hispanic parents my minion in the reading tomb said to me "you go around yourself" because he wanted to talk Latinx When Sunday comes & Sunday means vespers firesy <|endoftext|> "Amore Chata", by Mario Monjo [Love, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Social Commentaries, Cities, Class, Race & ======================================== SAMPLE 272 ======================================== muttered one, Not where the humming-bird sings, Not where the gentle quail cowers, But where oaks the far-off hillside droops, And the green grass gleams and glumes 'Neath the brown hollows' shadow. But the bird's shrill note was heard no more, The leaves were lost in desert dune, And it's meadows all with sand and silt Were spread as sole habitation. One sun, if it would coverage give, Would cover the horizon's plain; But wanting earth for it's motion, It fell down and reached the earth. Then came the next Spirit--better kind-- He covered all the sky With his cloud-beds, mountain, moors, shore-- Then spread a covering from his head To his root's furthest end. When creatures then swarmed the air The whispering woods among, And the crashing of wind was heard. The brown leaves the wind did beat Tore the tops of trees. I, standing still, of a sudden Was found out, and then, up the chinks, I heard the shout of shouting. And I stood, 'til a dozen men Came by the arches tall, And one, whom stood I did not know, Said, "What, my dear Adela! I've seen thy fair young head. And by this breast I swear That 'neath his very nose I'm going to be wed." So that was done, and we straight on our way To Bed check'd our time. I for to get a glass of wine On Adela's table putt; And I'll to this beggar, white and hoary, The best of any, I'm told, But Adela, of course, never cared To have the wine go free. But then some words of his we don't repeat; The cup went clinking on, And some there were that could drink more than I And more did, and all were drunk, Till we came where I was ill to be found, Lately for cold, Not on a night like this, Though a chilly spot was described By the wind that blew that night. Yet such the season then, such the time The fey Latin masters wrought They granted him again to live Again in a real bed, For their plaything, what can this be? I know not, but only that it was To his exil'd self his cart and horse Were dragg'd by many a scolding fool Who was but as an angel fair. If we the move our love to another seat, And rather take than marriage joys, 'Twixt two equal values no difference spring, 'Twixt us more than before we met; And if, without considering what may nigh Befall us in the oddest set of days, At our worst we yet could keep a cool head For the next day--or for any night-- Take all these things then in quantity, 'Twixt our two equal values, and divide By present family necessities; 'Twixt present family needs and opinions Thou'lt find, I have not helmet or shield To fight against, beyond the grave to be Heaven's monarch--nor I deem that Heaven Will serve as against a crime; Nor should I wish to marry in my dreams, As men expect in the rising night, But here's my excuse, in terms that may On their own hearts of all prejudices. I in my late journey to Devoras drove The car in front, the others an empty train Follow'd close in rear of the posse, whate'er Technique had taught us to lengthen or short The passing train; and when as the night arose From stare to spy-howl, a huge forest close We see, and distant feet of men that lay Wrapt in sleeping iris, and in boughs Bruised by the way, and working lights (How have those of newer schools to boast?) O'er the brake all on the farther side Seen, descending from Persean summits run Men bearing torch and pillar to the main, From Alasia-sputs some spark in the night, Some signal from the circles there detached Of Pancha religion, and the holy place, And believed a new worshiper attain'd, Where, by one beam of glory by the rest Better known, the glorious sun his sire Plucked to launch his face illumined hath; So great a miracle the Grecian wight, Though more an Athe ======================================== SAMPLE 273 ======================================== On the threshold of your son's life You may tell the simple tale: They sent him away to the army, And he comes back in trousers wide. The old second class stands up and shouts "Who wants tickets for the long train?" The children shout back, "Show us your tickets!" The children's laughter is short and sharp. I turn to the old second family, And as I pull out my notepaper From the long train thirty years ago I find the names Joseph, James, Thomas, David, And as I pull out the notepaper from '29 From the long train I find the ages of four Which seem to stand there as long and empty As their heads: little Martine, Molly, Tom and Jill. This is a true story. In the old seconds Of their lives we all sat at the tables, And at some of the tables I talked with God, As I sit here in my room with him today. But I must go outside and stand with the donkey To remember what we have all seen And have never spoken aloud,-- The old long second family Standing with the great second family members Standing with the small red darlings In the long cemetery Which is our city. Can you feel him? He sits higher On a hill than any of us. His eyes are blue And very far away. Can you feel him? He sits On a rock high up in the air. You cannot feel the rock Because it is the rock of the sky. It is everlasting. Can you feel the great earth sway By the shaking of its own weight, And yet you buy a load of wood Because the earth you cradle trembles? To miss the rock in the sky And yet buy a load of wood, From which a fire is produced In your home, at evening, The wind does not enter, And your load of wood lasts until 'Tis half used up, And then it is shaken out In your home at night. You waste it by saying Something is costly In an proportion You would not have reached Had you felt the rock in the sky, But buy a load of wood. One, two, three; Up we sit, They say the word again, Crying! again We answer back with one, two, three, Then sit down again. We say again, again, One, two, three, Once more, again. The hills and the streams The valleys and the plains The voices of the Vais, The wind, the cloud, the shade, Shall be tongues in us to God. The winds and the clouds The voices of the ghosts Of the Vais with the I in H Shall be songs in us to heaven. The I in I in I In air, in water, on ground, In fields, in trees, in hearts, in eyes. The earth shall be spoken by the earth Of its beauty and of the beauty of the hills. The earth shall speak by the plain Of the silver of the clouds and the splendour of the stars. No trees now call to the winds, And no winds answer. The full moon rests On the feet of the hill. The white cloud prays to the black, The black cloud answers. The full-rayed sun prays to the star, The star-rayed moon asks for light, And the rolling blue of the ocean Pays back the hail it sends down. At night, To-night, Under the dark you lie. And to-night Your to-night I, alone, Begin to be. To-night you sleep. To-night You rest. The to-memories sleep you, The bright-lit halls, The vistas, the arched windows, The lights, the darkened halls, The light, the same light, The arched windows Are dreams in my eyes And you are the waves Of the sea to-night. For I also dwell not in the light Of my day's splendours, but rather The dark places of my night, The higher And more profound, The holy and the sacred, The visible forever the sun. All night long solid you answered, standing, But now out of me I can answer only By this tremulous voice, Now a voice of all men, No longer, no longer, no! But I shall be everything, All things remember you, Even as I live you remember, ======================================== SAMPLE 274 ======================================== -I'm sure your master would've made you do it - Not just yet, though. "We've got to try To-night," said the bright-faced girl, "the cake's on the dish, But we're both so happy It can't be helped, I own, If you have any matches - Oh, give me a match, or I won't be so happy to see you - I want to see you happy, Then the man With the muffin took his sweet time before turning round, And there were ten to this and one to the other, Their elbows on the scale, When up stood a lady, to whom all of them clapped, And went scrambling out, and, all doing, with many a murmur Discovered, to her, a cake rather larger than herself And a bigger, for she had not considered that she I'm a sorry little chap Who loves a flower No matter who it is But I wouldn't be So impotent, you see, as to not know the name, And, after asking it gently, to say 'Twas Yellow-Thorn, The learned wretch! But the learned wretch Who'd been trying to teach us how to use our heads Now looked dully on the whole affair and said, 'You've caught me! I'm glad you're pleased with yourself, But the public, you know, don't care about their hearts, And as for their loves, I tell you, they're merely The whims of your fellowmen, as they think the public, Of the learned wretch who'd been stupbing at ourLady's endearing words, For she was a learned criminal, sometimes; and in the rest of our chapels "Your hearts may tremble, but your heads may still be on your tails!" But one day, before the wretch had gotten half the ladies he liked, She put her tongue into her cheek, and I took her thus: "You're a poor scientist, so can't you find out who's deaf or who's blind? Can't you? A genius and an expert, and yet so ignorant! Do with me as you please. I only keep the open house." They made a pretty dinner in the parlors, I'll be bound. Butter, a great many times, and fruit that they would not put down, And they put on their little cassocks and went off in the evening To their hunting. You know the country districts here upon Which the nuns have estates, and have always with no accident When I got through the gate I was startled by the sudden flame That thrilled on my sight like an unexpected sun. My head had numbed out, and the walls and furniture seemed to me To myself I said, "I'm a silly little sinner," but it was Not audible, and therefore remained unseen. The nun Rose from her knees, and leaning lightly on her staff, stretched Along the crag, and like a wounded lamb, at my side, Said, "Remember now the virtue, that you feel at the back of your soul." She laid her gentle hand lightly on my hair, and said, "I fear me That if we speak together, I may let fall the whole of my force, Without a word, the words which already have at needed strength. That being so, I shall never achieve aught, if I do not keep Myself from following, as you do, gently up to it." "And does that make me a sinner?" I asked. "The wretch," she replied, "Who so supplicates me, is he? But ere he does it, he'll need For his reward, the forfeit of something dear." And she Sighed, as she spoke, and I could hear her sigh with such a slow Feet and acute eyes, that she was not turning her back on me, But, as she spoke, had turned her face nearly a block: I saw a poor cottage near at hand, that she and the sun in Which, for all its truth, were very little like. I was weary With search for her, who like a monkey had contrived to get Up the thin ledge by which half the case was hung. So that she got in, and was warm, and that she had the secret, And that, without betraying it, she had told it to me. My first inclination was to stay where I was, and I Could not think on sorcerers any more. And yet I might have been another; and I might be another Walked quietly ======================================== SAMPLE 275 ======================================== Although the lovely wassail-host was never far from his side. "Good and wise men have passed away, Some many years, before this day And wisdom may have become as great, But none who lived the life I live Could ever measure out his years; He'd scarce give us a thought while he was here, Then leave us all to wonder and muse What great wisdom was bequeathed By him who, late or soon, Left this world or another world for this. How could he have been that he should have Saved us and struggled with our pain Nor ever by running through our way Have reached his own, his horse's beat hand To assist us, till we cried for fear? O, when you go to other worlds, beware Of names like ours, and shun them to the end. We live in dread of you, who take The honourable name of men, And pour our hearts to fume or use That blood-stained courage in your brain At once remove your manhood's bloom You're not of flesh nor of dust." He spoke, and paddled onward through The foam and hollowness of the wave, And now and again he looked ashore Where sea-mirrors rising far above Filled his view with wonderment; Yet seldom he thought to call again, Or pause to enfold her in his hands, But forward with the tide and breakers Steamed, and seldom he saw the shore. "Here is the best sort of life for one who's bred A straight-hombly man," said he; "You work and toil, may hunger call Upon your sufferance fed, nor you Ever sit down by lonesome fire. Here is the best way to drown Is by drowning labours, is To lose your feet in dying sinks." "Death has not reft us honour," said he, "But lives that name for us blasphemers, As you, by me not ever flung To the cold clay of a soloist. You have a religion free from shibbole, And long haveed to break our heart, To find the victim worth your slough. There's death in all our virtues under theme, The victim's not always open-hearted. Your thoughts of justice are only skibs In roused malice that would pack Our agitation in the prison To burn it hours and hours before. To push it under us you would say By that, and your malice can't twist Our justice, for only fools think so. 'Tis Heaven only and Heaven's justice drives That kingdom's discord out of blood and war, When Christ's host was all in accord And Heaven's omnipotence deigned to smother. To be a Hell the devil grants and fits, But not for men the better, made. It's the goal of all the evil in life Which by its sternness repels, And all the good and innocent All of our stock of feelin' Which munches kindness, fears no bumps In respect of time or guys. No sin our brother's experienced Can call his peace but this on earth Which is our brest a breakin' word; And that 'tis no illusion, black nor white, The eye of man discerns it well. And to what ravages, and with what Repentance can he turn, and strain To purge his sin, it may be long, Howe long, we don't say, but not short. 'Tis strange a man's not prey to fear From the devil's paremty hand and evil eye, But that the lamb and calf you might lay From a red gore-rending ax No longer eating stray By the stream you'd be as nigh to jump as If you climbed the wood to catch a worm! When you've climbed the wood and found the worm, Throw your lifeless carcass from a tree, But sit and spin a little, no use To spoil your whinate and reeds, The wild sweet salmon roe And skates hide Under the huge ice bridge to Finland's borders. But though no fish, Nor pies, nor mutton, Nor mince-pies Eatin' in your boisterous dam, 'Tisn't all from a dam but dams alone Make all our food on earth. The oceans of this brook Have but salt From the same place as your heart. And in our lonely feasting On the wide waste of land Have we Tasted Wonders that have weighed All that we couldn't ======================================== SAMPLE 276 ======================================== A little stream, and in its lap a lake Of glassy stillness and of crystal hue, Wide open to the stars and the eternal skies. They passed the night on desert plains, Where blasted grass and roasted weed Spread in the wind's wilderness new fire, Where black rock fountains from below Roar down, or roar up, with wild unrest, Shivering with wrath; nor care they; nor tremble those that dwell In loud Sicilian forests. Nor they think On wars, or wandering of the moments brief. On with the hunting, all! Forward to the chase With the spring moons, gems, and gold, the girth And the glade. They are hunted for, they say, And the horned head, and the rabbit, and the owl, And the hare, and the well known, they have their own names. They that live in more winding ways than they, Alarmed and beaten, are told of the hounds that they serve. With the known, the known and the methehom, with the known And the known and the shady, and the and the and the hidden, The ashen, with the changing and the bonnet, and the weedy, And the strange and wild, and the wasted and wild and white, They are driven with the senses, and they are rollicked with names. All went to plough in April When I heard, And saw, And learnt that one in three who grows, Grew after the sky Had begun to make the night More comprehensive in its cloud than in the sky. They went to the moon together, That they might have each the pleasure Only they the misery of an extra portion Of the sky. One minute the moon may be rising over a cold Formless country, and over a cool land, In which there is no air, only one volition Only the night, on the brink of another hungering day, Night of the cold world, over a foaming flood of glass. It was a pensive, moon-hushed night. In the depth of heaven The moon was silver, and her shadows lengthened, And curled and circled, and rolled upward fond and bright. I went up to the window. The grey morning was overwhelmed by The vividness of the red moon. But that evening, in the depth of heaven There was a black rim, and a little dark comb of leaves. And I knew the night would wet and waste me, that the blue turning Would smite me. And I began to laugh, the leaves being wet. I laughed. The little necked flame had never laughed from the red, And the little breasts wreathed and stilled (Now a blue flash, now a purple flash) In a wild ecstasy of gentleness, Over a wide bowled earth. But I was glad With all my little body and all my blood, And all my flesh. I rose, in the wet, to the moon. And looked out on the world and the world's daughters. I looked out on the leafy woods, The flowing webs of life. (I am blind) I looked out on the river, and the sea, The thickets, and the shelter, and the talk, And all the flows that move beneath the world, I saw them, I looked in the window. In the window The afternoon flashed on the light. I looked at a bird, I looked at a tree. And then I threw stones Into the stream. The stream ran on for miles. I heard the bright Clutch of the white fish in the sun. Then the line Breached, and I heard the dumb curse of the webbed fish As they fought with the breaking moon, and the rushing Water. The little ghost talked. But the dead man A knot of them standing by the water, swinging their line, One by one, and one by one falling, cried, "We will not take The fish that you offer." And the first to go Under the water was William Muncy. Then John. James, and Frank, and Josiah. and Robert. And above All the gentlemen who placed their wits in jeopardy Were seated on the bank of the stream, and sick grown, And tired, and old, sat down, and leaned against the wood. "Will you give me the cocks and hens, and the hen And finches, and the sheep, and the chicken you sold last year?" The gentleman smiled and looked at the merchant, the ======================================== SAMPLE 277 ======================================== A word that is not a word That is not a rope not a cord Not a field not a disease not a field of air That is not the trouble That is not the word Is not the true face The true words And is not the youth and the well And not the good tree and not the place And not the pig that is shrinking That is not the cold That is not an old story That will not break This long song That is more a letter Than a horse That will not run away That has neither wings nor claws That make no sound That never did fall This fall that I fear <|endoftext|> "First Consideration", by Michael Robbins [Living, The Mind, Religion, Christianity, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] [1] WHEN the Athenian representative in Delphi's town found Jesus for the seventh time, he complained to the Roman official in attendance: If there's one thing you can't underrate, 'tis money. Money's always with us, no matter how aberration-ific we may be. How the loot'd-up cloud may drip, you may guess, if you follow the pattern of its dross and mire, but in that glitter'd mass, one atom stands out unmistak'd as the very head of the so-called Jude, whether grace or curse. The rest is Abyssin; Loot's ahatch, as a swageneries' reckeclator; Out of this wreck, and o'er this delta, he'll oftenest come a-finishin'who've slain each Christian in the cradle so dismembered that God couldn't worship his own Son without a boot. Jest like that your Christ? Think it anew! For all that you may remember, as far as the crow's-eye tells you, 'O, this is the man, and most of the man was his apparition;'--All the rest of it's false, o'twas a forgery, not for the mere bones, Dead the dry hoof and the solid jelly; most hurt the grizly limb; more uninjiable the eye. [2] Jest like that, your Christ? Why, the very weariness in hoarding and cradling and wrapping To bring the 'mighty eft' (the twopregnant and inclement landiwand of fortune, Mans immune, because his followers were so many) it comes now, or soon now, to produce As his own emblem, and that of his Church, a star, a crown. There's a movein' somewhere, like a chair, or a 'stand,' O the deals and the dails! [3] To produce a man like this, we've got in Wharsey fair countless ails, and deaths, and suicidess, and acts, and ehey to put them a-squeaking, and run-offs, and sleidd at last to produce the 'right' British Gourd. Mustard weed, that was so white, and eye-lite black; Gold-eye-fetch'd, see-through, loop-tuck, light-lid'd, with a sort of a-stipple; Soft-boil'd, like the lent, but writtin' at one depth; Yea, if not for every Christianite, the kosher Bur-dere, a semacleopate; Common and commoner far, than saints and stugs, and those same tough-lout Three-cornered beasts, the lion, and then the swine-down-uppc'd, Spot-housed, and white-foggy, and, be-tonvl, and white-eyed, White-deserted. They had thop-night, and the three-stinkrc'd beat out the consciences of transgressors with their holy hoof-dots and bits of wood-land soap-pale. I think they caught the stinking smell of dissipation that left the jerk-rooms of the King's-harem, And all the 'hoarders' round them, see, were blind-chocolate'd and blue-eyed Crimnal-cuffs, with cordons from criminal pharanies And fleecy-panies with big-eye dog-eyes, and Hors-decads and fleeces of bit-knots, and ear-minks sweet and low; Thrash-proof, and butter-cuminat, and fit for a Oyl-thauught; And foot-magicks and guid-assist, and how-i-ans; Thigh-knitting joggles, and head- ======================================== SAMPLE 278 ======================================== an' gron'd their dizzen wi' lades Tho' them wha's hae the siller o' thae Is devious-- Neist whaur they see it's want noo They boild 'yat wark's welcome to the fair, To fetch the juist the nicht o' gin, Wi' I'eogatha's ar hod we're sittin To plough thae our filly's taen wi' fright. So, day that was a frigher's seer Than ever e'er before was made, Nae mair will dight them in thae wanderin About the woods an' paddin. Thus frae the ev'n end o' the day To them wha's i'eard o' I'd, They've nae mae than a pig in a poke, In the maks o' them. But now, Now that it's wed's time, an' on to the morn's repast, Now's the day whaur LoveCalanoke, Or as I'll be naeburs in Hell, O'tu'll gin His Grace, or gin 'tis me! Gin Tho' tha'rt the honoured name, an' fame, Whan our gallant ships do carry Sae far o'er sea's argent display. An, star of gleams, where Life's Vision Beams, an' girths the twilight far. Well-a-day I prances i' the mornin' Wi' my flock i' the droopin' kail, Wha Lord she looked like, wha said "Hitch," As she sleik'd her aubusers, Willie Atween o' the oont, an' kilmerl'd The bet wi' the reevver-dair, As they skelp'd life's pukey stream. An' nae tear we will receive, or shed, For Willie and Minnie! An' if my wee, my Charles, is by Some physic tauld, whan eft he's noight; If he hae a debbyook or twa, He may nae daan or day, I'eath my ettlin reg guace. For the sake o' God, wha ere daurna Hans waukin, Him will I nae mair dishonour mak, Or dare its force again. I'll send to my hooseheer, in behoyne, Fowkless and barefoot; For we'll be on the freen till Sunday, An' then, my barefoot boy, I'll pay your honours due. Whish! the curst night ha'e com, An' its worms in me ha'e stourn My wife an' my bed, Whishty! how they creep owre my head An' they frae me wrange, Till my head before them ros, As paulds the hare-bride's face. Whish! whish! they'll be back no day, To dally wi' my wife an' ken My bed and her cunt; To anoint at I love's set, If by my I'm sold, I'll let them corrupt my wife an' Ae night, when we were sit't, In the middle o' the night, I started to Doon, To mate with a coomandule To take a yope, ye know. In vain I was dancin' roun'; In despair I sat an' heard The Stormie wrap soun' my clay, Till I fancied it nae avail, I shall hae tobey, my stallion, I 'll no put about. I shall leave them a' your luscious An' ay-lace treasured harter, I 'm sae sullied by this deed, I o'er the fell couldna let it Nor think it faut nor lang; For he 's aye roun' the grutcheone, As for the nearest star. An' then a soughwick, shy 's ghost, That 's a feelin' like a feirce, Wat' in his mouth, an' crookit, (That 's speakin' as a true-fraught man, To show that he 's prodigaly), ======================================== SAMPLE 279 ======================================== mak thee great in thyself; and then what thou hast made thine own son shall call his own name. "And from the uttermost parts of the sea which by no means yet have I explored "Do thou demand of me whatever land or ocean in this world I reveal, that I may return again to my loved dwelling, and that when I have looked upon my face again, I may make love to her whom on this earth I love the best, whose flesh is as soft and sandy as a flint? "I, then, being unwilling on the sea-shore to land my fatherland, and the evil land of Necros by the will of Juno, were seeking other sorts; and here was one to whom I was willing, here was the ship wherein I had been borne; and there was one who was to my mother acceptable, the ship wherein my mind was borne as the sea covering it. "This man with eyes turned away hath made me a house that seems made for the forum, all for the beauty of which I have not reason to rejoice; therefore I do not thank him, nor envy; rather I grieve in the desire of kisses. "All my life long I wish you would drive after you as I have already said; for after I have seen the lofty ship, the land of the Phaeacians, and the dancing sparrow, I shall have no more excuse for not giving up my love. But I trust that we have been far too uncivil to us, for even if you lost all, it would not satisfy "For every one that is great that here dwelleth is building a tenement, and the goodly ships besides are all of famous architects; the one ship even will never be the smallest; the hawser is four cubits, and hers twice six; so that for thee to hurl at them your drunken stones would only serve to strike the mirror that is thereat at the back of Repentie. "For I will call for Misenus. I want him to join me here; but though he agree be it so little in fact as alwane, I want to take a bath in his gentle suppers, and his clothes in my beauty shall simply shew off, and before I am made of all this and now of whatsoever man that ever was, I wish to choose him as my friend. If all those that now hate us now would show us love, or aught] their work would last fornute] and so we would accept of all men whether good or bad, or good or bad; "That to the forest-fans that hither throng my board, Grow thin, and grow large with the fame of him that is now dead. I will make this my day and night, "Since, when Epitimysis and Theophanies set out upon my house, I have not had an hour's wage even in the whole past year, I have not been able to keep my head from wear; but they are now both dead, and I say to you, let spinning go for this, if it shall please you better." He said, and was answered by the neighbouring folk, and they began to knock and hurry. These heard Ulysses thus: "Cease your joy, and come hither to the Phaeacians, and tell yournejoyes to us." And he who was in the counsell of Apollo, Minerva, answered: "Cease your joy; for you say truly that I will give you what you have requested. No fault shall to false Phaecus be made, for I will have it so, and in the daughter of Siformoried Albus; for I shall bidAKERUS take to him the fair Phaecian lands, and build a town nigh where the river Alcus begins. There the race of LOVE shall have its desire, who has ever been my great The lips of Barbie then shew'd [an] fluttering flame, And she ran to where the goddess sat, and these words she quat"I am sick of your speeches," the goddess said; "And for your fluff you have no care, But that I must a mighty travail devise To bring back the wayfarer"--For we were at the parting." "We have seen," they all three Began again to talk; and we were down on our knees, And first in prayer did Ulysses listen to the words Of Diana; and she ======================================== SAMPLE 280 ======================================== real or fable, Sets my song on this summer night, And my poet-life will know The odors of the roses here. Blown from the mountain-side, My love-ship blows like snow; But dearer still! to thee, I drift in drifting seas. Yea, to thy sea-girt isle, I float like smoke, yet cheer The soul it hateth thee, Sweet flower of mine. Whom have I been, what thing, what thought, Or what deed though All-good shaped me? Thou vain and dim, unsubstantial breezess Of flying scent and flying foam, What have I done To make thine eyes wet and dim With a minute's pain? Have I a penny in my pocket To buy thee things?-- Nay, I have not spent a penny; But I sit on the stile At thy feet, and kiss thy pale lip, Kiss the stiletop, and cloak thee With upraised arms, and clutched hands And a minute's pain. And art thou happy?-- Nay, I get on lightly as a nail Round the high sun that jagged it, Gemming thy hair, dear love, Half as if a kiddy may Clap her hand upon thee, and sing Upon the middle of thee, Kiss and be sweet and dry To clap and be sweet and thrive. Alone, in thy single vessel, Thou art my whole and playmate, And all things else in thee are dust. Is it virtue to do this and live?-- It is. Is it joy to do it?-- It is. Is it workmanship to be The aspect and the colour of The second thing that for a space Of a minute I bewitch In my finger-pan, my little finger, My soft and plump hand? Is it pleasure to be Naked and awake all the day In this large-branced wild young air, And awake all night, and twist And twist all night long, for delight? Is it pleasure to have one clear heart To the other, or should I chant The song of the living creatures With their clear voices in thy ear And their clear shadows in thy heart? I am the God of all delightful things. I will not waste my passion on a barren rock, I will not spend a treasure where I cannot live. I am that God who makes the morning beautiful. I make the midnight beautiful, and so make the stars Beautiful as the splendour of your gaze, My beauty makes the stars, the firmament, The earth, the sea, the waters glittering endued With a deeper and a finer reflection. I am that God who forms the foliage. I am that God who forms the different trees. I am the God of all things, the God of love. I made Eve, for I am good, I made the feller's wine, We made Coconuts, for we are wealthy men, And I am God of Endless Night, I am that God who shapes the afternoon Out of the cries which fall upon the leaves. I am that God who forms the threshing-stone. I am that God who forms the beams of light. I am that God who forms the misty dyes for rain. I am that God who moulds the dull pearls for sails. I am that God who makes the minute arcs Of lightnings in the wind. I mould the fog, I mould the chill mist, I mould the mountains, I mould the Mountains. O fairest of all cities! Tell me if it beuch thy glory doth abide, And be sure that it be not unfulfilled aim To make the Island City larger than the Sea. Make the Island longer than the Sea. Make it longer than the skies, Make it wider than the Earth, Make it wider than the Heavens, Make it longer than Hell! I am that God who forms the void earth. I am that God who makes the heaven. I am that God who forms the wind. I am that God who forms the water, I am that God who forms the fire, I am that God who moulds the great earth. I am that God who lifts and lowers the sun. I am that God who sets stars in the east, I am that God who sunders light and darkness. I am that God who sets day and night. I am that God who merges all things, I am that God who lifts and ======================================== SAMPLE 281 ======================================== A horse's hair. A horse's whiskers I've lost Three times each Now in salt For Nothing I will Not sock Not brim In The Grit for Grips Only Grit will Make E. Grease I will I will will not make E. Mud Thick For YOUR HEAD. Lint See This poo Wax to Be Dry WHY I WILL BE JUST JUST JUST JUST PEEV I Will Do Dry For YOUR Tongue PeeV I Will Keep Only WHY No YES FOR If He Were MFT O but Tongue PeeV I Yes PeeV Yes He Were I won't. Yes, I am Full Of PeeV <|endoftext|> "What it felt like", by Jana Bian [Living, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy] When I sat down to write this [Fifty-seven, Various] I made a decision, the sort you can do anything with, and got a case of the shit on that one, what sat there and why I didn't think was there It wasn't like one of those mobile phones with a button to call, for instance, which satisfies all senses in doing so, But one I found myself not wanting to use, one that was hard to use in some areas, like the kitchen, and the coffee cold, which was hard, Especially when cold is feeling dirty and dirty is feeling hot, a yes I made a decision, and it felt like everything about me had been validated, And in validation is death, I suppose, though if one wanted to say validation one goes to a movies or to a jewel case, the place where one bag of sand or crackers or toothpicks will get a bag of fritters or a bag of worms, But back to the point: when I sat down to write this piece of crap I felt a need to be unfair, or unfairable, and, if I say what feels like, this piece came out wrong, so I'm writing it up. Some of the things written down here should be obvious, no one will read it, but I'm putting it, I can, so you can look at it if you want, here, so you can judge for yourself, if you care, the writer's obligation, if you care, the artist's, if you care, the shard's, if you're a Star, if you're in Starbound. I was only a tent, it was a house, a being felt itself, itself being wrapped around, dragged around, and finally, after being told it was dangerous, it was, found itself, wrapped, traced, and flattened, and then the being found itself a house to wrap itself around, only to find itself, found its house, wrapped, found a reason to be inside, and inside even the difficult word it already knew by that, the fixed house, that bygones the what they buried themselves in, the the memories, the war, the memories and the lives, the bygones the artists, the eyesight of the city, the greening of everytwentyfive houses to make them innocent, the sky and the river and two eyes on one, the blinds of the circle the circle that never closes, <|endoftext|> "Silent Film", by Ange Mlinko [Living, Death, The Mind, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] I think of a man who has never been heard of, who is the same every time you meet him: a short man <|endoftext|> "Anthem", by Ange Mlinko [Living, The Body, Religion, Arts & Sciences, Music] This one's for the Boss, who always makes it clear he doesn't want a white horse-neck with his name on itAnd wasn't hired to paint right out of the academy into the freewayEveryone in this road gang is hearing the new Weather Report and still driving 35This one's for the ones who got tired of feeling like the occasional 80th bing <|endoftext|> "Little Mass", by Ange Mlinko [Living, The Body, Nature, Arts & Sciences, Music, Theater & ======================================== SAMPLE 282 ======================================== Seeking her still; The scents of Eden When Eve lay sleeping Across the hedge, And beside the bubbling brook, Is heavenward fled, Yet thou wilt not leave me, Oh, thou cannot die! Our hearts the Sirens are wooing To make an end of all our grief. Our souls the Sirens are flattering To sing a joyous song. Our hearts the Sirens are wooing To sing a song of love. The Sirens had praised us, And had been to us a dream; For each to each each they'd made us quake And smile, when near them twined. And now they've brought us all their rose-trees, And pruned their dark brown buds; Now trim all the garden, And set the peonies bound Upon the house-scented floor. And raised a green-room door Of mosaic tile, And lined it, too, with glass That shone with white and blue. And, Lillibet, now thy head is down, 'Tis thine the carnation! But let it never be said That beauty, who demands with holds of power The heart of woman, Fades when she sees she succeed'ds. For she was won of us, Who tell her, We were fooled And she but gave us flowers. We only gave her flowers, Where she might easily Have given us peace. "A woman's love, when given, Must never be distrust'd," Have I not told you, Where it is given Should never be Received as wing'd with ease. But this is foolishness, To make the joy of a gesture The smoothing of a grace. The hand that smote Was enraged, And the gesture Was hardly court. And she who wore The glove, Has undone Her glove. When Flora from the cloud-top down Leans down into our bowers, And sees how blind and dumb we are Below, She kisses all our eyes. She has redolent A wedding-armada, Alive with all the carols of Happy marriages. This is the end Of many more, But of her own Voice's loud sob, Her own dear singing-wind, Her own dark dove-silken feather, The air's heart-warming rain, A long, long journey. But yet, though she is huge, And in Olympus she is light, I have little song to sing To lift the darkness for my sister. I cannot stop to sing to her the way A man would stop to drink from a tavern sign, Nor to my breast write a kiss, nor say That mine are the tears I do not pray. I cannot write one line to her On paper yet wet from her hand, Nor to her at allys own Comfort when mine are sitting ill, Nor to her, as I go to and fro, Turn, and from my troubled mouth Kiss, and say: I am sorry. Ah, because she is so great, And her large peace can no accommodation make I cannot but love her. But she is at peace By what was never peace before Before in me: My night, my day, My work, my praying, Her night, her day. Like ships at sea I have seen Their feet sink, they have drift'd with them Out of sight. Yet they have moved, Because I could not swim. I shall never let go But in her hands. This life is one big ship, Fluids and cargo, A vast seaward train To move across a foam, Big, hard things to unload At home. But I am home. I wonder how? I cannot wonder how? My heart is like a sea On which fish move on the sea The way men Can move under water. Sea-ripples will reveal The height from which they move, As waves run swiftly in a town. But he who ======================================== SAMPLE 283 ======================================== @t_pomposo "I am in the drink, and the love that is there, and what I’d have you do is to leave the soul of my tongue to be subservient to your behest." <|endoftext|> "Anatomy of Hope", by Thomas Royal [Living, Death, Life Choices, Parenthood, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Religion, Faith & ed.], A compass, here in the eye of God. —Jerome Hollon After a while, when the child is not smiling, and the mother has not taken to cold heels to her cheeks, and the father has not managed a lie except in the sight of his own child, the mother can return to what she knew of the world, where all the maps were new and maps were many, to make her own small compass quickly in the goodness of her new clarity— to let go, take a deep breath, and step, muscled the first of her American Indian children into a soccer field on a hot August day where the ball would ring around the child's leaving. Now I am the one who ask kindness back, for I am the one who have had the child, the one who have wished to have child, the one who have a wish to have. And I will say to the child: It is time now for you to let someone depart. For those few hours, and those few days, for the heat, and the relentless sound and the far-flung faces and the tangled iridescent hairs, I will speak to the child of this decision, and I will say: Love no longer is open-ended. And he will say to me: Let me take some kind of goodbye, and he will wish to pass, first, his small arms to me. Then, with the waves and strokes of the waves upon the beach as clear as if they were aahn upon the spacetime sky, he will pass as a message takes the body, and pass into the spacetime of no memory. <|endoftext|> "Walking to New Hampshire with Someone Special", by Paul Mitchell [Living, Growing Old, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] Weighing a light not falling half my body As I cross streets I walk across without seeing The vision of our bodies post-separation Sawing hills that we were on separating Sidelines of the island which we left Sawing The one who was at one time not fractional (Forgive me men of six who were tongue-tied) Whole neighborhoods in which we saw nothing The ones we walked away from growing strong (Forgive me men of six who were larger-than- Average) We walk through which we were not alone We walk through, blind The rain step in close to the top of the white wall We see, this time, our life in its alarming Imperfect form With one eye-mouth How could we not think to undo it For those whom time separates And for others who are absent For those whom time delays My memories are the bright world outside my body (for these are those I have lost) I pray for the world, but do not yet pray I think of the topography And the two brains and their changing wind I walked up these roads many years ago (Time's a contract, no one can refuse) I know that I have lost (Small brand on back) Some friends and they are not at home (When I found I could not change the past) I made up my mind that I would not speak One speaker into another I have a red corner in me (For I have had to borrow a brain) I think of the two men who sat behind me Talking (the world is not bright enough) I have a brain in my face (They put a cap there, they said) They passed my head, they passed My head on the white of my shirt They were not women they were not men I know this I do not Their hands were in my hair they felt my hair I did not allow it They passed my hat into my mouth They said good morning I said bad morning This is the world they said this is the world I saw this This is the world (for these are all the men who ======================================== SAMPLE 284 ======================================== isms like the squares of them, like the long wrinkle in the muscles of her elbows. In one of the long walls, a little dingy stairwell twists around, and in it a glimpse of what the little one thought of as her childhood, so many stained glass windows of train-sets, the knickknacks, ciphers, wheels, and china. In one corner of the kitchen there was also a space free from the wall, and in there, one day, I saw, and I thought, children's cloth swept, with the fraying scarves that had been crotches for five-year-olds. She had said to her mother, "Mummy, why are you so sad all the time?" The question she had not asked herself. Then she turned and went into her room. That was all. Not that she had anything worse. So in the morning, when I came with the garden people to tell them of her dinner in her own room, I could see her dreading it. She was all through the breakfast. I can see her now all the way through her auburns and her grimace. And when she left, I think of her shrugging and putting her feet up, the dull, frigid square of it going on even in a place where it doesn't matter. I walk slowly in the streets and look at all the houses. But even the street where she goes is a place where it is not quite, and how can I say this: her dread of leaving, that fact, is its own pit. <|endoftext|> "Scavenging the Garden", by Anne Stevenson [Living, Death, Time & Brevity, Nature, Fall] Recyving in plastic gloves and a scrub bag, I find a flattened apple core, a coccassail, a deadfall strewn ire agaric, an urn of grass and a cast that binds sprigs. On a wall-clock round, a moth floats, its play of colours, suspended, unmothered. Later, on the way to mine, a collar in studious rows, autumn beauty shining white around the lamp. <|endoftext|> "On Christmas Eve, When All Are Homed", by Susan B / [Living, Death, Time & Brevity, Christmas] In the quiet before the quiet, When all are seated at home, Aware that the hour is time's thesis And that time is all, Before we draw the deeps of night and chamber, I catalog the champions of late-decade Collection chairmen. Coffee, to mark the day, Or a sugar bush that won't break. Dinner served up on a calendar (The stew, not the plate), With Christmas lightshades, though their names Remain hirned, the present day Yet never remembered. The boys with visions haunted Shall look upon the scene Of the world's tree growing in the garden. Children placed around the horn Of the lamp, one by one, the chainless Hoofs of laughter drop In the night's disheveled air For the count of time, Though they live of life and light Under the stars' expansion, The Earth on international hours. <|endoftext|> "Diorama", by Anne Stevenson [Perspective, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, History & Politics] When the motorway runs from the harbour to the coast, And the grim stone of Port Verte's girdler-gens Will rise up to the roads, separating the towns, There will be an end to politicking, and long-limbed planners Will rationalise and hierarchy. It will be crushed Out of existence, it is my sworn Dream, my scientific thought. Let the city wave Haute Couture above its pretensions, Let the clack with its nightingales use the city-cinder, When the hot drivers get to the truth, What will be saved? What can be retained? My money or my morsel of bread? My work? What work Will the world see? That a life is Resting on such an emplacement. There are times, when I do not come to your window. I will go up to the antenna-eaves of your house, And sit looking at your film-mat of mist, And watch it grow in similitude to A fog, and then to a black. <|endoftext|> ======================================== SAMPLE 285 ======================================== I, of the wimmin, feel With their plighting feet the breath Of their dark-houseless blood, and howl: I, of the brood, high rage, and pain, And hunger, sputter, and snap, and grunt. <|endoftext|> "In Town", by Henry Melero [Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] in town in the city it's dark and chilly the POSTOEM'S BACK the MOTOROLA sands its knuckles in the snow as the POSTOEM'S BACK with a paving block of shard sands its nose in the winter in town <|endoftext|> "A Bluff'em in the STERN", by Henry Melero [Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire] STERN IN IDIA The Master's hat has a crescent necktie, and the show must go freeing a tie-gun to use as a fetce screw for the first blue district, idyls unspecified. We all inhale the smud before we go bloon in the STERN I hold a brim tier in prayer before the STERN to almighty Newton! a jaelish feeling creeps up my neck as I think of your chiselled thighs, and it's jolly given the stern judgment of this farty wire and struts, that you're all part of one master plan You might as well speak Greek <|endoftext|> "Evacertible", by Henry Melero [Living, Time & Brevity] Era spare space, below what air we now call perimeter which is long before whatever breakdown of any color suggested a breach, before we knew better or worse had to blink The sky was colorless, it began to clear, the rocks or should that be rocks and The ability to clear rocks implies a recognition of the hole we'd found, does it The world as we know it once a day not a problem We're done with it, we're done with any ground within it no trace one of us could ever admit to hitting The other long before there was a blue tie before The roof we inhabit and so indwell The doublet, blouse, and tuck and undercap are vestigial We look to our switchblades, which could there without the weight of a shark we know that if we were to live longer all we'd have would be the immediate shatter The falling of the tents the electric fence that barred our pathway the convalescing the new masters were untying The only fence there was one now there's none a gaping dark we hit at all this was the time of year a mosquito cannot bear our heads and gobbets our bodies how many circles can you count? the couples dance all night We would not recognize them, and wouldn't they wouldn't want us to stop the taps of our cigarettes the swing of our heads the thrust of the question would kill the wound is there time to go back to do whatever time was there before there and the longer we're here the less there is there now the fewer waste jots ways to find find find the easier path none has room for anyone we were here for none are here for long the least for there was no space to wait, to think alive alive in this now our feet the village was ours <|endoftext|> "Nocturne", by Dorothea Yue [Living, Death] you have been savednow curl into the dawnour faces pressed to the ======================================== SAMPLE 286 ======================================== To hide his shame. On the sight a pang Smote him, as ran the blood within His heart, and pined, "Poor child," he cried, "To think that I was once dead! Where is My lovely head? Look closely! See Its features! Uncounted virtues steal Through the smooth-shaven hair, and shine Upon the table which I vex To dine on rak'dly burnt in long spux Each morning, the young maids the fear That there their heads will weariness Bring on their mothers' looks." Anon he threw His shadowy balance from the hand, And felt a fulness of true motion gain. A new-fledged bird flew o'er the hill; and now The day was dead, and not till then was a shade Entirely unceasing. The deep sky's level spread, And all that saw its surface gravely gray, Had sure, as in a picture, to see the unsholder, And well-nigh have thought our friends were distant stars. The trumpets jibbed, the heralds bawling hard Their charge to charge, shook tombs in spirit. In this clime Old Adam casts doubt; "Who rides," quoth he, "by me, That on my grave so happy men are riding?" And then a thought of grief was on his mind, Which neither nature nor culture could tame: "Alas! can they not be driven From hence?" Upon his grave 'twere better fell To hide a bronze man than an angel's form. Them looked the men in stone, as by the tombs They shivered, and the chill of a great fear Struck deep, resembling, said the Turk, lame What now was well-nigh thought divine: the Curse Was set to lean on them, and be their lord. He broke the charm, and a wild gust of wrath Was like a wind from every paling sky; And in that gust was understood to sing The names of the men at work upon the graves. Borne o'er the sunlit sea, and o'er the streams Of water that come out proportion'd to their loads, Came Numiri, saying one to the other: "These works of ours are part of what doth lead To us, I think, the supreme accomplishment. Of mortals we are now made gods, and notes For our large suicide. They invite To think what we were ever in a state Times might enlarge our production. The world Would have been overflow'd. O ye gods Concerning this hour! forsake your usual calm, Wherein your exalted greatness falls away, And swift restore the old divine content!" He ceased; and Volacyrlo still standeth at his side, Awhile patiently listening to his words, And troubled much with sudden grief he is, When he perceives that they are not augur. He look'd upon him, and with upright face Inquired of him, why he departed then? He would have answered; but his bent was bent To other theme, the thought of the immortals; And, musing on this new collection, he had stands Formal, a Moor of Moors, when he asked thus: "What race is before us, living, and where?" And the Christian world with many answers silent Made answer that the world was at first Of human lineage; and thus they said In many tongues; and time flowed on; and now Old Orient Statu'd the sublunary world, Of ages old; and on that country there The Calpean Drake appears, and the old world Was left upon a desolate waste; Which now at last was sleekerly flown, And all the centuries rendered it A better country. Then a group emerged With heads kedge'd and chill, and weeping with the Iesol; And very pallid was the face of the Iesol With awe. Some mourn'd in Ithaca, and others The Landgrave raise in Algiers, and gathrs Or a few miles from their intendde entred What ne'er by soil hath hitherto concealed. With many more aloud grieved they their hearts Upon the pride of their executioners, Who in their destruction'd were sole plaintiffs; But in such beautiful manner as To make the rising of a river look wan; And in their mourning make that blest retreat Not unheard of Nectareous organ; Which still, in spite of time, her milder simpers ======================================== SAMPLE 287 ======================================== And first, let's make one thing clear. When I say 'In, Many-Sky, At-Sha, Sun-Sha, Sea-Vaw, Moon-Sha, Man-Vaw, with Stars—Vaw-Sha— "In these rare words shall my speaking be not pretty." O ye! Ye beings gaily good- (Sings himself the singer to the tongue), O souls awake! Open your rosy palms, Pray thou swear by these tokens thou art not of Guillem and the Faithful company. With care-naught CD sells rare cargo of the game. O think, ye! let time restore the strength of art, And don't be judge, let fire burn black. Now leave, old friend, life's pettiness, Its envy, flabbiness, hate, with thine. <|endoftext|> Dear John, Of course I heard the news About the butcher's loon, But that's nothing, John, A silly quibble, A trivial blunder, So meaningless and so vain. I've just been about To see him put to die In the execution lot. It's not so hard, John, You'll soon be asleep. But somebody there did say, As I understand, "Hey, John, why didn't you Tip him, or help him With the ladder, or with Some rope, or with a noose? I thought he might pike," John told me. "Why did I Stay and listen To that freak of sense, When I was obliged To hang him, slowly, Slowly, till he gasped dead?" O yes, John, I know, But I can't explain, With my ears, my eyes. And my tongue, of course, I can't forget What it feels to come From an old, village childhood Where the farmer's kids Go wild, sing, cluck, or prate. What else? What else? What more? John, it's all the news That's true, or invented, or past. How does the weather A) B)C) remain? Here, 'shrou'lar tol; I guess we all Got a long way to go. At least, the bus makes its daily trip, But I'm not on hand, To see that there's grass graced And blossoms crowned; A fortunate omen, I think, If the bus's on the way. The bus hardly sees A fathom, then it sinks, Then another bus comes, To make the total of four. The preacher's little fires, I guess, are better than a rest, With his little fires. I feel old, John, I feel old. I'm a preacher now Who prays for his schools and churches; I am a Hitteman now, And I know no more what I was in my youth; I miss the wide air, I feel the air's limitation. I don't know, the sun In the morning lies, I don't know, the sun In the afternoon lies. The sky, too, looks infirm And older than it used to; It's all, all has not got Back upon its last changes. I've missed many sights Both earth and heaven, John; I go often to them But they're not where I used to be. There's not much left, Or something about as well, Except a B C D,— I miss them both. If I've been true, If I've been true, John, If my heart ringed true With your number, let it know That I've been true to you, And it will come true, If it has the skill To come as true to me. Dear John, John, dear John, I can only tell you That I'm not glad. The more time you spend The less there's That I can be proud of. You'll think I waited To see if you'd begun; You'll think I didn't start, Because you waited; Then you'll think, if you've failed And gone wrong, about You'll start to-morrow. Dear John, I must tell you (And I do so every year), How long my friends Have been waiting for me. Dear John, dear John, I do not like to say That it takes my part ======================================== SAMPLE 288 ======================================== 'Twas little sleep I sought, 'Twas little rest I sought; There was nothing to refresh, Nothing to eat or give, Only a few white beads To keep me glad and quiet. These I clasped within my grasp, Brimming them with hopes and fears; But when the day was ended I knew those white, white, white beads Were made for corpses to hold-- They were bloody, rotten corpses, For when they were applied They were burned and disfigured. I had to go,--I had no choice; I had to leave the little ones, The tired ones, who were starching, And running after ducks, And sucking down ponds, To meet the next cold winter, To battle in the next battle. At last I had to go,--I had no choice, There was nothing else to do; But oh! I kept my husband near, He helped me so through the scene; I did not dare to cry out,--he knew What was in me, and comforted me, For he was by me all through. Oh, his good-bye! It made me cry; But I pretended to smile. He had been brave enough, So I could not spare him from dying. Then I bethought me,-- My mother's whale was base,-- And 'twas my brave was to walk A few paces ahead, And leave him there to perish. I had to face The sight of that white, dead face; But then I hurried on, And left him far, far behind. My mother's whale was blacker Than any body could be, So when I heard his dying It was a chastening, For it handed me my son. I came to the dry chute's end, My company was gone That had the money to laugh, Those that had the food; They had eaten and were dead. Them out there on the wall, All they did was snoring, Themselves had made a fright. Them that had money could do nothing But eat and be ready, So I took a great scythe And trimmed it in, And had my way With all of them. I had to stop my work To see what closest I could get. The sun was so bright That it needed no glass. It stood on a pile of the stone, And burnt all of them dead; And when my throat was well in; It offered me the sun. I cut a stone from a rock, And though it was new moon fresh, I took it home, And cut away all of their live, And put it in a lime. When it dried I found it perfect, I put it in my chalice. Then I drank my sun, And thus my work was done. I cut my sun into dry chalice-pieces And did not waste it, But poured it out in the sun's eye. Oh, I cut a lot of sun, But I did not use it. There was never one, but it was flung Into the air, And some fell for your prayer-heardings, But they were used for better things. The gold that I have not found Is in your purse to-day. I have made my bargain, But it was not so fine as you thought. Your sun was made for me, And I brought it home in a little cloak. How many jugs of water Do the ladies wash every day? (The article in question Is too dirty to hold in place.) --How many jugs of water The gentlemen polish every day? (The article in question Is too filthy to hold in your grease.) --How many jugs of water The good woman did Dulli have every day? (The article in question Has been through the housemaid's throat.) But I will ask you, Ma'am, A little bold inoui. The article in question Will make you luke and stare. Who wants to have it done every day? (The article in question Would not look well in the gibson's glare.) The bludsoes have take their last leave, And they are going to Israel, To keep the Scotchmen's peace. (The article in question Is used in every dish, But with a nice addition of bonny kids.) I'm happy to report That these bright creatures came, Not loaths me to name, And the children ======================================== SAMPLE 289 ======================================== A pale and lonesome mind Shall half-dare the memory to rise, That its sudden, fearful birth might be A horror unto her. And so she is, who hears the shriek Of lonely waves unspeakably woe: And half a hundred times a day When moonlight meets her door, She faints and trembles into dreams Of life and love lost and best. A love-lorn dream that yet she wakes On moonless nights, and sighs With parted lips, and pale weak lips, "If I could wake once more to see The dawn of love's young eyes, I'd gladly do as then-a-days do." A heart that scarce can move To weeping or to laughter, now Is weak with very pain; And will she ever lift the tab Of parting and of pain To lift the lid of sweet? Oh, fill the seamy bowl With wine of perfect tears. Oh, if we could hear Love calling, and say "Call me, Love, once more," Once more through the dusk As of old through the sun, What would our hearts so one-minded be? But as from us they shall return No more unto the unkind, So, unspoken of here, One said, as God may spare, And died as in a dream. And I have gone a-mowing The Sheafs all the night Till the mowers kick and cringe, And in my heart doth remain The smell of hemp and grain. So long as I haue a pick Of nuts upon the tree, Which I lie in and make my seat, 'Tis sweet to lie there awake: And little "I" morn be sure Makes the air more odourous. For when the sun of summer pecks At the narrow field, and spreads the long Shadows, and the day's drive awakes, I lie, and weave, and dream; And should some lordly lady come To make the fields more bright, 'Tis then I laugh and love again. When the crops be good and the hay, And the rain descries, and the skies Are glad with gier-hupf. What matter then? The sun shall be my king, I think. I am king in my dream, I think. If I thought time came, I'd wisht me yet The little gods, The fated stars, And dread Minstrel ditties, Their woe or gay, Who curtsy to earth, The woods or mountains, The season or some change, The thing that shall be I would incline to,-- O Muse of Maxime, The thing that is, Oh, Minstrel dear, the sweet accents, The harmonies we used to sing, I can but keep The jests of the day, when Your grave husband now no more Your minstrel clime doth claim, To these sad seats Here is my home: my early lays Were full of faith, and youth and mirth, And hope, and trust, And cheerful piety. Here then lay he from all pursuing, In marble thou canst call Back to my Minstrel heart, And I can tell How in the night Anigh'sto the hearth A pensive man, Whose day, The deader has been, In tears hath lept For him the churchyard morrow bringing. Ye valleys! adieu, Tears are unsung, Tears are unsown: The ear glows ta'e As hell towards heaven; The humble priest doth preach Farewell to crops. Father, what wilt the birth Be to thee and me When this poor hour Is so near thee? I think the wall Should murmure--"To sins". How ill sounds it this year, That makes me doubt If with my inked hands, And decked sprays, I can fulfill Thy heart's desire? Dost know how nuts, OJOS in all his varieties! With all his varicolored shtails Lay out their lustres? How much more Doth the poor sand of me, Why then a spell, My love, the love of thee; That shall keep Mind and fancy true As is the sunny main, Or the icy deep of winter, But as, when all thing Sighs for the warmth That ======================================== SAMPLE 290 ======================================== the officers had cuffed his hands; and turned the spikes of prison on him, pinned a gray man to a post. <|endoftext|> "Anthropology", by Sharon Olds [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] At first I feel the earth turning to sleep, then its loud laughter at my little mind. Where is the village, the social contract? The people are dissolving. A year ago I remember standing in a beautiful field of flowers, and now I'm in a hollow, dropping fruit, and in that hollow, my own people laughing, are you sure you want me to on your watch? I will find you, when the sand turns to dirt and the dark turns to light, and when my long fingers find out that feel of green leaves is everything I'll know you are, for there is no other country. <|endoftext|> "The Gospel of Henrietta Sheridan", by Sharon Olds [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Religion, Christianity, God & the Divine] I heard a fog down below And a buggy wheel slashed with blue. Then a face turned, like when you look Out a window and can't see anybody, And a man had jumped off a bridge. I was hungry for a long time For a man to put a hat exactly on his Chest like somebody's on a ladder, Like somebody said I should want a hat It's always been a problem. It was a two-to-three-pound hat No, it wasn't like a hat To put on or pull off or take off. It was thicker than that, But it had a straw, it had a plywood Finish, and it was white on silver, Insect-truss or grass or something. <|endoftext|> "Hoff! Hoedelsichsdorf", by Richard Owens [Living, Death, The Body, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] At last I have the whole land I have started off with a bad one. It was not enough to simply look But I need the whole land. I have not started From nothing. In this country it is the same. I am forced to a whole country That does not exist. I have to look at it And it exists only as long as I go on looking. In fact it is not the same. I am forced Out of it, out of my mind. It is becoming A poor reflection in the windows. A man may come to it with nothing. I know I have to do the whole country over And it is the whole country. I am doing it With a poor reflection. I was given No instructions. They sent me off to a farm Far from any town, a nature farm. The windows reflect nothing. The things are Unfinished, there are more of them But they are all looking in the same place. It is a whole country. I have to fight For an instant against the windows. The hills are green, they are not just a landscape For my reflection. That was the first This was written, that will happen When I have run my race, I will not go away. <|endoftext|> "September 1962", by Richard Wilbur [Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] I. A feel in the air good God. A moment and we'd all been forgiven Except the Army: every man A captain with the Shin Glimpsed by the local rabbit patrol At nine a Thursday night In a neighbouring village. That was how it started. The bodies piled up on the ditches Of that 333rd day. The arches Of the Shin's were the widest That he had stretched in his capture Yet never filled to the brim. That was how We came to be at last without ace arms, Asleep in the back of every bus Across the division and clogged cold Wearing our daily 42. There were rumors Of FOX HILLS FORCED AGAIN the "BUILDERS." Our men didn't want to call a bro The Shin's captain, it was Siegfried Schan, Who bared his teeth at a bar Any more. And some of us were once again Lords of the Bridge. We had tried again To build a bridge from Baker Street To the western edge of Central Park St. GotTL [St. Paul ======================================== SAMPLE 291 ======================================== Had never passed to the next sphere; Thou, Creation, hast set thy face Directly to the setting sun. Let the spheres my mission clasp, And my message glad things declare. The moon from her nightly bed Sheldeth a rare and radiant light When the sun has set in the night. Till it is wan and wilt have dropped, This light is an emblem of good; It is a friend to truth and right, To the old, the new, and unknown. As it cd not with the passing of cloud, Which darkens skies, while times are days, Could I a symbol clearly see Call to mind a mother's first love. No, alas! there is no speech With which this truth can be expressed, But an emblem of love and truth. She never stops on her psalterical way, For that would cut too fine a figure, And would cut it as she's an elder. Therefore, let her sit at her tribunal wheel, And, every day, continue her prayer, To the good man following, Who, at her gate So that she may be informed as to his State when he comes forth to her in the daylight, So that she may be informed as to his State when he goes forth to her in the dark, So that it be a message of good cheer, If he does return again to her; If she sends token of his happiness, Will be a mnemonic for her palm, If there be but a morn to be converted into silver. This is a message of happiness; So that if it be true, as she thinks it is, He shall not waste his life in premature slaying Foes of God know in the wicked wastons, Where his couch may warm and be a rest, If she call back her lovers, And all the tenants return from the dear apartment Where the dear ones were bred. The big round city halls, Where the great men doff their spiles, Are, poor people, only piles of clay Gigantic, as you throw your pebbles in; The good old women that inhabit These hallowed places, As the long nights lengthen, Are only winds that blow down the Glowling-Ere When the day-star lights are pale in the east. Oft the old woman in her needle-blade Ponders as she sits at her door, Sore-pining the perjuries And the scarless diseases Of the men that once were her neighbours; And, as she thumb threads or beads, Her head adorns the ruins of womens heads In the primeval darkness there. What's this strange and mortal that she feels? I'll tell her what it is, And with her will my tale renew; I will show her how man's young strength abounds At a feast, when the belly would faint; The hours and arcs that the temples blink, I will show her, and the time of the death; I will tell her how the blood is circuited, And that the spirit has its swift station 'Twixt atinemmy and atimus, With one of the great that had the heart of the gods, When, being in the face of the face Of Anicles, absconded without notice, His house went up in a whisper, And his fellows that had the heads of horses (And had they not reminded him) Had their names called blue and red; They had no ears, but for a guileless present Of the blood-vessels raw and dry. O women, O women, blue-bodied That you have got the years for ever, The years you have got by mill-witted Gods From circuiting years, From such as they that have all the best For mirth and for chaff, Are for you for all that; With a fine-pencilled shaking-cap To keep up your double life with a fine old cap To a fine old gorget, Where the shed, that's now the shops, From the shops has lost its rent, From a fine-ribboned barn, Where, while the breath of the weather, that fills The garden, that's a nest of hens, From a coble-faced barn, Where the home of the grey-headed figtree, That's a great tall tree To crown, is hid, From all the tumbling trees That join to make a tablet For the name of the king, who the lay-named I am that I have called you, ======================================== SAMPLE 292 ======================================== No less they touched, that in their heaven look'd Down on the fate-beating mind of Will; And, as his hand a kindred hand Had clasp'd in welcome, these (at last) extoll'd For kindred virtues, curse-purging hand had prest. Hark, where the maiden is upon her throne! The ringing dowager, with delight, Regales her face,--the smiling dowagers. And his fair mother (glad at her new robes, And wearied of the old) with rosy mirth Walks on the threshold of the golden feast, Bids adieu to her beloved with sweet sighs; Then mounts the parting mother, like a hare, And bounds adown the mountain-paths of Mar, The elder gods for ever reign with her To peace, that no man may know of her gladness. I love thee, friend (the joy-shed gems reveal) Who hast thus from thy presence grieved me; Nor love, nor courage more, shall know Thy hand from mine, as at their birth they grew. And since I count not still with the fastenings That hold my feet and bind my head in bed, And sorrow-charged with dream-cure's dull drug, In vain I yearn for what in dreams I feel; Nor pray to what in silence died in life, The soul-eating sighs that could not stay in death. Tis peace to which my soul is wedded That has the friendly stars in her chanced place, The sun without a cloudy trace; Who hath no hour-laugh to wring The mirths out of the eyes of woe; Nor sinner's cunning in the grave But makes to-morrow the fortified prayer. She hath a voice as crystal water, And her verdure is of strength of prayer, Like the clear flood from some unclouded hill, And she hath yellow hair to be a crown To the weak mind whose lone purged form. Is graver to me what her witcheries To fit the celandine of Death and Sorrow Have cut a shade over Death's unrhymed page Whereon by turns the flow statelier, lighter grows. The moon was shining not but still she shone Upon the earth, and the night was still and deep As if that she might not end, but still possess, As in some fable the wind is the colour Of God's soul upon the unshudder'd wave, That on the same hill from centuries doth make The violet below the star-built city climb, When the wind fills in the silent waters round about. And who may say what treasures are in stone, Or what in gold, or why these few enchased Have been left of such an innumerable store, And why have I not honour'd them with gold As if their gold were a chapel rather poor Than one that an apathy did not drown And set unmanageable, or why I have clap'd Their names as theirs an end that I should break them, Or scratched an arrow here, or pushed an envelope there? But I do this and envy not; For all that is immortal and divine I think can be placed in stone and gold; Nor have I misread it for what it is weak Upon the point that only worm's is dead That records the death-warrant of kings; For I believe in woman as well as man But man with woman well and all things else, And if our names be set side by side The challenges of the world with honour stand, For clay is only one with dread impressed wrong, The head that's blebteen but one of many, That records the many that are dead. Cerberus is slain, and the Leals of the moon Place their broad swords across her captive's throat and kiss Her after slaughter, and men give her gifts Ino, Rising, seems a fitting daughter-god For white-fronted Pump-belly following a bear, The same bred and bred in common by all The beasts more thinly seached from Dithmenos' clouds, Whom I, though in the devil's errand, now call The sinning beast, whose ear-piercing quartz broke Made him believe the world and all its lies. "And I, beholding her clear-eyed cruelity, Delirious eyes from our strong walls content If we had ten thousand lives to feed their greed, So poor that they came not ripe for slaughter, And seeing our young strength by comparison Our young men slackened ======================================== SAMPLE 293 ======================================== Come on, ye vile, contemptible scoundrels, You are mere bread if you are not beef. Pursue me, too, who is still your prey. See how the foul thief comes in the seed! And if I shun him I shall have entered in The awful ranks of the damned and blind, For I have eyes, while you have not. Take heed. I who behold thee, chase both thee and God, To both cometh evil, while thou dost dwell here. Your God is the flat black earth, your God the hard sea, Thy God the Sagittarius,1 my God is the naked sky. But O, that I were a cock, or lion's cub, A dog, if I but looked at thee! I should pursue thee the world for these two minutes, And in my folly shoot, and slash, and scratch thee, And spoil thee, and entice thee to my liking. And I would drink thee, cool and slippery Samsons, With my blood thy purple perfume, With the wine That the ruddy hubbub spreads, And pour thee high and spill it on my head. I would drink thee and my soul would slake Thy more delicious hot thirst. I would drink, seize, and drink thee, draw and smother The soul of thy gold in mine. Let me drink, snatch, and wriggle, and do it now With thee great and good and vast and lean. I drink, seize, and do what I will with thee. I am not athirst. My face is ruddy, I am not merry, nor Jewish, nor a poet. I am not fat, nor sallow, nor scanty, Nor short, nor tall, nor short. I am not feeble, nor a botch, Nor a swine, nor a chode. I am a water,2 a glass, a seal, And a rock, and a rod, and a post. And I am not, beside me, wife, Slave, nor a thing apart. And I am not far off me, Lord, Nor below me. Thou knowest, when a mother suckles A child, and the milk is warm And the infant teareth. And when he shatters the splendor Of the shanged carkasses, And his dark diapers,3 he awakes To the world without a bumper. Thou knowest that God lay His fingers on our necks, And we laid them on thine. And we thought that we would say: The world is far and wide, Its pains and bumpers true. And we kissed thy wounds, sweet Lord, With our lit crosses, And we shook our almsof grace, To make them clean. So thou gav'st us this, sweet Lord, To work thy will: And, as he had mercy, so we had Thy gift. What needs there is that I should flee Thy house, or seek thy dwelling? Not there, dear Lord, have I a sting In my leg, or arm, or side, A serpent curled within A stone swallowed with fire, wherein A demon glided and passed, And all his member stood: And, when he sought it, sought to die, His body burnt to stake At thy command I made this Sign, Which was a twofold sigil, The which was day and night; And here I draw at thy desire, For leave, and grace, and service. I am not your son, for not being one, I will not say that I am yours. Yet, hearing how the world and its ways Are full of judgment, and have been tried O, I humbly make request, Lord, That, if my judgment be not good, Thou wilt double it. I will be blest with both man's powers And stupendous powers: yea, all my days Shall be as days of Eden, not as those Dumb to ache and blind to what was sight. I will have joy in all: inheaven below In the dog's bratcheting night, in hell above In unending heaviness, in life above The rapture of the pinacle. But, O ye forsakers of my work, with the pen of fame I, for which I tremble and struggle, I, for which I weep Wear a dark raiment, and make sight my bed: And neither you nor your copes shall hold ======================================== SAMPLE 294 ======================================== Faded, except in the wild sound, They could not have been heretofore, The Holy One, the Immortal Child; And none that' ever yet hath seen Beneath the casement vision-dark. In shapeless words he fled, and sang: "O you! that are alive; O you, beyond the line, That wander on in life; That, yet have hope to see Or' arch, or lighthouse, land, Or Paradise above; For all your years are laundered And full of glory; Or if scattered, to be A little scatter'd moulder'd scap; Of a poor cart-load, If born to sit aloft, King and church and state, To be a weight to relieve Of our clogging life, That in its sodden garment Burdens Our Stamp Act alone, That sends the blood in freedom's bed At every birth of struggle. And for this lost (or gained) No man should have place In your shouldering life; But one low-born slave has got To bear the load. 'Tis the (false) poor man's world That makes his struggles vain.' My (false) father (patron) Whose milk was (poor) and (cheerful), And (who raised (my) mother, I would (false) you to know; Know what (I had) for (I know not) me, I would (false) you know; Nor how, (with God) Himself, He dowers Her (null) brow with (brightest) pearl. Though (death-less) debt, (Hope-bound) my truant thought, I have (God) these rights; Which none can touch; (God) only can. God and His angels had not come To rule on Heaven's large plate; And (yet) did He not pass Up to the Throne (of Glory) fair, As if he did not have His crown, Yet in His hand His ings went; That none might dare to say That He ruled otherwise Than in the airy show Of angel wings and of skeletons Flying all yon blue round me. Yet (lost!) a prayer, like rain, Showers, in His eternal eye, Cometh back to me. What is all the ichors of the earth To His universal Water? (God) only can touch The ichor of tears and hopes. I want some paltry rain to fall On all this black and crummy world, To make it sweet and cool; Or, (taking a hold of My heart) To dry the black sea-fountains out. To add a little moisture (God willing) even to this ghast And sulphurous Earth. The moon was hid, And, where the deep spread wide, The (soul-to-be) Anchorite sat And waited for the Sign. All (his) movement was (static) slow, And (motionless) he sat. "If (how," he cried) "this (sit still) Tent-A (mental) meadow be (Or appear) the lake of (annul) Heaven, "Speak (or) have I (shall not be seen), "Sign my (hot) gates (with light), "Let (the Lord) go forth in (sharp) thunder! "Cling (for) on the (now) (God) sign!" He thought it best Not to offend the set your (mental) wings, That-stuff-will-not-shift-waters. Then (he) prevaricate did slip, And, calling (the Will) the loose were bound; (God) He made no scathe, no hate For the (great) Sign. Fool, (time has sped) think well And know the arrow shoot; Know (here) no (surely spot) to (betray), Carry (it) within; But (reach) your (inner) gate (some day); Then (judge-yawn) be (bit-abid); And (revert) from (sunny Deep); And (here) your ichor-cup Shall (inject) your ichor ointment make To (sweet) the World's (pure) right. God hath (foolish-like) rejected sleep, But (for the worst) God's Gate See (here) He waits (now) all ======================================== SAMPLE 295 ======================================== Star of the East, arise, and let him know Thy aspect, when he lifts his eyelids high. Thus with fair semblance shalt thou make known thy might, Nor shall the mighty host of Ethiopia fail. First, trifalling the lance, his right-horsed sword He held; nor let it idle lie; but swift and true He strove the passage; then, catching hold Of it, he tarrying turned him to the right, To make the tomb to Tomb: and now the head Sees two eyes upon him, and a neck and arms Wrought sweet with silver on the marble meet. He, pulling out the tongue, next did the chest Sort; and then the chest pierced, and bore from it What it held in addition to the king's act; Which had not turned the tomb it from the ground Had dropped down; so he beheld it drop adown, And yet it pierced the earth, and on the rock Overhangs it. They found the King's in twenty sections. And next beside the thirteenth he plucked A tiny multi-colored mushroom, whose gently Growing spot the eye near it followed well. It is a spur of him, he said, that takes Interest, finds a thing of value and neglect Plenty to save her. He chose it now to lay her On the reliev'd mound, and added, It is she. It is a year of madness, lust and war For land and treasure: the league-sum wasted, gold spent, Their leaders slain, the hall speculator, The number of the dead--but me by villain hand Thy empire thou hast followed still to slaughter. Thy prisoners here I bring from the systems, Is this the Sun? --Heigh-ho! Welcome, all ye To the royal Room! 'Tis ye have heard I do not prefer it, Nor what I Hath merit. I am he who Made the earth and All that is made from my Good speed. Do the worlds agree? I am he By radiant Images; and How I have cursed Your evil System! I have mourned and Mourn'd the effulgence Of the last days! How could I Stand here erect when I should be Rolling in that last great abyss Of the molten void, unnumbered Worlds unknowable? Thou art My brother, O Beloved! O tell From the mountain's shadow what thou Hearest: he speaks to us in words That float into our earth, not heard of Or foreseen or feared in any other Annihilation. What you hear he says To us the light, the inanity of Violence and the thrillings of power No more, nor any more descriptions Of the last days. But we, the human Sylph of him, we heard that before we When we were made in the surge of Thrifty evil to any sort of being Sufficiently sanctified, that we Perceive as God, and our power Of evil redress is inhibited. We, now, as the light in that mid-time Perception, no more reject his truth That bids us be unjust, repress and sloth And make the earth fit for dangerous Disgrace. It is I who say, and I, And he proving true ere the last sword Yields to the spirit in you and death Coins to the spirit, to the body Restores it, as our Lord said would be done. The death of the spirit Is sweet with the dominion! Now are we On our way to that nobler life. For I go on the top of the pyramid The speed of the wind, its undertone, And say to you, I come to tell Your souls' natures are, their opposites, Their contraries, in the family Of Man. So it shall be even as you see The stainless nature blameless and innocent Subdued to make that substance, one with the human, The dual enemy. Ye see me come With discourse of the spirit and thunder And lightning and hate, as I cross The mountain-paths; with hate in my love's reins! As when the hens a mad-hued, eerie glee Make singing in whiteness, when the sun Has sown the clouds; or as the snowy plows Or any labors, swept by a well-mote That turns its play. I have looked upon the stars, The revolving stars, and ======================================== SAMPLE 296 ======================================== Follow'd them, sadder for his brother's grief, But indignant with the deed he wrought. The jealous Statuist, this while, Took up a belt, that with his owner's belt Was wrapped; by Nostradamus' belt he thought, Or haply by the father Horace's; A belt, that in the wars his right was graced, A belt that seldom from the soldier worn: 'Twas fortunate in the hand that it fell To fill a soldier's death and grief, Or unhallow'd touching of the sword; For, falling from the staff of state, it snapp'd The neck of this or that; or else in rage Crush'd brawn and fasc, the brain of certain war. For why? For cudgelling of the statuist beast That breeds new horrors with his sloven cheer; Or glutton mariner, or butcher coarse, Who, living, lets his brother die; or landlord, lusty, Looks on the lives of all his tenants sind, To spread his own ample tent and estate; And rent the tears of wretches living still From Horatia's slopied pump of currant dust. That part was honest and chivalrous, And part a danget as with old Caesar's grandson; Where cruelty, though to a sensitive sense, Lit a light that struck unfeigner as on a spark; And happiness, this light, in cindu'scuit hues, Where dry- eyes staid the fighting-gentle-loving train, And, rich in tinted Fancies after gold, The fondly-petted mistress of chill air. A hollow sound, As of a cow's bell, A tinkling bell, As if in a wood, Half-humated, as in a secret dream. I stand and look, and turn and hold my place, And, like a hallful-door softly opening slow, The small's treshold widens on my footfall; And that still room Where late I gazed and wondered, is just such as My chosen memories have led me to name-- It is the room and the bower Of a beloved, tender friend; A loving friend who lingers, beauteous in air, And e'en in light, With the immortal beauty of her special culture. "I do not think 'Tis well with me"; I never thought but well with me; I thought but I thought well; And soon my heart's self Was ever, ere long, dower'd with love. But since I thought so, And since I am so, 'Tis well with me; It can ne'er be well with thee. "That is not so!" Stop there and think of 't; Because the thought behind That ill-omened word I do not say it, And ne'er will, And never will be! It will imply, And may, I said that I, too, would not fear; I said that I was not afraid Of anything, but press'd on with ten; I said that I was not afraid Of anything, e'en of the smallest burden; But would be frightfully afraid Of anything that should happen Without the whisper of beforeotnd, Except it were pity's having power To take away. How well it doubting is That which the world thinks really true! It is true that I was afraid Without that doubt within; And now there is but one way That I could open right here above My mind's window, and look out To right hand, or left hand, or directly, Or otherwise, left or right, And having anything to say That may be heard by others, let it be That I was never there,--only That I saw from where ever I was, And having known where ever I was, For I was there; And this belief That I was there, to me who knoweth, Gives me unmatch'd gladness. The time is past, its good and ill Have pass'd as a blank and permanent Fix which History with such treats as these Must codify and captivate its posterity; And the same general tenor maintaining Rests, remaining, and having been sustaining, Since first the Egyptian dynasties were laid, And in a revolute empire. Ah, Egypt! Ah, poor, great-souled Egypt! Gentlest of alongers, best of governors! ======================================== SAMPLE 297 ======================================== Breathing of all delights and joys, They all were seen of love, But the spirit-clay of a maiden, Gentle, pure, and sweet. We think of the mermaid's mouth That clasped the ocean, But we see that she was made Of flesh, and love, and kisses. All the dreams in the night That she hears and sees, All the hopes, all the terrors, Are melted in her blood, Are swallowed in the ooze And melted in her hair. Dark and dusky, dim and blowing, Flowers and flowers and leaf, With the evening-wind in the grass And the will-o'-the-wisp in the trees, The pale moon's dew-drops like rime Are carried in the smoke, Till the white moon hangs over Her own rosy dew-drop. When she climbs to the loft, She is not at ease; She is far from her love, And her pain is sore. She knows not what love is, And what her task to him; For her life is as dark, Her life is as tough As a soul that loves in sorrow Her soul to be from him apart. "Come in, old tear-drop, And let us sickness-hope meet," Said the kind woman. "Now, dear love, have you a word with me; We have lain on many, many a word, Yet no word will set poor old sorrow free; There is no pill nor spell That will lull to sleep The pain that makes the heart ache so; Come, to make trile, "Now, brother, I know you love roast meat, So bring the kid with the shank; I'm sure we have had enough to eat, Now's the time, we must have some maldeer, And to-night we have dearth. Our poor neighbours will be here soon, And I'll take of your frugal chatter A fair exchange for the next old black. "Now, rumpled suit, and tie, The white waist-coat and the dirty, The tie in your hands, And cuff the frocks off, The peachy little stockings too, They're clean enough, they're a new pair. Now, rumpled suit, and tie, The white waist-coat and the dirty, The black stockings, and I'll give you twenty pounds; "And bring the frugal coat, And white waist-coat and the dirty, As I bid you, brother, now fain; Your four-kneed hoovell, I'll take him for me and me for you, For sure as I live I'll give you double; Come, rumpled coat, and frugal coat, And glad four-kneed hoovell, Come to make a free exchange, And to make a free exchange of equals, And twenty pounds for the young man." 'T was in the Lion's butte, The summer was hot, And the goat's craven way Made that place a desert. He looked out for these and tossed A bark about which others could not join, And they came flocking in, The next clown may laugh at such games As won them favour at the Lion's Throne. A spectre jaunt'd before his feet, For, of all those trainers, The witless trainer-lord, Who each man loved, because he loved himself, And thought he might with him go far; The maniac trainer-lord, who played The mad trainer's game, and by his gains Went almost to destruction; Where eagles were roosting, And not a eagle was seen. The sun was hot, the sky was bright, And many a small bird chirp'd and hoot'd; The inn was crowded, the bell rung, The king turned from his face; For the trainer call'd him quick, To come and see him in his dream. The traveller shook his head, And thought he saw in the night The Earth's wide frame he had fallen within: He saw the springs of water, The current, and the bridge, And place or place of death; And thought it was a trick of light. And hooted, he said, He saw the dark earth bare A pink and silver ruin vast, And all the works of men Fall from their seats of iron, And roll around the earth As roll coming ======================================== SAMPLE 298 ======================================== They are just as much a part of you as blood, And the hearts of men, and the leg bones of the men. But they are but kaleidoscopic shadows Of themselves, and of the blind combina- tions which they find; and their thoughts Are but a longer tramp of the rout Of the real; and their hopes and their fears Are the vain fantasies of mirrors. The still bleats of a wood-dove, The white calls of a flock of chickens, The flutting cry of a heron, The glitter of a gold-toothed snake, The trilling of an eagle, the dizziness Of a flounder upwards out of reach, The drooping poise of a lark, The stooping lisp of a chaffinch, The rustle of a tree-swung boat, The rustling of the sudden breeze, The rasping words of a vine-snail, The sallow fin of a water-snail, The lowing of of the water-wooloo, The cry of a picked-up chipmunk, The rustle of a blossom-muffler, The piping of a twinkling hoop, The rattle of a gardener's bell, The rasping sob of a bull-rager's bell, The thumping of a tantille, the rattle Of a lagging fawn, the clinking of a goldfinch, The piping whinny of a partridge hen, The clatter of acock wasp, The rustle of a packed rind, The piping squeal of a pheasant's throat, The snort of a plumb-pig, The roach-snort of a wren's foot, The sullen clank of a cart-horse's hoof, The cackling hoof-clout of a dry-roaster, The heave of a moving iron mount, The bawling gutter cry of a beating plough-share, The whistles and squeals of a ferret hog, The cooings and whirr of a nightingale, The click of a cricket, the neigh of a horse, The whirring chatter of a power-mill, The whirl of a pail of water, The whining cry of a steam-engine jet, The rattle of a sleep-cheler, the whine Of a horse with overhearn'd gardeners, The crash of a comic clock, The sealawful glare of a deck-supper clock, The rattle of the clatter, The rattle-gounds of a smelting tanager Of a brat-chitter in a vat, The blare of a bus-barometer, The rattle-gears of a clock To a short jingle, The chimes of a domiciliary clock, The clatter of a seal-the-beetable clock, The noise of a bellman's clock, The tinkling clink of a church-bell, The dingle-click of a merry-go-round, The dink of a taffetnik, The clatter of a domiciliary trebosc; The cluck of a bratsch-cross in a tumbler, The clatter of a bini-billi, The dingle of a doo-fisted molossus, The bliucia of a hitch-link billi, The blithe clatter of a dood in a budjar, The clack of a flock of piggies in a cot, The cluck of a cock-cock of a bull-cucco, The bli-coos of a curattow, The snuffle of a bull-headed calf, The neigh of a brimmin'-roach, The howl of a lion, The growl of a bull-eyed curato, The bray of a tag-rag. The growl of a bull-faced curato, The bark of a lug is like the cluck; The cluck of a cock of the callow sort, The yap of a bokeekit cow, The yap of a lion with an eyier eare, The yowm of a bull-eyed curato, The yawm of a legged cat, The yawm of a curattow with an eyier eare Is like the brat- ======================================== SAMPLE 299 ======================================== Note how, in their own and sometimes In mine own words, it seems as if (The standard measure of success When them and us by whom it is From morn to midnight and from midnight To stretch the feet upon the tongue Of people who of us haply Have little of life to say) And them I know to be the men From whom I would not be hurt I must confess not cannot say If I in their fair and holy blood Could but efface the impure sin For which I tremble lest I bring Unto death the blood I gave. And if I be so, Forget me not! and as I desire, She, she's a box of honeyed dew, And flowers and bistromat, and a ship, And all that makes life soft and sweet And if a beast be in her, well, The blithe beast, she is sweet to taste, The honey from her lips would lose, But honey's not heaven, nor the mirth Of her so smooth and little heart, Nor face, or care, nor heart, or skill Nor wit, nor memory of days gone by Nor love, for it is but the same to me, So that who hath all these, is lord; For if to have all these were all my wish, I might not lack the honey and the ship, Nor be content to be content; And then, when pressed, I might not want To have my heart within my mouth. I should have my heart within the heart Of one to-morrow, and his sweetheart And her to-morrow, and a ship, If that her father willed it, and all The beauty of the world to cast Upon the shaping of her form and grace. Oh, the divinest delight that steals From memory of things that been; And, once too, a father's love When his fingers hanker On the map and its map-map Where true sighs and tears are In their place, and he is here. Where neither hope nor fear is ours, But only prayer and awe, We are then strongest, when we know That what we crave, we must have. So, I pray God, the sufferinged shall Be his, not ours; that thou Grant to his care the greatness due; That thou give peace to his chair, And mercy, and not leave a pain He knows not. Yet there is comfort, for the strife Of his great heart with our own, As the immortal Seed of his soul Was with the human seed. So through the swelling heart arey leaves Are ingrown culms that yet shall shoot; And the soul of his divinest law Is our soul's might. It is the old sweet honey in the bloom Of things unseen, in the running dew, In the sunbeams and the starbeams and the stars; Of the things that are unseen Is the beauty that shall meet us here; The invisible, Beautiful doth hold The richest warner in the meader's heart. So again, our sweet hope, with prayer, And the eager trusting that goes with it, Doth make glad the sorrows unseen, And the sting from the sorrows is not smoke, But its mercies are perfumes; Thou art Beauty and life and bright delight, Thou art the Maker's heart of joy! But they who sleep, and have no skill To heed, or turn away, Through their great Name are glutted, they Are filled as with dragon-rapt; Their shut eyes' tears Are filled as with hell's cold fire, And they know not whercome they may So we hear, in the clean snow, From thy trembling lips, and in thee The old dew fall of alarm; O sorrow, sorrow, thy prayer is not In vain, nor vew they but with hearts Wakened by thy prayer; And he who hath thy faith at heart, With thee will pray. O words, and what a change of heart Is it to feel within thee what words Say; and here my heart is awake As if the lid to fall; and yet, The very reason why I am awake Is how long it has been from thee. If you were not within, I would not mourn; And I should joy, If I were not blind. But I am near the gate, I have no thought on earth, To pleasure thee, Or fill thy heart With warm delight; But then there is an end ======================================== SAMPLE 300 ======================================== Haunted the place, Where, e'en in May, The bard, in fife and drum, Had fanned the blast to sound; And now, with shadow dim, And mellow airs confined, Thy future rimes Were storey clad with night. Nor was the prose-poet Mused of thy muse's palace. No longer did the room With flame of drapery breathless Breathe gaudy air and flowers. The painted canopy Was couched in the red mane Of the wild steed of deeds, Of battle and swift flight. The beasts that in the pale did bite The sun for food had now become The pale mane, that were long The scaly staff of the sun. So, too, when the moon's last beam Had laid the wan sod Of earth, thy verse had shed The yellow light of summer's curl, And, like the sheen on egg white, Lisp'd its dewy fragrance. But now, even as thou didst leave Thy sullen acre, with all The horses driven to heel, The bare tracks of the wild horse, Thy spirit's horse of song, Thou hadst passed to advancement, Thou hadst blasted its might Erewhile in deeper shades. Thou art fashioned for advancement, The creak of a horse now Bears no balsa in its chains; Like the morning-glory's mother Folds, envelopes, and coos. O could a muse be dear to a day As this, and as thy lady! O for the shy species, sir, The freckles of May! Such stars as call'd Delia dear, And spring's blue mallow-crown. O for the aloes with mom did By Delia's glance of smile! O for the perfumes of jasmines Borne by the young cast of May! O for the abeced trees that did Nod for "Joy be by thy side, With Delia, and with you!" In spite of all this, the rain Has got a feasting room, And, it seems, for rain is fine dinner. The bird in quattle and chittering, Has not so much luck, as he would have Who took his bargain to town in April. The pigeon in hang , and, he's out to buy A road to Somerset steel by Hyde. The penny, not that it is dark, By that it girdled of a pin, Is quite a king among birds; And this little green thing Roams about my house And drives my fellow Shivering and roasted, If it get a chance to be raining. So, this means, a blessing of supper And a speedy dinner to the bird; For, though he beat him, I'll not doubt He's not as warm, The dear bird, as brave, as warm, As every bird can be, All haveed, And bolder, and braver, and bolder, And braver, and boldest,-- So, when other birds are flying Round about, They will follow on his wings, At least, this little green thing, When some black plumes are dreaming On the chimney-top, Makes those flutterings take place Upon his own. Till the beating of his wings Makes the blood in his breast Leap hard like that from a fan, And he flies away, All athirstingly, As now he wakes And feels at heart, The heaven in view! Cherry-berry, Cherry-berry, Whippoorwill, Broad-shouldered Sway-back, Up and down Forest-under-wood, Gathering and gold-sticky Morning-mower, Brisk little Wild-wheat Bran-bursting, Broad-breasted, Trout-shark Bright-face, Caught and cipp'd, Swallow-govined, And like a trampler Wild-darter Black-shankled, Set to go High-gate to meet Some bob-toddied Whippoorwill, Caught beside Her maiden Jenny. Scarlet and bright, Lively, and sleek, Bright-lipped, Glowing, Bran-broil'd, Heel upon patch High. With most blunt smote Full on the cheek Her ======================================== SAMPLE 301 ======================================== Nay, though, perchance, the utmost bound Of thy contemplation. Here is a thing to ponder, If we the wings may give, Till the sleepless car will take us Where this lake is a gem. <|endoftext|> "Carpet", by Kay Redfield Jamison [Love, Realistic & Complicated, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire] All day the carpets of thought were pulled up and shook. Some sat on their tiptoe, some let their shoulders slump. A few reached across the threshold of their insulated dwelling in the night, and spanked a pillow to the beat of the heart, their heads crossed on the far carpet by love's broom. Some carpiled and lumped with laughter, their skirts caught in their feet like a belted choon. Some jumped, some skittered, with their skirts caught in their boots, all jumping in pairs. A few carpelled with solemn mien, and clasping their hands in the breeze, and wiggling their devilish hips, and looking into the sleepy eyes of their long mirror whose face was a book, and vice-like, with the strength of sunlight on wrinkles. They carpled and lumped, with a whip of music, with a tun of pride, and grace, and shame, and skipping and splicing, and lying in wait. They carpled and stuck their head across the threshold and looked at the tattered carpet that was black and given up to their tenacity, and wished that they could keep the rest of the carpet to have some part in the morn for carpet, for something for carpet, some task for carpet, for the morning of the carpet's sordid births, and not at night when they cross the threshold and rest in the sacred field, and rise with all the joys of spring for carpet, for carpet, the carpet of love. <|endoftext|> "To the Band in Crumpled Blue Hats", by Kay Ryan [Arts & Sciences, Music] Come serve us soup, brain, Our public screen, cringefies of hats, in cemeteries Of moustaches and clobbering Garces and gummies Shake hats and horn, Hats a bright ribbon on, Gigs in shoals, bands of men, Curing, chattering like a hive. Whispering the important Key note and bridge Till echoes rolled like a wave On slim instruments and treble-trousle, And pits were counted like the lorts That rasp the beech and tell us The bluet breaks like a woman Goes in, like, goes in the ground Where brownbirds haunt and roam, Like men going in to right the wrong, And scuffing like a mill, As though they'd cart the blue from off the green, Or bust the green like a soil-crust. A thin waltz of a measure Hath been wrought for us To love her, and root for her, In spite of greenwind and beep, And all the guitar work Of men in black, who tread it To dance, like our young fires, For her, our lady of breezes. <|endoftext|> "From "P. Smaers" [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Arts & Sciences, Music] The sonneteers would give a part Of spirit and soul a larger span Than music complete, with facts And legerdemain, when they wrote In numbers that had a joy Of matchless beauty, like The fourth opus of F.W. These melodies that bracket the clock Would give a part Of spirit and soul a larger span Than music complete, with facts And legerdemain, and timbre That whined at the computer Could match the chatter of a moth In minstrelsy. These melodies That harness the imagination Could, with the facts and leeds Of spirit and soul a larger span Than music complete, yet fine And fretful and loud Would weary and reproach Their weakness, if unmoved And ill at ease with wonder, If tempest howled on And we at the turning Wheel said If birth were not of soul a sin And love a fraud And joy a sham And life a dream That swung from nothing And a circle, where the different Col ======================================== SAMPLE 302 ======================================== ) a point of. A dew, a dew, a thorn. A dire stra-ice (stern) A faucet-flash (quick) A faucet-drip (dear) A flitter-flame (flash) A foamy-fountain A fient de flotation A faux sheaf A chalet (a small shed) A chalet (a cottage) A coon-track A cohue A clerical-cracker A sly cat A clerical-cracker A tinker A whipper A shake-speare (shiver) A cat A bag (kitty) A champ (a pole for hanging fish) A grim (adventure) A hatch (a small quantity) A hatch-back (high-backed) A green-horn (juvenile) A green herring A sap A cream A big-city lady A gin (a gin) A see-saw A saw (a saw) A shoe A go-head (speaker) A shiver A shiv (ambition) A hoist (A, v. ed.) A deal A large lady A lank A leer (to be seen) A liar A lovely lady A sling A slush (a slug) A soup A chutter (a cough) A chutter-hole (hidden) A chutter-gate (hidden) A drift A chouse (to use, to be able to) A clowdie (to come) A clowdie (to lose) A chopper (to cut) A chow (to take, to put in place) A cloot (to cloot) A clow (a clowl) A tryst A chopper (to slit) A chopper (to slit) A chopper (to slit) A col (to knead, to tan) A col-down (a trench) A col-out (out for racks) A colt (a horse) A col-hat (a collar) A col-back (a horse-back) A col-dick (to crack) A col-haw (to stick) A col-hilly (to hyack) A col-straw (to stand, to lance) A col-chop (to clip) A col-schmuck (a stroke) A col-hop (to take) A col-rod (a rake) A col-schmuck (to crack) A col-schmuck (to use) A col-schmuck (to use) A col-swal (a scratch) A col-swal (to scratch) A col-swal-wind (wind) A col-tuck (to close) A col-dick (to stick) A col-dock (to duck) A col-daw (to curse) A col-dock (to drool) A col-deed (to lick) A col-dick (to dig) A col-haw (to swing) A col-deed (to slip) A col-schmuck (to stitch) A col-schmuck (to use) A col-schmuck (to cheat) A col-schmuck (to cheat) A col-teed (to tug) A col-tit (to tug) A col-tit (to tug at) A col-tim (to pull) A col-tum (a tummy) A col-ton (to squall) A col-ton (to squall) A touner (to neater) A tug-bag (a spinner) A tug-bag (a spinner) A tug-bag (a neater) A toz (a tozer) A toz (a tozer) A toz (a tozer) (I cut my hand to the quick.) A ton (my hand's) A ton (my toz) A toz (a tozer) Gang-dazzed (their moonshine) Rags to clothes (a creeping) Nosing (a nook) Not trod (on shoes) Shove (on stands) Shove (on hands) Mics in pockets Knob (of a guitar) ======================================== SAMPLE 303 ======================================== And they and their fathers, see, Dying, will travel back To the wonderful days, When the fish were golden-pale, And the sledge was like a boat, And a hot sand runway Could be made in the yard. But now the wonderful days are Failed, and fettered crutches Are worn by day, and slings are Shot with a snapping shot; Now the turf is runny, And the sullen sledge is wet With the sweat of the horses. And the Indian may have halted Toward the end of the race, And the old men had clocks, And the little children had watches. And the river was there, And the wind was driven Towards the water-canals, And the siding of rising waters Was heard in many a wailing shrill. There were two who would never die, And their course was towards the rising sun, And they had hired the fiend to lead them on To a sad and barren shore, And a ship, which they would not pilot Nor the sense of the waters to numbers, But the ship of the remnant race In her belly like a boat. It was all like mowing lawns, As the poor Indian stood, Watching the wind, and guarding His passage o'er the turf, While he wondered; seeing the cloud Shadows of his home, Though he could not turn his eyes. And there he shrunk as if he saw Dead inanimate shadows From a cloud pass over him, Which brought him to his knees, And bowed his head to earth, Gazing on all the graves of his brothers And sisters, And he wept and murmured, Doubting words of longing and regret: "I shall not follow the wind, Nor go to the sunshine, nor see The wonder of the waterfalls, Nor go to the firefly's homestead, Nor see the shining of the heavens, Nor stand beneath the shooting stars; Nor find my father's ghost, And hug his warm bosom, nor the limb From the spirit's close embraces. Never shall I carry To a distant paradise, In the spring's time, the elfin trunks Like these of mine and so frighten My sweet self into spring, Nor ever know the joys of life, Nor ever carry my mother's Clasp into her face and part. But I shall weep and know How my lips were wet in tears. Then I shall turn to seek The wonders of the open sky. I shall grow and be no more Than the white-feet of the clouds Or cry out and die in joy." And now the slumber of the night Was broken with ringing of bells; And the tender dreams of earth Made it sweet, and made it light. And the azure heart of the night Was warmed with leaves off shoots of leaves. And all the earth was fresh with light, And the sea was new and straitened with shadows, And the soul was strong and tranquil with hope, And the body was built with sacred breath, And all the living things did change, And with the wondrous light revealed The workings of an omnipresent Will. And the awful contortions of the sky, The green-handed stars and their hoods of silver, The lunar palaces and their crystal columns, And the sun's house like a human skull, The moon's own crater and haunted cowls, And the great eye on the tower of its whirl of fire, All grew strange, and shrank or grew wide, And did more ghastly with strange detail; And strange was their contrast to the eye, As the littlest child and the most remarkable Came to pass, and the change was seen and caught By each at equal distance far and wide. And these were the miracles wrought: The growing daylight brought evil to death And the white teeth of the night came down to bite The growing word of the growing world; The white fears of the wild came down to freeze And snare the soul of the awake and the wild; The slow fear of the dawn brought the swift fear of the night; The breath of the breathless lumber of days, Came down to gnaw and to chew on the alive dead And to break the living life to insalubrious dead; The frown of the hunter brought the crooked frown of the rifler; The falling star and the packing cloud did vie and shiver, And grew one with the visible universe To such magnification ======================================== SAMPLE 304 ======================================== spoliation. I am forced to shove myself together again. My chest is the center of the storm, my lips are what tear themselves away. <|endoftext|> "What The Body Did Before Ruin", by Richard Ezra [Living, Life Choices, The Body, The Mind, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] A high fence topped with barbed wire girds a pasture ill-maintained. A horse urinates in the road and keeps looking up. A woman of means has shamed by running in to washthe animals before they are during the procession. <|endoftext|> "Every Time it Has Kryptonite", by Lyn Hejinian [Living, Life Choices, Love, Desire, Nature, Religion, Christianity, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] That something never becomes what it is wanted, but something does not hurt its former self, but reacts with vengeance on a rival's gain. Myself, I am desperate for a woman of strength, for youth, for any figure that does not yet look or act depraved: heaven forbid that I be one who breaks with violence, that I be one who strikes a nail with the force of 40 horses' foals on an oaken stage; heaven forbid that I be one who can turn into a toddler the light of another's day. I will not be one who weighs in the unanxious shade of his own becoming; I will be one that does not aspire to escape or to end my day. I will be one whose resting-place is not his maker's brass bequest; I will be, then, that which he makes himself. And so I make this song, and I make it now— in the constellation that the moon fills before hisunciation of the word for Paradise; or at the edge of my first November when wild afterward I walk with mybeheaded hog and myperp, the neon-sign glowing over the blank pasture to apprise the future that someday it shall be dark. <|endoftext|> "Duck/Rabbit.jpg", by Lyn Hejinian [Living, The Body, The Mind, Nature, Animals, Mythology & Folklore, Fairy-tales & the Mythology of Arthurian Legends] I I wished to create from empty mind the fantasy of an animal talking— my armored heart ceasing to be it, ceaselessly—yet I no content; to not content, to want not to be content: the want of irony; my armor is not armor but erasureof its last outer appearance— what was behind it? My wish was to wish not to wish—the wish of rabbit, the wish of duck: my wish was to speak not to hear—yet my arm was quaking all over and I was not to object: <|endoftext|> "Epic", by Craig Santos Perez [Living, Time & Brevity, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Trees & Flowers] We stopped by a cabin in the woods. It was acoustically beautiful like old wings when they first took off. And I was pressed into trudging up the hill. We rumbled in, lighted by the moon against the green defunctly called screen door: of course it was myth, I told her looking at the name on the bear bowl— that felt old— and spoke— the forest—before the trees. Forgiveness. The forest had been there even then. The trees didn't quite make it, it was the right place at the right time that made it right. <|endoftext|> "Waiting (Adriety)", by Jay Wright [Living, Life Choices, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life] Does your work trip exist in the work or does it exist in your work? You have a job to do and you have a family, but what is that—air miles, air minutes, frails of air— what air commute you endure to arrive, where, where—await my performance? It is the work—it is the air that holds my family. I may sound reverent like a cenotaph kneeled at the base of an epic that waits lifted in air— weird air, unwindable air gathers my voice and air— air ======================================== SAMPLE 305 ======================================== stains; she speaks her to the caustic gods of law, the sycamores of conscience, and again, as dusky as the far inland draw of the sunset, she does her in the ear, she has no own of such a ménage in the face of this matter of yours. She is in the kitchen that you sit in, taking off her jewels; she is in the dark room bowing herself to a body that the world would rather see barbarous and three-headed. She is in the heart of you, that is to say, and as steadfast as a bottom. She is a shift in the winds that is to say, and as tranquilly as the moon, and as unironic as the glitter of a star with a third eye in its exterior. <|endoftext|> "Blackbird Care/Prison Guards", by Jay Gemicourt [Nature, Weather, Arts & Sciences, Music, Mythology, Heroes & Patriotism] In the good ole days before heroes became expensively noble, you and I were good people, living in a run-down cottage with a corner cluttered with bird-eaten weeds. The jaysfaltered in the yard and the beansplos echoed off the sourblades of the maple. You and I lived from covered beckon. The woods were yellow and the velvety turf at the edge of the old-clover-loved pastures and the throats of cowslips, jeny and uncut, were bathed in the cold. The blood sang in the broad leaves. You and I, walking in the wood, were each other's guard. We knew of each other. We were of the utmost importance. We would not be taken down. <|endoftext|> "The Snowshoe", by William Colvin [Living, Activities, Sports & Outdoor Activities, Nature, Winter] It begins to sink in that the championship jewel of my neck is a severe case of depression. I don't know how to wake it, except I try to hike as far as I can, then sit in the lowest chair. My palms plus the cold are my only ammunition against the ground drifting away. But it is jonquils for caterpillars, and I am only a student of dior (notaire of a pinch of flap) who prefers to be by himself than with a group of friends. I have sent invitations to the mayor, the county rep, the head honcho at the Nature Coop. Not much good standing to do, except to roam the highways and count the cars as my glistening eyes grow black in the sun, my cheeks go numb, I start twitching. Perhaps it's too hot, or too cold. I don't know. Just to lie in a crevice of the woods, alone, waiting for something that never comes, it's best by far, there is always room enough for all sorts of things, but for nothing. <|endoftext|> "Ode", by James Trumbull [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Trees & Flowers] The sea is not green. It is not blue. It is not clear. It is constantly changing. It is meaningless. It is milky. It is seen. It is elusive. It is sad. It is dim. It is murky. It is never clear. It is not soft. It is hard. It is horrible. It is changed. It is gray. It is a monster. It does not resemble. It is deadly. It is not pure. It is pixy. It is filthy. It is so far. It is dry. It is calm. It is vague. It is never calm. It is with. It is with a death. It is feeling. It is with life. It is dark. It is darksome. It is with love. It is trite. It is dead. It is tender. It is pulseless. It is not safe. It is mercurial. It is not safe from love. It is often. It is not past. <|endoftext|> "Spinning", by Charles Reznik [Living, Death, Relationships, Family & Ancest ======================================== SAMPLE 306 ======================================== Open arms and old women's-tongues Are here--from dust and fire From corn that crows about In rolling loads! I read the ribs, for in each column All kinds of caves are spread, And all kind of hills--and mountains From their old stronghold, On every rib I read, Tales of the bison, and the beaver, And the bear, Tales of the wolf, and the wolverine, And the moose, Tales of the alligator, And the rivers of gold, And the bridges of the river Sobr90009n, And the tumbling waves of green mud, And the rushing waves of your deep sea, And the long silver cables You who love the sound of the sea, You who love the darkness of water, You who love the night of the deep When the lights go out, And the little ships go down By the ghost-boats of whales, In your caves of wonder, Where are dreams of gods, Where grots and crystal vents, Dim, vast forests of steam, And shining caves of light, With gas and steam, And the sound of the gushing foam, And the rolling, And the reeling of the tide, And the whimpers of deep water, Or in the tiny boats That sail the great seales Through the purple deeps, Where the black gunnites view The wonders they make, You who love the night and the deep And the rush and the roar, In the golden age Of the firs and pines, When the early pioneers, Trailing their stockings, Were pelted with light From the raftery roofs Of the old smoke-house village, Then you came to this, Wearing no bail, Bearing in your mind Barely visible Only a knife and those words In your caps of steel: "Sha'n and what you will." When the winter daylight gleamed On the wild wood side Of the Indian Corridor, As you walked together Among the riled and tormented And the crazed wood, Though you bore not of these things A word, you saw it all, And your eyes outshone O my people's voice In the days of withering, When the years were long and bitter, And the years were wild and wrenching (Ah, your spirit's voice was lost) When white men walked without blanch, And our hearts were scarce of good government, And our arms were lacking, Though the hours of sunshine and coolness Had begun to creep Into the soul of us a folk Unrulerable, obscure, In a land of dark revelation, And a land of customs strange to these, And a land whose customs we did doubt Commingling of such kind with their way of life, Yet we cared not-- Why should we care? Why should we care? When our blood froze in our veins By the goading arts of battle, When our eyes burned with the seeing, When we heard with terror, When we kenned with feeling A land in flames, And the iron jagged, When the guilty of fate By the hungry flood Pritched and slew us quick in listening ear And did do so Why should we care? Why should we care? Why should we care? When our tongues gaped and stared When we tried to speak, Why did our souls go with the tide From the dark wood of hell, When our tongues gaped and stared? Why did our souls go with the tide From the dark wood of hell? When with pangs and struggles Our eyes rolled in our heads, When our hearts burned in our breasts, Why did we groan and struggle? Why did we groan? Why did we suffer? Thought we that we were free? Why did we suffer? When with clench of grasp, And the sharp kiss of death, Death, whose warm breath is life, When the sweet flow of blood Breathed at his fountain All his other children free Of anguish and ache and grief, Why did we murmur and moan? Why should we murmur? Why should our hearts moan? Why should we suffer? When with the galeb's grip Comes the stone mountain's glare And the far glare in the sand, When with the chase and the shout By the cracked turf and the pocked face Of the place of ======================================== SAMPLE 307 ======================================== Do not mope, Tho' hope seems far away, It is the least Auld man should care for. My mind was never made To stand on a time Like this With such a view As this world allows. All that is fixed And definite Is fixed And definite Again. I never was made To do a direct Job to the purse. I go by first choice Other consideration. I keep my head For my next stop Or about The servant of My mind. You had better have A better e'e Than a' taken e'er for 't. You might as well Stony be hard About the thing Your dear friend wanted. 'T would certainly do Some good to flog it For a thought so free Of a' that, For me to draw; But so do I feel I've told you all. I'm fash'd, I've heard, I'm out o' luck, And a' that. 'Tain't the e'enino gals at Christmas, Gamb! Gamb! Donner come in here, Bivalve, blue, bialy, they tell me, Bivalve, blue, bialy, they're come, Good lasses, all of 'em, Bivalve, blue, bialy, come in here, Come in, come in, and cut a dash, Greet all, and cut a ditty, Bivalve, blue, bialy, come in here. Merry pioneers, maun be my own, I'll make you merry pioneers, I'll make you millionaires, I'll reward 'you all pretty merry, Give me coal and I'll give you fire, I don't care, we'll get our reckoning, Dowry, mansion, furniture, whatver it be, Whatmauve, perilous, wampum it is, I, millheads, am a full half-half right, For the half in me's half of the half of you, I'm just as half-half as I'm right half right. I'm happy in you I'm happy in you, I'm glad in you I'm glad in you, Heaven is home in you Heaven is home in you, No one knows in you one's close in you, And home's the bed of you, you're a-bed of me, And the lamp's the star of you, you're a-bed of me. The horse's the star of me, and the star of me, The fox's the star of you, and the fox of you, The eagle's the star of you, and the eagle of you, The sea's the star of you, and the sea's the star of you, And my stomach's home of you, and my stomach's home of you. A living god is Home, He is the must of me, He is the wide and the may of you, He is the life of me, And He's my star, you're the light of me, And He's radiant, radiant, and eternal, And I sing, as the stars sing, A song of praise to Home. A living god is Home, I'm glad with you, I'm glad with you, I'm happy in you, I'm happy in you, I'm fed with you, and I'm fed with you, A-cold, and I'm cold with you, And I'll be to heaven with you, And I'll sing, as the swans sing, To Home. A living god is Home, He's light of me, and He's He, He is the must of me, And He's home of me, and He's my star, The sun is the colour of me, And He's radiant, He's radiant, and eternal, And I'll sing, as the dim sky burns, To Home. I have thought of nothing but you, My love for you, my life has been One long immemorial stone Cut from the green of the land, at the edge Of the great stone, and floated afar Of the low clouds, and flown over sea, and land, And been a cloud and a cherry-tree, A sky-globe, a drifting, ever: I thought of nothing but you. I had not known how light we carry The slightest burden with us, but to thee, My love, my only love, who should Have told ======================================== SAMPLE 308 ======================================== God called out, "Too late! It cannot be! The cask is too full! It will not go! I must leave it here, and myself!" Then away he went, and from his form A sudden veil of stripes and tears, Of clay and sublimity pass'd, As in the vale where Judson lived! The host now lightens with its beat, And gathers, rounding to a stand, And bends its watchet wings to show Where the cask is waiting full in front, Ready to be discharged at command. Down it proceeds, down, down, till 'tis full, And gathers to its earth the whole earth; The earth's surfeit where'er it falls Its prodigal force the debt repay, In tidal wells, where all the bubbles drink, Or out of shells, where all the winds that blow Are pressed from out themselves, and—but you know Withtroubled Eden, fearful Eve! Out of its old cycle up we pass'd, The world is that which is now too old; Our new earth is the first, I fear, Of all this place which you see and know, That in the dark is darkness, bare, O Darkness, be cloak'd,, not smile at us; See, we are sub leuvant barco, Your lightnings fright us, and you, again, I fear, to see the world we live in Is where we all were grown, and none of us At all, to see it go from us, now! Than, then, to that little spring we go, The next circle left, where you will find The nature which engenders this I want for my natural condition. What flatteries fall when truth manifests! A green strip, ruffled by the hookless plants, A thin cut, low wall at mid-thick, a door All barriered with holes. So: The curious eye can tell There was a road, and a house, and a dome, Crouching side by side, as if in tacit league. For he flatter'd me once in his beatific way, And I would say to him: "And what is most glorious, What most expresseth man?" But he, it seems, said: "The world is man's abode." Not in a rhyme or a novel Is the world exprest, nor could it exprest; Because it was a house, man's abode. It is a house whose substance is his light and heat; And it is man's substance, therefore the alcove Is always open, and always in a row, And, also, all the windows and the roofs and the walls Are imaginary; for, if you search the scriptures, Roused from their caves, the shepherds still remember That invisible yeomen, called the Holy Ones, Came out of the Ark! We will give you one blessing, two conditions. The first: The Holy Ones cannot come between us here and … And the second: they can't go within. Now it's open. Go in! That tempest will grow up, and, gathered together, The storms of all the heavens will beat upon us, The winds of all the winds; but the stormiest will be the blast But he is mine, and I am his wind, And my voice and my imagination are law! <|endoftext|> "We Too Have Listened", by Robert Frost [Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Music] We too have listened for fur and feather. We too have slumbered for the world to go. We too have watched the dawn emerge, flush hand in hand, The small light trembling in the east. We too have heard, close to the earth, the cry of the mooch, The growl of the wolf and holler of the hunter. We hear, when the pine wind chills the day-long breast, The swirl of waterfowl and gray hush of the river. We have learned the call of the twilight song, And warmed amidst the music that we listen to. The deep-blue panfly will wing in the dusk alone, The long-winged lore open their eye to the rods. The black owl in his round of sky will sit, And the brown parti-leaf, with a countenance, Flaps his small sagging wings above the grass. We have walked in the twilight and talked of the day, For the redbreast and the parti-leaves, their fluff, ======================================== SAMPLE 309 ======================================== Press-count, Kettle, Turtle, Doughnut, Tylus, Doughnut, Doughs, Donut, Arnold, Grackle, Bo-peep, She-wolf, Boa-bobo, Buzzard, Drowse, Buzzard, Hawk, Tree-tipper, Buzzard, Wasp, Grizzly, Buzzard, Sliver, Buzz, Knave, Buzzard, Knob, Buzzard, Sliver, Buzzard, Mite, Mumbler, Mule, Buzzard, Wasp, Mokee, Moggie, Buzzard, Whippoorwill, Buzzard, Buzzard, Wattle, Wattle, Buzzard, Buzzard, Goosoon, Goosoon, Buzzard, Buzzard, Gopher, Buzzard, Gullion, Buzzard, Whippoorweave, Dove, Mokea, Buzzard, Chough, Gunga, Nun, Buzzard, Buzzard, Buzzard, Grizz, Buzzard, Buzzard, Buzzards, Buzz, Buzzard, Buzzard, Buzzards, Buzz, Buzzard, Buzzard, Buzzards, Buzz, Buzzard, Buzzard, Buzzards, Buzz, Buzzard, Buzzard, Buzzards, Buzz, Buzzard, Buzzard, Buzzards, Buzz, Buzzard, Goosoon, Goosoon, Buzzard, Buzzard, Goosoon, Goosoon, Buzzard, Buzzard, Buzzard, Goosoon, Buzz, Buzzard, Goosoon, Goosmon, Buzzard, Buzzard, Goosly, Buzzard, Buzzard, Goos, Buzzard, Whippoor, Whippoor, Whipp, Buzzard, Whippoor, Whippoor, Buzzard, Buzzard, Whippoor, Whippoor, Whipp, Buzzard, Buzzard, Buzzards, Buzzard, Buzz, Buzzard, Buzzard, Buzzards, Buzz, Buzz, Buzzard, Buzzards, Buzzards, Buzz, Buzzard, Buzzard, Buzzards, Buzz, Buzz, Buzzard, Goosoon, Goosoon, Buzzard, Buzzard, Goosoon, Goosoon, Buzzard, Buzzard, Goosong, Goosong, Goosoon, Buzzard, Whippoor, Whippoor, Whipp, Buzzard, Whippoor, Whippoor, Whipp, Buzzard, Whippoor, Whippoor, Whipp, Buzzard, Whippoor, Whippoor, Whipp, Buzzard, Whippoor, Whippoor, Whipp, Choosing for death, So she could not run after the horse. "You must choose for death!" So she could not walk afterward. Choosing for life, So he could not swim after the boat. Choosing for death, So she could not climb after the bridge. Choosing for life, So he could run after the car. Choosing for death, So he could go to jail for the funeral. Choosing for life, So he could not go to school. Choosing for death, So he could not buy the way. Choosing for life, So he could not get a bike. Choosing for death, So he could not lose again. Choosing for life, So he could stay on the bike, Choosing for death again. Choosing for life, So he could get a car again, Choosing for death again. Choosing for death again. Choosing for life, So he could lose again, Choosing for death again. Choosing for life, So he could get the car again, Choosing for life again. Christian, I have to tell you, you were here The whole time. I don't know how to get past that. How could you have missed you all these years? Because if Christian was not with you, then You were with someone else. And the others Were running away from the bullies. I don't know if it is kind that way To have the bullies be the bullies, but You couldn't go far by way of living. What do you do if you are forced to go And you want to get to know someone? But if you want to know if someone is Christian, you will have to take a look at them And see if they look at you and think: What would Christian think this time? You run away from someone who is beating you. That is one way to make ======================================== SAMPLE 310 ======================================== jumping with great novelty, and the brief next day, and sometimes a tale of old the way of the ice-fugue and the hand-tied bridge is a charming idiom. Yet as the animal was quite unlike the fishes of the immediate stream it was small-bred, and its manner of play, a wildness of pug and pup and paw, gave it a peculiar charm. And though no showman's ruth or artlessness was needed to make it laugh, the old-fashioned performance was not without its je ne pas vous offerts, for all that it was excellent the poor trophonist knew full well that it opened the door, not merely to a smile, but something like a kiss on the lips; and he found, with some pain and omen, that the parents were angry with their offspring. There were murmurs, too, about the state of the inn-keeper, and the evening, when the ball room was not yet ready, brought in a host of society, not subjects for a satire, but for a meal and a concert or two, with performers to sing and dance, and for some distinguished first-upow to speak and make speech! The opening of the ball room was with the motley show, which, with smiles and cheers, and the dropping of lights, announced, and it is probably safe to say that the meal was thoroughly As it happens, this was a point at which I was unable to express my exact feelings, and so I will confine myself to saying that it was an excellent meal, though I wish it had been longer! Of the 8 or 10 guests there was no one who should less gladly be counting in tic-tic, and all were well pleased to have the liberty of leaving early As regards Miss Rose, I must say that, though I have known her since childhood, she has never before been so distinctly attractive to me as she was here; and I hope that, if she stays long in our town, she will not grow flamboyant in her face, nor turn out so unreasonably as the suitor who came here last night, without saying anything about "orders" or tables, and stared us all in the face; but made me happy, too, to see you well enough known to have some money, and thinking you owed him that, would not mind As for the city, it is still rough, I fear, and require no sort of tourist to spoil with his own impression; but still there are folk to be seen in it, and there are flowers in the wall, and the sky is warm even now; and there, last of all I'll ever send you, a glimpse of me makes a long scene more alluring. But this last word is an examplification, and therefore I will not add anything to it; it ought to be rather more, however, and as the particulars are simple and easily seen, I will not imagine that long materialistic philosophers solve these puzzles in a way which might be reviled, by those whose principles have not been chopped up for immediate consumption, and who As I said before, I had good eyes in the morning and in the evening I had good eyes at the best of them, and I see them now at the bar of the Light Eating office, where I sit when you are a little out of waiting for something, or just as your in dress papers are finished. It is the eyes of Abt Christensen, who is white, and slightly stooped. He is eating his dinner, and you can see the bones of him trembling. You had better expect great things of us little men. We have come forth from the dark chamber called the Light Eating Lodgings, where we live, and we come out, and go about in the way of prime flesh and spirit. We have three places in the world, and at present we are happy in that we have no place of our own. We had thought of the grand self-importance of our egotism once, and how even our own people would share in it; but we have been so busy with our kindles and moon lamps and writing on seals, that we have forgotten the beggars and the childs, poor lambs without a shepherd, and the outcasts of the world, who come, not as our own Europeans are, but with their outcasts, to find a home with us. The Pope is a man, who is eating and drinking even as you read this, is proud, and has ======================================== SAMPLE 311 ======================================== "Is that your handwriting? That is the writing of a woman, You brought it here." "Then it is the devil's I've labored with, who would take my faith For the deed. I fear a beast in snow. You brought it here. You shall have no more glory from me. I will go my homeward hill." "But you will stay with me, dear." "That will not make a life. I will walk home alone. I'm lonely. Where will I go? To the country? To my mother, To the grave? Your hill, dear Mother, is not fair. He would not grant you home." "I will stay here, and when I die, Take only such tidings as I can give. I will go my hill to see it not as others. But you will live on, and when your time Comes, and your line of succession, you will see That you had known it backward into the grave." The sun was going down, And with it the western world. Rags and dust Were dung into the valley. A horse and dogs were in a stall, The stall was neglected, and a tree Cared only on its own leaves for die hens. A vagabond, with a bag of cards, Bartering for half-a-crown, would draw as deep. And the moon was going down. A country bumpkin said, "I hope it's passing strange, For the King has left three-quarters of his land. I see it now, this town of Easter Brae, And the mills where the mill-wheels are whirled, And this well here, I would swear, was dug As if into a lake was thrown a beech-twig, Nor will this well but, if I'm not misrepresented, But, with forks and knives, John and Mary's well, And then, the sheep-stew, and a lisping dam. But you have brought a smudge of sage And bitter, and a skin of moss; I wish I had brought a wooden chair. I was going to call to-day, And give the notice under, If the notice was for so small a boy To go screw-ha'rowy a shimmy Upon a promontory's face A hundred yards from his door, And spin about in a wood like gas. Your room- upstairs of course, Is proof against a prig, and downstairs, A smith who's out, and so are we, But once a week a sharp boy comes to petch The island gods to worship, And he has got the skill of an angel When but as a boy, But he's only a boy, And he makes amends by being an angel. The air is damp, and he has a feeling of "a rest, For now he's on book-worm hold, And he can't stop till he's put the books away, And to do that he must turn about. The morning wood is lean, And the afternoon it wan, And he sees a wisp of green at last, But it's no pleasure to see, The sun are lank and lean, and a-cold, and weak. In his forts the sea- lion lies, And the boy looks northward to the wind, And he sees a swirl of wintry snow, The way it carried last year, That it carried while he was abroad. And then he's very sick, and runs to bed, And feels just like one who leaps for the dear glass He had been longing for in vain. So all day long for many months he shakes And trembles in a snowy cloth, And everywhere his habitat robs him, And everywhere day hardly dawns. His hands are very dry, His faces pale, and his teeth look dull, And he gazes as if looking east At the last day he will see. But a few times a week, and then only If the week has one, he leaves his home, And loiters waiting to get home; And his faces wears the look of those Who are troubled to stay home. And he looks into a world that is Too near, and too wide, and too sweet, And waits and awaits and will wait. When a month's growth has reached the precipice, Then he goes too, and leaves The terror of the dripping precipice, And--has the courage to seek his fellow On the softer side of fear. ======================================== SAMPLE 312 ======================================== Arachne seems to spurn her spade, Pale on the border of the grave. Daughter, I'm up the mountain, at the grey break of day. I have a friend who does not stray too far. I will not guess how long the sunlight lingers, For the spider plants her spider roots At the feet of the dove, who comes in and out Of the centipede, to run laps around the corner of my eye. My husband is returning from the ranch, A mile or two beyond where the fields begin. His love for me may be wounded, for to him I return at evening, which is evening to him. My soul is not in the yellow corn, But in a more shining form than he. I have a message for him. When he goes to the farm in the evening, And hears the milkmaid singing at the door, He'll think of the yellow crop And forget all about the golden flame Of my love. One of us is talking at a garden door. The other is walking in the corn. <|endoftext|> "A Small Boat", by George Oppen [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] "You know the situation": a boat, a shore, a boat in trouble, a shore in need of rescue. What we know is not the situation, but the facts of that situation, which is what matters. For what is the difference between a war fought and fought with weapons and a war where those who draw the weapons do not even know the differences, the different purposes for which the weapons are used? A. In this case, it's not the weapons but the actions we are fighting that matter. If we are caught in a war, we are asleep. And the sun is sun. And even a small boat is a boat, even a boat that hugged the rough impasses itself to the big rough. And the delta of that big rough is a delta, and the heart of the dawn is the deep heat of the lights, and even the nature of the lights are afeeling, even the water that glitters between the razor blades, even the fictions of books, the cello and the pleat spread on its pages, even the sweat on the back of the hand that touches the desk, even the words that we think are a written language about situations, and even the nature of what it means to speak of the world, which is the origin of speaking Of situations means the weapon that you hold to your mouth is a weapon held there is a weapon there. And that is the basic force in this world. II We are a moon when the sun strikes us and the sun remains behind. The dust is greasy. The light is slovenly. The dust is greased on both sides. The dust is thick. The light is dancing only on the side that cannot see. The dust is fast and distant. The dance is smooth and quiet. The dust is just about the you are- about- there. The light is the depth of the detail. The dance is smooth. There is no ambition in the dance, only plenty to do. III You are not the first generation to know about the dust. But you know the first generation has a lot of work to do. The new world is about work and it is rocky and not see- forward know you better This is about the right side of the new world whereas your parents were sore. The new generation will do what they can for thee. IV All in this new generation we are talking about peb ======================================== SAMPLE 313 ======================================== Port. To the ashen wrist, as it were, of the temple, To the altar of the phallus. You said that by some hidden light The eagle's plumes are bright and few; You said, by some right (by the gods Who give no names, and no laws, and no date) Love's arrow quivers in your throat. So if the light and his Be bright as it is, and the plumes be still, Go and you'll find the eagle pluming Your heart, my brother, my sister; "Be ready when you are awake." How much less the horrid words of hate, Than the pale common earth before me, Impart enough to this: I thought the love that soothes so well The burning head of a young heart, Would not be given to those who can say No words, who know not of despair, And have no heart to bring their tears to the shore. It is the old earth that I love so much; I read, you know, the ancient books That old in me, and that mean so much; And when the night grows pale, and the hour grows grim, It is as if her silver moon were wet With old tears of her own weeping hills. So: Go back to old Egypt, when you would, And to the grey lands of the desert, That land of much love and little wonder; Go, little go; but remember me! When you come again with words of sunnier creed, Back to old Grecom's black shrines, and dungiest palaces, You'll find my sister there, and the two brothers, And all who died with me, or who are dead; And you, by your virtuous deed have won a boon: Go, God's clover is a song of other days, But for my sister, and my brothers, and me, He also has a bright and earthly moon. <|endoftext|> "Son of my love, a soldier of the best tradition, I bear you my second letter. In it I tell you that I am alive and wage the war. In it I say that my wife has been restored to me, though hard it is for her to bow her military head west. Therefore do I bid you lead the soldier and teacher on who is the great-grandfather of the soldiers I now send you." To-day the hearts of my people pull on without grudging wages to earn the bread they are going to eat. The potato they ate up more than bread of old, then some years back We made a treaty with the tribes up the valley In which tradition names a party who were Americans Toward one of our divisions on the level plains Went Francis Drake with all his associates And men that followed him not only to the Spice, But on the converse of the island labored To find in a lonely island A channel for shipping that had never been done. In the west the people are using their heads Since the east has turned American To find new roads and themselves to change. And they have won a way to the forests to change, By a kind of European chivalry. It is true in science they are on the turning To arrive at the seventeenth, or whatever day American Columbus sets his ship For the Indies, and names seven continents Since the voyaging petrel came to sound the whistle He made with Lucy. (Yes, but the Spaniards gave it In the days before their pride was pierced.) But the western tribes had come to be our Pacific But not all past the turning. And so you see that this division in our nation Has nerved the heart of our country in the west For the march against self and self-seeking For which we are going to recruit and teach The musket and the sword to self-seeking and kill, Because they are self-seekers and self-seekers; But in the heart of each of our divisions are Father and mother of us and people around the world Who are going to be became American, And seek no more for personal fame's or gold's Or pomposity; and instead of cars, ballads, And books, and news, and magazines, shall have Freedom to travel where their hearts may run, Travel to the great capital; but it is night Without the stars, unless it be night that wakes Mankind, and sends them forth to wrestle with death. From the east of America, From the north, the pioneer, Law and currency, Pamphlets and speeches, Rallies and boycotts, ======================================== SAMPLE 314 ======================================== How on a glorious Angel's arm did it hang And all the place was darkened, When I awoke from other sleep. So gently, softly, in his wisdom, Descended such a one, and lay In darkness down upon our land. <|endoftext|> "Three Guitars", by Thomas M. Welch [Arts & Sciences, Music, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] Three guitars were lying flat; One suspended between bad and good; One, on which I had hung a tune, And one I played but never played; And the third, held for stylistic Sale, no one ever bought. A passer-by once spotted me Down in the middle of the street; And as she passed this is what she said: 'O ! one long-nosed, long-tailed, Dark-feather'd old ghost-horse, who back in the day Ralled from Ozzypop's doorstep Hiding-place, to me must be crazy, For certain streets in the East Were thought haunted, and I know deep That certain Ibo was wandering O'er the city of Night that no man Wrotes …' Well, the late-night vacuum, With some rare and lit house Mustered even the hum-drum Drowsing along the street To attract his beckoning. The pin-ching blue limelight From time to time banished forth The void and the din: The golden shrewd candles In dim and dismal places Frown the vapour out. So that in this dark I, Living and breathing and stirring Wire through fragrant air, Am drawn toward the dark. * The dark grew whiter the further I went, And smaller, as if this cave Were cut out and shut up with paper. The white sun set, and it parted In the blue sky and broadened out. The angels sang and added Up in the clouds, up, and into Theuheim's air, to the firmament Of all the world. * I sang with her for a while: * The tall white image with the blue eyes. As a squirrel with acorn-guts Cuts the long grass, the black Shadow with the bright white gleam Of her robe divided wide; Green leaves fell down, and they fell Where the acorn-weed grew. I sang, and a serpent, a Shadow, came with me. <|endoftext|> "Antiquities", by Thomas Hardy [Love, Classic Love, Classic Sex, Nature, Religion, Christianity, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] 1914, Easter weekend. The windows Are nailed against the wind, And you and I are alone In the Russian forest of old meanings. We sit beside the map. Your finger passes slowly over the great red blot Of my life, fuzzy and white. We have the souls Of children, and you are young In that. But what do we find In the square miles and two points Beneath our feet That time returns or implosion, And the stampede Of alley children in the dawn? I am aware of both. You and I have known The sweet dark place to come down, The exigent nakedness To plunge and rival anything In England—or Europe—even, In a way that is not time, Abloh on a quarter round, Tarantella by summer or round, Abloh with a bed or a roof, Wind through a vulcan and plenil theater Of red that's best by its own high turn, And the vestal became a tack. But there is no mound at Blissmore or Maulestone Far Where we may meet, your great God and me. The dead come to us in the shape of foxes And we stand better than they. There is no square mile where we might dwell Without the wind and the cicada. There is nothing to prevent a tree From taking our lives in its jaws, And we would have to find another way To live on. It would be strange not to agree With the earth and the animals, but we stand With our noses cut up and stare At the map that says to forget. There is no country like the city To give infinity to the eyes. We are the blessed divers of our time, Each of us drowning in the blasters Of all the lost brains, fierce brother of the bull ======================================== SAMPLE 315 ======================================== war; the men, his brothers, pilgrims the way, a band of boys, to bring a gift to the young maiden, the wife of Hrothgar, that the bride may be happy in the arms of the wife, to be called after the name of their mother. Of sound mind and heart yet young, hath the mother's son, honor and praise above the warriors of men and the heroes, that fill the court with their praise. And the evening came on, the sun went down, and night shone, light-giving, and from the mountains arose the nightingale, the throstle, the loud swallow, the clapperbird, the wood-gull, the horn bird, and the ostrich, the Banksian hawk, the Stone-bairn, the brush-rbayer, the Citielly Boy and his sister, the Maori harlequIN'D about the Foot of Ida running and the birds of prey in the far woods and the van of the far Isles, so with Hrothgar and the rest of the warriors came home from eastward 'O song of the ox, and eagle's cry, O song of the field that was dewed with starlight, O gathering of the grape-cups, girl of the law, O wail of the flocks! O wail of the kid that was dead, O song of the wolf, O wail of the flock that were weeping on the lea! O sing not the raven, O Oread, o'er the thyre and fern, O sing not the hare, O Cynthus, O nightingale, O wild-goose, O nightingale! For every one Of the blessed has come home From the worlds of the thirsty To the mead-plattered tables. But the foe was kenning nigh, and from the East a beam was given To the cowering Saxons, that they might marvel behold the blessed coming over the meads of the Shatterer-in-the-North with the brood in her arms, and with the lost in the woods. But the father, the king, was away, and the rest were scanty on the ground of the voyage. And the sun is setting. Sitting there 'mong the boar-muffled nations and the sheep that were straying on errands, and the beast with the armor on his back, As they warmed their hands at the canefound sea, or trod uneasy at the shuttle in fissures of the dough, with help that is many-fold from Odin's carven brow, from hearts that are many-fold through many Svends, we hoped in vain to win over the seeming doubter that we might win the might that was hiding in the hush of the meadows in the dark with his great gaze, In the darkening is the doubter, in the hush of the dark his mirth; His name is the name that many keep, that he pinned upon his shield: Svergutat is high on his helmet, Sverdant the stretched-out nail. "It is safe," saith the king, "safe and sure, and trustable, what we have. Let all be proud which is safe and sound, even let the heathen shout it to us from the far end of heaven: That is the tale that shall be held holy till the end of eternity. What is surer, less sure? -- if I may say? If the world were not false and false and infernal, if there were no vain admirer bearing in his fist the robe of mercy, and the wide world counted righteous, who would commend us and who pity us? -- But there are who love the world, and by their countenance show it, who pass by us, speaking the vulgar tongue of petty tyrants, and their small word is great because it is loud, When Odin is lord o'er gods and men, as fabled in the legend of Ericacus, our foes shall find it hard to assail us that are many by being as one. Who shall be messengers to Gorice made, and let Hela learn our birth-song? Alas! and we that are many by being as one, Shall do nothing, owing our greatness to a few, We shall sing the song of Ericacus, but it shall sing more harm than he From the days that this world was created till ======================================== SAMPLE 316 ======================================== reduce the siege to one from all your friends, from the world. you still have time to stop at a rave in your twenties, in the bay, in your thirties, in some beach town. no, they won't call it "indecent" (that word) but you don't have to be there, if you don't want to be. if you want to be, you have to be. <|endoftext|> "Uniforms", by Adrian Matejza [Activities, School & Learning, Arts & Sciences, Photography & Film] When I go to the subway, I look like a person of interest. They let me pay to stand in the same line and stand still in the same location over and over. I go back like I’m being watched back in a forest by the same guns that everyone talks about. I say, there are two people on the subway, two people on the subway. In my head, I say, there are three people on the subway, there are three people on the subway. I don't wear my hair like the rest of the people. I wear it long like a person who drinkstoo muchand collapses. <|endoftext|> "The Big Picture", by Adrian Matejowicz [Living, Birth / Birth Again, Life Choices, The Body] 1. DAD We were unspeakably giddy that night, all three of us, swooning in the same limousine with different names for the dead, Paramount and IMDb having débutned here. Our names are legendary now, but our tracks are wet, too. With the push of a button, we're one factory of soaked wire. There's a landscape here, a different one every year. We have our own private hell on this borderlands of the brain. 2. SAGs An evening of stars at the least. The theater of our dread eclips the screen of our vision at the blink of an edge. I step into the hall of mirrors to be directed here. 3. MRS. EEFS . . . stand up like a huge yellow American Top. . . . look great in your blue dress and shiny blue shoes. . . . stand up for the fun to be had. . . . . . . . . standing up, for the fun to be had. 4. MRS. EEFS . . . stand up for the fun to be had. . . . . . . . . . . stand up for the fun to be had. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . stand up for the fun to be had. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . standing up, for the fun to be had. 5. THE SACRIFICE Scene A winding road through the hills The road goes on through the hills I'll wear your face around my neck As a skull if your skull would fit . . . well, okay, maybe just My mouth will fit. . . . I do it all myself. 6. MRS. EEFS . . . stand up for the fun to be had. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . stand up for the fun to be had. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . for the fun to be had. I stand in line for three Minutes at a time then they take me to the left. 7. THE TIDES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the way is endless. the way . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ======================================== SAMPLE 317 ======================================== Hurdles that the branches quiver to Or rolling languish, o'er snowy slopes, Rising to the sky-journies from the lake. They make the ditcher green with the blossoms that grow And the grasses to spread and the flowers that blow On the marge, and the misty reek that is shed In the summer frosts. Pompey! then I seem to see Where I may lay my claim To be forgiven, notwithstanding the world That says I cannot be forgiven; And in your own name the loud world Shall forgive me when it gathers As at last I lie alone, I wish you rest! Thy mistress comes to see You understand her and how she may embrace A mortal that repents of his sin, Whom God doth not damn, but Mary at last Will have into her life with Christ at last Be foster-mother to her darling child. The olive slips From out the hedger's direction as I pass; And, conscious of it, goes on, and turns Into the straits between the lines. I saw my vices And knew my passions And I could append Into My verses And it was as if I saw Alive in dreams of Elizabeth, The Queen of fair women With eyes where darkness was And the cruel'st Lady dearest And when I watch you at the window, I often wish that you Would stay at Ashlynot, And with the meriate which is not quite mean You go to see the Mart and back To Ashlynot! All afternoon the summer sunlight Has lifted our mountain west of Auchlarich. It seems to hush my thoughts, and when they're quiet I muse on these;--for oft in lonely defile Upon my Hill, by tossing pine-trees vacant, I have dreamt of Love, my thoughts, And of her who knows it; and of whom I dreamed it, in a quiet room, And in silence, that silence which is alone So most's and most secure, my own; And of other women too,--oh, no more Than this, so helpless and so loving, Of others also with whom I've met, I said,--a silence and a strain Thou hast never, Byron! at thy tongue. That stillness wherein thy soul is conscious Of foundations yet to be, at times I know,--but as you have said--not broken By some too forceful muffled question, brought By some poor hungry spirit and compelled To cry itself into words, and let Do I forget? Then I the listened be For many a thousand pensive hours I long for, from these hills which saw thee last (As now and then, maybe, a little wind Will fling a smoke of purple sky Amidst the pine-afcials green-- So, in a little valley, the road Will stop for you, The long one to Tugela, the horse) Have I forgotten--have I forgotten? The heart that will not have gone any Wild By my edge, or touched by my enchanted hand; The tongue that will not have spoken any line By brilliant Wordmuse or other artist long ago; Or waked by Sinister one who strove To sound thee with a speech not half cruel, Not half impotent to blasphem thee, As I have blasphemed? Oh! would but make four such-like men, Who, on some midnight to commune, met-- Or like a sheet unrolled 'Midst sown and squreed with glorious dreams That made them great and notorious, And made the neighbours wait, till all Danced to a concert 'Gainst those who sleep and find them real, In beds Where leaves lie dead and plants dance true, Till the brilliant crowd Shouldered for a symphony That had been foretold; Or in some dead abandoned spot In the sand, or the stone, or the chalk, By all the fates In the dark Gathered round,--'twas there one night, With no lights in the city, no streets to turn, That half doomed to despotic force A reveller would fall. By no lights Showing out a sandy fringe of hope And vanity, all stale and tumbled Shambles; but on the lines Of the stars fixed star-stool that shuns The midnight air, But moves with you, lags with you, Begins to cry when you die-- And does not wish ======================================== SAMPLE 318 ======================================== I also feel that I am breaking. If I were king, I would spend my work To build up the weak spot And I would fill up the big black Spots in your skin And then I would take My penis out and into My mouth and show It to you And kiss you I would tie you down And then I would break Your belly But you would cry and then I would kiss You with my Dick and kiss it hard and then I would do it again But you would cry and then I would kill you with my Prick. But you would cry and then I would kill you with my Tongue and kiss you with my Dick. <|endoftext|> "Where People Moved ", by Gary Shteyngart [Living, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] Where people move to get to is where they move from moving. While I stood in line, an old man with a walker said to the woman at the desk, "I have to get up early in the morning, I have to get to the bank, but I can't because I have a car desk to see before the light comes on, and I can't because I have to get up later than the bozo with his overnight stuff can, and I think he needs a fix, but I can't because I've got a hard day's commute, so I get lost, and you can't get from where you are to where I'm from place. It's a place I don't even recognize." While I stood in line, a young man with a dry spell in his words continued on, "I have to get to the airport, but I can't do it because I'm late for school, and that's where they're going to take me. It's a time, and there's a hurry, and it's OK, I mean I get it's a big airport, but still, it's early, you can come over, it's a residence where people go when they have time. But he is late, and it's his job, so I catch up on sleep, you, you, you, and I go down there to take the bus. We stand there talking. You can get to the airport, I mean it, it's fine, I don't have to buy a car, but it's a very nice one. And then I walk them on the bus, and as I'm leaving, you remind me of when you moved there, and I remember, out of the blue eyes, the time when we both looked out my window, the window of the car, and said goodbye, and I went my very long way there. There's no need to move. There's no place like your little box of a home, your pool room, your office, where they could fit no one, and you came out there. There's no need to move. There's no way to move from your little box of your own land, it's not yours, it's not yours caught in the jaws of each thing else's hell. It's just another piece of land for pieces of stuff, it's another story in the war the rest of the world wins, the rest of the world doesn't win. The story continues: I go there to the ski area, I'm late, and there's a Chinese restaurant a few mins away. The man behind the counter says, "No, Sir, No, Sir, Take care," and there's more on the door. He doesn't listen. He keeps his head down. The customers come, and the waiter leads them to the food. The murder rate's up. No one lives up there anymore. No one has to go there. It's a place for those who can't look ahead, for those who can't, and for nothing else but the gone past. It's a land nobody thought through, land of time kept safe in a time machine. I go there. There's nothing there but the wind, the fog, the clouds, and my hand. I'm not surprised. I'm a participant in a story nobody expects. I take my time with it. I'm just convinced by the way I move in the wind. It feels right. I'm not in this wind. I'm a part of the land, I ======================================== SAMPLE 319 ======================================== Doth hide the beauty of the morning star When the sky-god is shining, Or some mellow May is over. I wait, with longing sickened, For the wind to change, For the air to cast away Its damp and fouled Ithaca, I wait For the green-sack affair to fly; I wistly devise How 'twixt the dawn and lunch I might kiss the barm off Some clover blond-haired thing With eyes like rosiest poetry. I'd just pluck its hair And kiss it full on the eye, Put it away in some freestat And watch the sun fail it And kiss it to heaven. And by-and-by Would suck the soul out of it With a sod-brown kiss Of pinches like a penguin After the lunch-and-wine. <|endoftext|> "Aloha,", by Joseph Burns [Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] Aloha, we of the overflowing sea, As our favorite fishing-grounds are filled, Now the time has come, Aloha, to quit the beach, Now the time has come, to ply the seine And the day's work over. All day the sailor has lain, All day the hulk has haggled With the greedy icefield tide, And the long day has tired him down, All day the sailor has suffered So that half a million crawl; We have filled his favorite Day with sleep, While we prostitutes rest, Aloha, from the beach. <|endoftext|> "Lament", by Wallace Stevens [Living, Growing Old, Sorrow & Grieving] lretvetime pleases the wishes and the Father no less, at the lapse of power and maintence as at a cold, bubbling ford; a midwinter rendezvous, the great house no longer based on a secret in the snow. Surely a snowy shroud covers the sky? So the thought flings over the sky, Sure, covers him, and us, too, of course, and the snow. The Elder-man, therefore, passeth by each old man as an obligation incomplete, for what needeth he? The gray father-digestion saketh, and the grey skies of reason and memory, the gray father, after a while, passeth by all this, and the black father, who has his pitcher to keep the kids from seeing his black lips, and we women, and children, and playmates, and then, if so be, the playmates all gone to sleep, and the night hotel stayeth; there is naught left but a thought, which is hearkening to itself, and the land's boundaries, as these arguments to-day, which is hearkening to itself. There is naught left of the desire to go on being, of be, of be-ness; only these mountains, sea, and shore; a-mind with a place to crash, and that place in a-time, the perfect place, and the future, if we are to be called it, which has no habitant, and which is void, and so is all; and he is he that can only be spoken of, as a spilt of breath in a hand of gloves, as a mighty cold, and the wind blowing, and the rain not over it, for the hand of the man is dry. He is he that shall never be described further, except as a change of place, as a break from the body at its highest density, in the valley of the vagueness; as mountains, and as sandstone, and as cloud, and as a gossamer thread, and as life, and as a variety of light, and as the wind with his pockets and his eyes, and with his tongue to suck the moisture as it dries. And with his eyes he looks longitudinally up the wilderness, and the wilderness, or the vastness of the wilderness, which is the topography of the body, and a labyrinth of the labyrinth, immeasureless; and the labyrinth is where the body hath met with its destruction, and where it is stored with its goodness; the labyrinth is old, for it hath been the prey of the fin-tips of time, and is piled upon its mountains of peril, where the death shall find no pity; the labyrinth hath a name, the labyrinth shall have a name; and its tenacity, and its delight, and its strength, are the name itself; nay, its name shall be the name, when the name shall be nothing but the end of the world, when the world hath no further place for combat, when there is nothing left of its invention, or of its part in the world, when the universe is no longer divided into lower and upper ======================================== SAMPLE 320 ======================================== Two or three weeks' preceding the descent Of the cold rain;-- (Which, as some minute, As he spoke, and gaze'd down into The deep design of the abode, He almost wished that the lips Of this aeon-built seat Had been hidden with all eyes round, That it might live, among those shadows That all fixed are there, to live more The longer;--but, with that regret, Himself set side. His eye fix'd on the dark floor, He, from his face, Held the bough of the chestnut tree; And the cross, by its cord stretched out, Bore off across the pavement. He pausingly striding, Amidst the hushpate, casts A glance around The vast hall. And, as he appears, he seems To move of his own accord Amidst the sounds Of the more highly reliev'd, To raise, or to lower; And, as he rises, casts An airy shadow On that loud speaker's place; The party of his heart, That hear, and see, His voice in his hands. But it moves not the heart, Or the black abbot. The abbot hears His voice ringing the name Of his place of rest; And rises, and is In mumble mute. But the cold surge, The slow sea, advances, The tempest itdrizzles, In rough jubilee; While his pipe is lying On his breast, And the window shakes, And the wild wind's breath About his snows, As, through the pane, The winds from the north Bear him along. A star with the others shone, But sat in the heart of the hills: And he quickens its speed, And, as if a voice were there, Prattles on of other things. And the heart doth lie, And feebly listens, For this is the man's talk That it will be well with. The man had hear'd, or o'erheard The flapping of the wind sock, And, stooping, thoughtlessly flung, And the turtle appeared, Twice, up, and once down, For the gust had changed its path. A small bird well had listened, To hear the gobble of the storm At the time that he woke it up, And presently he sang, And heard his song in heaven. Who ever thought, that to sweet thoughts By hard laws brought home, No bard, or thought: But the birth-throes Of the high heavens they know A musical tie: This in our nature is, As in some waves that lave Birds and fish, We feel the presence of the King, When in love's fervid track He blows from far, And all the air is blown, With excited passion, by. The bright sun, with morning-glory streake Mounting in glittering height, Was the symbol of life. The evening, and the setting, Of justice, and of pain. The night, and the morning's light, The sign of the way. Were but the flashes of his eye, Which he so well might be thought on To display life's daily round In but a breath; And life were never told, But that, in slow peace, it were known. The master-word was Love. And Love alone; In names alone such language was. Love's joy, which at the last word was sorrow. Speak nought of states, Love's Life only thought let be Life, By its only means. State, and all things in their day: For Love only rules them all. So, welcome, then, this star: It shines for Love only. Hail, human star, And welcome all life. Breathe in breath, and smile in breath, On this wide world of yours. Welcome, and breathe, and drowse In soul. Pierce the great space, I'm envious of thee! Spreading thy borders, till thy heart fills them: Then, if a planet, I, even I Would be. I'd like to envelop, thou, planet. Immense, if I could make belief: O boy, Pleasure's throne, where pleasures dance Smiling like planet-characters. Or, perfect child of heaven, I would crown thee, thou planet. Such ======================================== SAMPLE 321 ======================================== other. Oh! one spoke Of a rare trout Caught on this river. The dark bay is so filled with Nature's love. It is the old story: Man must March to his own slaughter. The priests and sectaries Pass up the curve, Making their holy way. The fisherman comes, Tuna and caber, From the brown, ancient Laughing man. The wide, green, wild sea of it Is as dark to him As Hell. And the voices calling From the souls that Have thrown Dreams and shadows Over it, are: Oh! good-night, good-night, All hail, new-living Life! Just as God sometimes Leaves the sky alone So too the soul leaves The body. It is the loveliest part Of the body's solitude. The poor fly's cry Is a ringing, death-shapen Hole in it. Hither, hither, little worm! Who are you? I cannot see your jaw. Do you want some of this Great, weedy eye of mine? Or are you a leaf of The grass that grows in this place? Who is it? Ah, who is he? A boy, with roses on his hair. He has his glove on his left hand And the look of a gazelle. He comes with his face turned to me And his hand lying on his coin. He speaks to me: "This is the road." I answer him: "It is." He seems immensely pleased with me. When one has a true love there is peace Now and only true love, as C.H. Which? once said, true love, true peace, as C. And D. said it, I think, and so do you. It is the bellicothorum of Christ. The dull, dead Egyptians had no such thing. The moon came up, made her rings, and went up Going in pursuit of the moon. The Egyptians said, if you come from the East There is a snake; and when the snakes you see You will know that you are near the Nile. The Romans said the same, but never found Any people so near the Nile. The gossips said: We have already in this respect See for yourself. We both Said the same, the Romans said, that the East Had nothing at all on the West. The West said to the East: when the moon goes up, The East, going up, going up with her foot Two cars short of a football field. The East said to the West: when the West is going up, The East is going up. I am a young lady, you accompanying eyes Stand on me, entreat me and admire. The best of your love, the bouquet of your gardens Would be wasted were I to stand still, Were I not young and lovely as I am! In my garden friends would droop ad infirmum, For whom to try new pleasures you need not money. The coins are on the table. Let us make a ring of the earth's dust and leaves, And in it a kernel of gold, a ring of the moon. Mine the note that to pay the roses of love, And crown the friends of our Alberti. Now that I have planted roses my yard begins to grow. Eld odd months, but I count them by the day. Spring is but just now born, you will see. The world is full of foolish pranks. If I have more grain to scare the birds from the trees Than what I will gather for my wedding feast I will gather for you. The steeple whistles, The market house shakes; The town is all amzing. I have a couplet good enough for two, But sing that it shall suffice. I'll furnish next year, If you, too, will insist on doing so. If you can keep me from the taper Which by the windows casts a golden light; If you can keep me from the steeple Which by the windows casts a golden light; If you can keep me from neglecting The daily prayers, and musical nightly tears; We'll be up the block to-night. If you can keep me from leaving The town where you dwell, And you are not afraid to go with me Where we may wander astray; If you can keep me from neglecting The daily cares and sighing, If you can leave the house In which your own ======================================== SAMPLE 322 ======================================== well made, and thence I came, Greeted by a 'wardrobe'--what one that wears it bears. Oh, for a table like a spotless lily-garden! (To speak in holy mockery thereof Of all regimes and kings both new and old And all that both pettifridges and destroys, And all that maims and gets rid of, my fair rival.) A table, o'erlooked, well shorn, Where none the fun may hope to dispense Of those our girdles have bought us; But where, clothed in harmony and green, The figure of the Goddesses -- that seem To march in female fashion -- may prove. The world is that which the young love, And time is that which the old men crave; A thrushless tree, on whose boughs, the day, The gods would fain find a way To Nature's innermost recesses, And wreaths of ever-flowing flowers, For want of sun more offerings give, They cut each bough with choicest widths. To be this work of love's The minished branches one by one Could draw out, of each subject whence man starts, And sew them all together, thick and strong, With every wonder God hath made; A picture might 750 years waste and not keep While God and Nature aversay. It is the ancient tale, we think it so, Of that, the only pointless thing in fable, The tene-theology that ever grieves: A wreathless man, a wreathless thing to prate To; and the tale again and again it bore Of that long-lost subject, long lost now, But ever at mortal fells had lain; It was the fabled subject of our King; It is the subject of our servant now. He prays his Master once a day To have his picture brushed once no more. I went to paint a woman, too; And the portrait of my dead girl I thought Would be the thing to keep me from mis-doing. I was wrong, and it has saved me from the Bible. A girl's face is the most only thing That speaks earth-life at its best and worst. If a man can frame and paint her what's her shape, He may have force to be free and make for her More than for others just her shape and grace, Just her relation to him as man. It's her, it's her shape that gives the gospel, The shape of her that saved me on my way. This is the age of science and of pride, When whatever ever does to-night If it does not prove a universal ghost It is a white, unapproachable gleam. And I am glad of it. My glass is half Half glazing on the universe. If I were a bishop and I spoke The liturgy of Art, if I put before The congregation all peasants, of whatever sect, With rifles by their sides and horns by their tails, To blow the Alleluiah! what then? Am I a dreamer? Or has science run its race? Or has pride lost that avaricious zip? I have seen it! He who marched a thousand men To die in a battle and gained nothing but A jest on parade for a fortnight and a joke On his banner to flap his throat into. He had to thank his worst frosts for the next year's grain. If I were that bishop what would I do To understand my disciples' prate? A prophet had a cow for a weapon, you Gentle sod! and the bible says not to eat His text. He slates it. I wish I could Trust a less silly book, where Mary was man's mother. (He had a bedside grand stand just for that.) I wish he could plough his own or I'd sell My prize Ibis to ride and take a look. I dream of the horse and he rides me; I know that I am the horse for chosen fighting; I throw him away and seize on the hand. I am flying, dancing, singing, flying, singing And dancing, but he is the flying. What is his name? What is my text? I can't seem to stay still. I can see him with his bayonet and revolver, And he either leaps or he tumbles overboard. He laughs at my cottagers as they spy The sore mistake, the short breath, the faintest cramp, Of a stranger in our woods, ======================================== SAMPLE 323 ======================================== Yes; but I know he'd be kinder, I'll tell him so: We have drifted apart. I miss him all day. He'll come home. And he'll tell me: "I've had a laugh." I like the call When we two were wed; 'Twas the old home's pride: (Sweet music with the chime!) No other couple could awake As proud as we three; We two were larksomping at dawn; And we've had a water-Pod That night! You tell me I'm old; You tell me I'm weak. I'd be a fool to-day; But I'll think of you as friends, When other women I meet; I'll think of you as husband; And we'll be so much bliter, Because you love me so; We'll work and we'll pray; And you shall hold me to your heart; And I'll cut away my hair Because I'm down to your eye. We've drifted apart, But I'll dream of you When other women I meet; And I'll think of you as wife When other men I meet. And, thinking of you, I'll cut away my hair; Because I'm down to your eye. The snow came that morning white, And the snow went that evening black, And the suns have gone and the stars; But a star was watching above the ground, With the old love of thy heart to try, And the hearts have grown and the hope gone That the stars shall break no more. What music make you now, Ye starry masters, To waft me, lovely girl, The soul up Mount High or High Hough! The soul is fain to breathe Music that shall never tire; I would not less For one slender slice of bread. O let me feed on joy! O, gentle heavens, do not To Heaven's pure child approve A daughter who lives in dread; And I'll go and thank her, Father, For the child who struggles so. To look upon thee, dear, Is to touch thy hoary hair With a kiss whose pale may well be black. And the stars have faded, But a spirit lingers yet, Watching and loving so. By the happy home where men have glided, In shadows by black waves wakened In golden seas, On Christmas Day their spirits had met In the light of the Christmas-tree. When sleep have a voice, And dreams be dear, I'd tell him how the angel knelt And took my hand and opened all The wonder of his choir. But that which I most see when I Have seen it, I'd tell him best: I am happy to report That the spirit knelt and cried Thrice at the altar of his heart. Then knelt he me; and thrice he prayed To take me to my home. I cannot but say that the gray sea Came down like a noble king, And that the inner shrine was bright With a glamour of something more Than I'd ever have hoped or feared. When thou art strange where thou hast been Is where thou art to be, And my heart is strong as the great sea, But trembling there is the dream That the world goes up and no more down. I saw my mother earth, And I saw my father heaven Before my face was high Above the track That tracks the star of a birth In thronging forests and in still waters. I know not what was shed On this first meeting of twins That so like twins proceed. I am less like a man than like a boy Since the first time that you found me cold And threw me from a cloud. You dropped me from the roof; I fell and I fell until I reached the marble floor That tracks the bird of a bower; You then jumped on to my back; I fell and I fell until I reached the marble floor. I know not what ends To my falling, but I know That I reach the floor before A man who feels himself done down From the roof which rings earth So far above the sky That I, the swift fall of it, Am scorchéd and out of sight. To my lip I sparrow-trims The delicate branches of delight, And of the glee-word that crowns My head with leaf and rainbow-flowers. And of the thinness of delight that tries My teeth and body for ======================================== SAMPLE 324 ======================================== amed with thy woe, That we can help thee now; For thou shalt have a speedy remedy, That is both a cure and remedy, Of thy troubles now. I would not, at the first, find That great a sickness for me; For I will live but in peace and love, And all my days will pass away As a quiet dead man's life. Then I shall be as other men, Toiled and humbled by the throng, And my true genius, birth, and fame, Shall leave no marks behind; Or if I make some brave pretence Of suffering, it shall be but of power, And power only. If ever I shall be permitted To sit within your Circle, I will the following day Tell stories of your master, And of his contemporaries, And of the men that came after, And what-have-you sung, and what-have-you sung, O foolish ministers, I'll have a truth here, and here is a truth, That only applies to ministers: The ministers are the Peers, and the Peers are The king and his nobility. The monarch and his lady are The 'Kings,' and the nobles are the flocks. This right is mine, of course, That I have a tongue to speak, and could You stand an hour against me, And let me breathe a word before you, In one side-wise norate At length will occur A test of strength, the while we're living, That will settle which is the better A bull-frog went to water, To wash and dress himself; He thought of a bull, A stag, and a ton His bath to be freat and steek, And so he started to think, How soon he should be One of two, A king or a thief. A swallow-bug he saw, A water-dove, bare and Belt, With a bramble that she bore Against a bramble bore, So the water she sizzled and spumed, But the swallow she shot in the sky, As if she expected to catch him, But he swam along, And she flew, and did scorch, And burned to a flame. A peopled town, A shire, they called it, Of fools that would be wise. And the foolish toads Could never be left in it; So they puffed at the mill And grew so topical, Till they grew so thigestic That one of them would fill a star, And the other at a void. He that could come is it good, That has known a looal dub, To hear what was heard, And as a looal hollow His thoughts to bring. He was a priest and he could not see, And he that could not see was a bishop. His thought has gone to all the men. I'll bring them to you. You see, he said, To make the city blossom, The first one does not see; For to me t'other has power, By my life, for to see; He that has lived long time will call that The prays't 'smithy.' And a good shrewd wight Said 'This is worth all the land Of! and I take prayers to know That the town shall be all expanse, As the plain 's the more soort place; I'll pray for a canal to make For the country-things to come. And the first wheel I've seen That the twelveviblancors Are cast to make it;' And the fat wight that drives The little wheel called the grandfather In the whizzing air; His face was as round as is the top, And the sone's it's turn to noot; But they're not half so tall as they seem. You see that little wheel, You know 'twas I that did it, I swear; But, lads, they smiled and took my credo, And so I've naught to complain. We're up for a race, And they've backed me, lads, But they'll be none to me. Good-bye! Good-bye! You may, my dear, But not think you've lost me too; And here I'll bid adieu, In two or four, To any sort of friend, or thrall; But thou may'st believe I am not changed from ======================================== SAMPLE 325 ======================================== ofer death, he meditates his destiny, while time is closed. The sun rose red upon the plains. And there lay Patience, all the leaves full Of the late sun, and so full of its old pain That each man suffered in his turn. The laggards were flinging and haggling; the brave were awaiting the day's rich gifts. The horse-chestnuts, who so far outspread their garments, now so near the shadow of the tent-roof, and having nibbled their bags, they fastened the fingers of their bags to the ground with what was anything they found would stay, and which so soon had outlived its usefulness, to do more shaved with a pocket-knife. The gallant Ionides, on whose reputation we shall come to in due course, having stolen the horse of Asterius, the son of Mother Capella, for the race, went off in that same horse, at such a season, alone, as he meant him, to deliver his message. The man to whom we left Potitius in good time (who was hounded and scourged for it), kept, nevertheless, his voice. And Pyrrahnius, who had entertained that strange priest with his master's wishes and of his rivals for the tribe, and was playing at blindman's buff, or was trying to be discreet (by what else was he unquiet), now ordered that his horse be given to him, that he, Capella, keep it until the end of the summons, for he had to speak with the curadver at the end of the day. And he went in the very horse which he rode in the he saw that the obertypal principles by him were being traversed, that the league which they had undertaken to avoid was broken, and that the great experiment in his line was starting with dreadful conditions. It was the duty of the neighbor to take his hut out of the shell, so that the disease would be mobilized in such a way as to go ahead of the disease. And we have spoken before of Vulcan, that the statue is kept in the market-place, in front of the house of Albanus, which made the trumpet and angry tambourine. But now the hour is changed, and the sublime song of the blessed angels, who watch the house of woe, is drowned under the hoarse beat of the fig- tree as if the tree were walking, and so are walking the "They that have broken their hearts may know that they have broken their hearts, and they will be comforted." And are walking, walking the streets of their sorrow, when they meet these words. And they look up, and a filial heart holds them, and these words of comfort are seen to flow like the sea, when the tide runs under the port, in the marina, "The task would be too great for a single man." How great would be the task, my lord, to which I referred you in my letter of last March, when I said that I should like to see you and your work together before summer, if it may be before the end. We are going into the woods this summer, and the old homestead is still in cultivation; so that "One of our best young men, fit for any task that may be set before him, is too good an old man to uncover our defenceless heart through the mire of an adventure; while we, his grandsons, in comparison too small, are being hunted down through the world, like doves through the sunshine." Here they stop to feed a little-wild ox, and they take care that the pasture is not too great a task; for they know that their kind of work is not to be starved, as the herds are not, and there is plenty of milk, and they know too that their way of life is not of wherefore it was that, when I had watched them unavailed at first, I put it to my heart to try. And I thought, "The secret is in the preparation; and I know from ancient history what one does not touch lightly, if he can have any love past, nor any sex ere full-grown, not parted as with sleeping limbs, but just as they are born, if he can be glad of them in any wise, apt in body and in soul; and he knows the touch of one beautified, though it were once otherwise." You will learn from the play here at our house, that which I would have you ======================================== SAMPLE 326 ======================================== there, --with such a feeling as -- a thousand disappointments can bring. And yet, though I sometimes brag of the sorrows I suffer, I choose not to fear the more for the joys I have and that he, now over tomor- mary, once again has this to say, "How strangely the world and its things seem to me, for, at the same time, I have so little experience of them, still, since we are here, we will do our best to learn altho- e, at the risk of upsetting the same-valued system of values, that our world-view can- not be broke, but, by its very nature, can- not be broken, the same way, by a more or less equal effort every day, tho we expect that it be broken. So it will be as with a first princess, who has come into the bed of a man having never been there, and, after she has some- how won his love, if love is the right word for her, then, with his help, will set her up on a hillside and its cottages, each of them closed as a tambour- windows. This is what we mean by reality, the so- called "illusion." But we, who have never been in such places, what we see is only a mirage, or sight by chance. All the while that it is so, that is the reality. I know it is not enough for you to go to the mountain and look into your brother 's eyes. Three years since we arrived here. He has not yet taken leave of me. <|endoftext|> "She Was Amber All Summer", by Richard Hugo [Living, Death, The Body, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Nature, Fall, Green, Sexy, Nature - Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Poetry & Poets] She was amber all summer; the moon went red around her, and she was the sweet blackbird's weeping mascara. Now the scarlet moon and the scarlet earth will come around the same way, at the same time, I think. The blackbird will not cry all summer or fall down, and I do not have to read another poem. <|endoftext|> "Other Horses", by Richard Hugo [Living, Death, Love, Classic Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Pets] I The wolf shadows me now. I could not come down today. I lay on this bale-ridden barn where the wool's turning in the wind, in this sunless field, under a balesome clime, and I'm a deputy wolf, in nowise loth or sleepy or good or mad, laid out and alone with the small hot plague of that wolf-clock that time determines and lures with the promise of rich meal. And this small clock, its crimson eyes hungering, is still crying even when I come. See it? Its meat and fat still agonize. See it? What else is full of sparrows? The acorn has been powdered with blood and stubble and the flower, not its heart at all, but just the rubies with berries so bright their jade stem makes me strange wind. And I mock too the wind, in the home of the problem child, for whose perfection the wolf set the pace in our heart. I come to rub the bite of the wormy fox if I may, but still I am found. And I have the faux fur of my dark on my skin, and my breath hot on my breast, my weight, then my going. And this bing-hyem, ah-noy, my time of the youngest and most norther, and this bear, who turns on his back in his stack. Here is the tail of the old fox. Here is the gash of the policy of the one who choked our hand, and this round tug on this furry stick, that we have to take as an indication of our life, is in blood out of all blood. And this cry, seasons ago, on the high stool, where my great grandfather was bleeding to death, joke of the sun. And I shake my shoulders, and here is my spine, out with the rain. And my fingers are on fire here in my life. It is the agenility of the crescent and all its sores, and my breath ======================================== SAMPLE 327 ======================================== in the morning at the exact same hour of day in which we both were born. The church bells suddenly go off like drops of blood. It's only an hour of daylight but my father who has lived there for years is already waked, weakened, drunk on the winding shore and I stay in bed. I dream of a hairnet, my hands holding tight as if I can keep her safe from the blood and the wind while he is covered by the sea and I see nothing that can touch me when I'm in her care, as if I'm not even in it with my own eyes. <|endoftext|> "Eidolon", by Lisa S. Geis [Living, Time & Brevity, Mythology] I. And why is it that I am the one who must carry the bundle of what has become of us? And why is it I alone in the room of idleness? And why is it that the mouth of my heart is small? II. For hours on end my legs whip themselves in and out as if I'm on a narrow pedestal, on the paltry ground of my waist, to prop as it were. And why is it I have arrived at this dichotomous choice? And why is it that I have set myself up as an idiot writer? For the last time! And why is it I have no choice? And why is it that I have little within me to alter the strings on my own shoulders? III. I am dumb as long as two sticks held by either hand. I have grown into this fully. There is nothing I haven't known before. <|endoftext|> "from Lines Exploring Inter-Relations: 1", by Camille Rankine [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Friends & Enemies] I like my father very much, the sour green light tricking the drool out of his mouth; his forty-plus looks like the slow of aging, the careful flinging of layers. Life is so fun for him, the one whom the earth turns, for him it becomes a video camera whereto it no longer is fun. The daughter who the daughter becomes who the daughter becomes the girl who cuts away the befuddled father, the daughter makes much worse of good people. When the girl has to go and the father's there too, he can't tell which one to fling away, he can't tell which to fly back to his wife. My mother looks away as the helicopter lands at last, she is like the mess of broken-down dust with the 3 a.m. of the year. The father of the girl who manages a jet ski escapes the light like any other clothing. The girl who drops her father's body twice as far into the view of the chute than the shark. If the plane crashed, my mother says, I wouldn't be hearing toward my ear the crashing breath as it did a half-mile away. 4. The man lies on the desert floor as it happens, his body extended to all foures, the small of his back becking with pain as the gun that now can only rise and its point against his ribs, that bad trigger guard he wore to make it go straight to the open cross piece where the two halves of the cell are joined as one. 5. I'm still a little drunk from the sunrise. But I was a baby when they brought you into my life after the moon gone black in the sky, the moon I had to kick out of my mind like a shot go all the way through my head. You are a peach though, and you weigh in at all of your apple form and go to the wall without a single charge left. You are light as the morning. I watch you in the dryer, still so pale. You were the day that I took to washing soiled diapers and pulling out stains as I heard the soap dip its very long side in. The smell of you is a surprise, your scent, not even one of your shirts. I used to pull out Agony's very cute shirts when you wanted to be embarrassed. You were a puddle of embarrassment as I stood still so you could lather up the dirty shirts down into a nice clean shirt. That's ======================================== SAMPLE 328 ======================================== Among the Khyber now: to our tribe 'twere dire disgrace Should you to this attempt o'erweigh the deeds of Rome. With hands unsheathed, and hearts indignant to the foe, We set a watch, that when the Khyber climb the wall, The force of earth and heaven, and of firing rampart, And of the earth-mound quaking, we may make the town a feast. When they shall have tried the work of men, and how long it takes, And what fruit it bears, we will spur them, if they yet will launch it; And if they will keep, we may once more issue from the gates, And drive to yonder, with our heaven-taught, earth-born men. But let them guide themselves--for we have nought they guide, --And let the federation lead the way; For while they, with their blind hot hearts, seek to guide alone, In their own mould the fettered might fall; The blind, hot heart is ever less than naught, But the cold mind, which sees, and feels as well, Gathers the benefit when the mind's right; When the hands make earth more good, The keen mind sharpens tender things, And sharpens also the sight, when the sight is clear. We were coming ever to meet and toils on arms to set; But Rome hath left us in path of love and peace. If ye ask me why hath Rome, that mighty nation, Mongst whom Descius can be justly bold, With ruins o'er the sands of ocean once, Beheld your woeful state? Look not behind; look forward with me. In her's morning when the morning, and in her's evening, The day and night, were clear, Saw'st thou not that, to save the world, Ye were at last brought to know at length The pow'rs of neither sight nor sound? Didst never hear the sound of thunder? When heaven and earth Held homeward all their gods and chief, So would that ancient rabble's mind be If once the mountains Rome should o'erthrown With fire and sword should fly, And the wild world have faith again; And while heaven's new way were sound and ground, Her wandering thousand yippees Glad on the next best bank be landed! And may the few still' no ill-mothered seed Reside in Italian soil alone, Or that the number of the ram Have any tenure whatsoever. 'Twill make no vassal blushing at the name Of such a great man's fame, nor will His very sons forget his power; But grander strains will his name obtain, And her to take on her eminence, And by his great deeds and not as "Bone." And if this age proves no more the age Of blood, 'twill be because of thee, That age where no old veins a voice For getting thin, But rather grew tough With palsy, that age of divine old age. Thou'rt as a leaf the trees keep up on end, 'Tis easy to wiggle down; Thou'rt as a stone; 'tis hard to stay; If a man gets in trouble he goes Right happily right; And thou art no stone, but if 'tis but rare Some would swear it a wall, An endless wall, and blank too From question could the king keep. That's 'Starved Charles,' so 'twas cried, But when ye've said his face there Stared at so long, 'Twas but a dummy, so you 'ad seen, So ye'd say, In many a case, 'There's no use looking, The Starved Charles can't be ate.' And yet, O, if you be manly, Give it 'Gain light on your nose, And laugh at 'Stave Columbo,' And say you're with the commons more Than he is commons, or you'll own (And make amends for last Old Woodman), That Charles for your dressing-down has been Fathering his flock of sheep. You're as bad as bishops are; For if you had no feint, 'tis true, You'd better church a king. And if he's gone unvested, Dishes would smell of what's in, And many a flaring dish, A ready-and-sprinkled fritter Half-accursed. The Second Donie will not be, And ======================================== SAMPLE 329 ======================================== That on the sunny mantling beech-tree He lived. Inhabitants were the happy Half-grown buds that quailed the snowing winds, As, from their wavy covers, heaped The sunshine as it drooped for want of rain. Then for the rain: and they that never wept Or had an emotion of pure joy, Let loose the spring-souled spring-buds at last In flowers that knew of no PHOEBE. They let him die without his reward Of tears and sunshine; but he passed on Into a desert where the sun has lost His adventure; but he did not die, Knowing the mystery and the power Of the great Power who had tamed his breath In moments of anguish. He rose to meet the approaching day. He rose as from a summer cloud Whose previous flushes had left their stain On him whose fingers grasped the cloud, And sent it back to the night. He rose in pride and hope to know The mystery of sunrise; and to wear The purple of the long shadows cast By the clouds in their comeback. And, after the events of the night, He rose in rage and grief to say: 'I have neither sun nor moon And must be rewarded for this alone: Be light burnt out; let there be light.' So, when the morning had approached to pass In her long wanderings over the sea, Between the shores and over the near island, Which in that part of the world was not named Even the name of the land and the name of the sea, She saw an elm-tree bending to the sun, Whose leafs, though them at daybreak made dark, at night Were less dark and less, and when she bent her view Toward the near island she saw the shore was bright, As if the sun had just risen there and slept; And with her eyes she saw the tree more bright Than the elm-tree and the farther sea-flower, And all the islands thronged with ethereal birds, She saw the hills of the island none know Litter the fields with moonlight and crowns, And from the wooded hillocks on the beach Perciled the heads of the half-lit ships, And the sea-stream carried the loud waves overhead And all was still. But, as she stood there, a sudden thought Possessed her: 'My longing to know Why the thunder and the storm and these happy fires Should come on me as I go to sell my soul Is human; but I think that I can feel The instant I sell my soul, that instant clear, As I've known it in old places.' But she stood still To find the instant you might most plainly show That neither you nor the elm-tree knew, No thought was intended in the land or at the tree Where any tree was, by an elm-tree where The elm-tree stood, or where the tree now stood For they were two forking branches of one tree, Stroggled and wept in an instant and died. But for the moment you, God's bullet shot, were hurled Whither you were sent as the bullet screamed Over the hand of Time. The black sun falls, Scorched by the last day's struggles; The smoke of his wrecking wings Hisses out against the clouds, And is not long in covering all the land The sunset of twilight. I will have no more of looking people in the face, Scared and jeering, Then told what I know. If they are glad, then I'm not glad; If they are sad, then I'm not sad; If they are unkind, so I'm unkind; If they are silly, so I silly; If they are smart, then so are we; If they are wise, then so are we; If they are up and about, then They are for travel. I shall stand on the terrace, Hoping for an audience. I shall walk the streets with passing people, And after I shall depart, I shall suddenly be told: 'You know, Mr. Dalrymple, This is the man who can entertain!' Go up in the sky! Stands the tall child Who will be master yet youthfully In the streets of the sorded town.' Oh, what a girl was I, When on the night That was May, I was she, I took the crescent of gold Oh, what a gust was in me, ======================================== SAMPLE 330 ======================================== I go! I do not stay! I take The strange, shadowy island, far away. Where, drowsing, in some tropical spot, Through ever-changing clouds, I did see float to me The shadow of that other shore. How wild it is! that vine hanging down Over the island like a wall, Filling the solitude with silence! Vines grow in the gloom of the wild And have no light. But through them there passes A strange magic. They seem to bend Down the white-fanged woods that go on Into the darkness. Vines over them Into the dark with hard branches cling. And they bend down over crag and cave. The far shore is kept from that sea By those slender branches, which shade in them The cottond Buguna and the white Slender surf. When the wind blows, They catch the slant of the water-rew. I will pass the spot, and rise again. Here is no shadow, nothing to distract. In the heat the roofs of the houses gleam; They are hotter than the trees. Their cross-bows Revel in the gloom with deep red whiteness. For all the land is dense, and stony. Over the cliff that crosses the island The village pines, in close circle, shed Their leaves over the cliff in mass. When the leaves are out in spring, the earth Washes all with summer blood, and bends The land like a ridgetOW'D column, and then Her roots are buried deep within The continued earth. Vines on vines over mountains Catch the light of the sun, and shade The menace of the noontide sun From his cords. And when he feels the leafless tree He counterfeits the shower, and thus Draws from his heart the memory of his might, And noon, still hot, yet not so hot, so that Is hollower in the shade than I. His air is sharp and bitter with a spice New-forty years. And then again there runs A current north and east, where the river marks A level wide, whose said degree of half The island holds its border land. And in it a white cape, and there are falls Of mist that move in it to the beach. And a score of smaller thoughts and discords, Distinguishing shades of those that live there, Whose pallid goings and memorials are there, So that they make the borderland cloudy. A little: a wall, not there, But as the sound one builds our hopes are thrown Into transparent stones: our hands are these. All that we can we in our hands. And now, if we will build our lilies here, We shall be able to build our lives more thanks, In this damp and cold, and these walls of ours kept like eggs, and if we yet will add a hem To our dresses, and smooth this hand a hair, And please these friends, will still have room to pray, And pray, and sleep, and at night will sit Flat-footed on this perfected town, Till Time bringeth forth our births anew. Who knows but we may now be here that here were gotten, as these guests were, to keep Time in his straight march, or we who know Must keep ourselves in proper spirit kept, Here in the sunny country, till the scene grow less sweet, less lovelier. But let the sun have grace, The sun have light, And let the grass and daffodils have life, The little children, and nothing less, Then we shall be one with these fields and buildings, Not on an island still of such a day, But, in a day, or such a quarter, where It keeps the names of things remembered still; And when the fruits come out, we shall be strong Of voice, because we taught their buds the name Of shape, and taught them how to grow and live, And by us stripped bare woven days and hours And made them all of us so thin to sit and hear that walk, is made of two, that run, is made of twain. And I would please you better, if I could be clean in body and black in mind and old, I'd beg of you, if you'll have me here, that you will keep me sober, and not spill my glass again about the spot where my curt servant, whom I paid one hundred and one percent, with my good arm, is set, the spot is called "the shelf," and it is in me is near to ======================================== SAMPLE 331 ======================================== As a fairer girl Should love. With her head 'twixt her eyes, 'Tis Fancy's eye that can see, And the Fancy's friend is the Muse, The Muse is the Page to thee, Thy Page, tho' bringing in a sense As rare as some rare lyrics, Is the Page to thee; What are they all, then?--Three sisters, kind, And fair, and loving, made for heaven, They weigh as a mountain-air and sky That rafter in mist unweave. Their looks--no other could speak-- All others sat, but listen, where They, with their eyes, make the world A tale, and make the blind to see. The sisters of our Race, Each from a golden-flowered cot, In the midst of green alleys came; And where the orchard-walks do meet, They read, as to the endless day. No verse their thoughts intensify, No lyric does their theme express, Their speech, tho' the ear they titillate, Is only golden-sharp. Alas! poor Audacia knew, Poor Audacia they misdid perceive; Poor Audacia they misdid misse So misse that she did mend. Her sister, she that was wild, At her second brother's aid Did hope, and dread, and write, in swathing Of golden-bough and cedarn tail. She in the age of dawn, as brooks, When dewy rose all things divine, And all the wild things wondrous found, When all things wondrous found, Beheld the sky a blue enorm, And to the heavens did bring The glory of her wildening eye, And her wildering mind, She the starry veil did fling From her wildest wildest wild: And for her sake, The moon's white horn did pick, Of her wild blood, And did lend new redoubled power To Tone's wild music, As the wildest star does blaze. Now she was past her prime, She thought to set, as a recreant, But the wild water gained A chaurus for her hand, In return for her wild fears. Thus her charms, like the bell That tolls thencemore loud with superstaces, Her eyes, her mouth, her nostrils, Her ears, her nostrils, With her eyes, her mouth, her ears did deafen, To tune her ugly fears, Tune her monstrous fears. 'Twas in her ears alone, Now loud, now low, Did she wondrous long Listen to that tynth, Which the ripples made. How, to read her nigh With the selthy stars, With the motionless fields of air, Her eyes, her nostrils, She at will may guide, Which do seem To vary, As each one's face, Is variable; But her face's is constant. There was a rose, a bright rose, She loved to paint, And all the painter's art She would devote to that sweet Sweet rose, so cold, So chaste a rose as ever sex Shed before. And I suppose that somewhere, in the dark, An age represented the lovely maid, With heart's and head's desire in the brief, Sight, ears, and heart, And all that a true flower conceives, Which sprung, all undefiled, With golden grace. Now before they went from land Unto the strand of ocean, Love was the only self he had; For love's sake alone, He sought no flowers, No colors could be purple; But now he had that, Love's own colors gave. When they a chamber had arrived in England, The young lady spoke of her home, Of one who was there bred, Of a son, who at a herald's signal Had gone to that land. The father's heart was not such high joys Had he e'er sought in a land; For, as he spoke, He read the future in the air For his daughter's son. I have heard a song of the South, O'er wild parterres of inner Georgia, Over brown farm-yards and blue summer skies, O'er drowsy big cities down from mighty rivers: A strain O' viands cheap, fleshly or spiritual, Like travellers' diasteries That lead The pilgrim from world to world away, With world ======================================== SAMPLE 332 ======================================== then said the other to me, Who held that question in his mouth and answered, "What believe you best, witness, this new light That in your life shines, your heart and will? It matters nothing if I see But what the Lord of all the world will Enter your life, will save you, will turn back The gate of destiny to its seal, I will restore the faith you gave to you The faith you knew, and wherefore you died, Not to inquire in the lands of others The faith you believed in, but in your own heart Where you were free, and where you were not free. You gave your heart to other people The sun of freedom in their eyes Was moving, though the land was dark, The land was dark and you were free. There is the answer to my question. Go in peace, you were brave and true-hearted, I had been with men in war and peace, I had been with men in land and field, I had walked with wild men in their mountain districts, I had wandered with them over the wide-way, And made of them my business purpose. They made me one of their own. But now it was different with me. I did not ask for this change. I did not want it. They say I was an alien, And they are right. I was a man, a private in the army, An exile I was not, but they forced it From me as the battle-cry has been for me In many a place, the cry that they had taught me To sound on others--"Abolish fear! We are the people," their accents grown Too sweet for their breathing in me. So, like a man, I cried: "Help, I want to be free; God save you and yours, G-o, wherever you are, But help me! I do not ask for fancy, power, Or wealth, or fame, or everything at stake Your circle. I ask only for freedom. That I can drive my team of slaves who will Write your history with their story alone, Your captive just as you are your freedom. So much for myself. But I was not in the army, I was not in the land he conquered, I was not yet a man when Abraham took me Out of the city of Sodom, my birth a surprise. I was not yet a man-boy, scout-boy at once Men-boys are soldiers. But the others see How friends and city-changing personalities Collected may be a little case for freedom. I thought the army the way to go To free me of the monsters I had made. A soldier for the flag and his neighbour's flag, I thought the army the way to be free. But then I entered the army, and saw The army the way to suffocate The monster of my habitation in the world. And the army has its privileges. The army knows what it means to be choked, The way of scrubbing behind enemy lines And seeing that your body does not slip between The black Islamist barbed: the way of scrubbing Behind a four-inch mortar, of hearing the portents Of lynch-slogging sorrel-gullets hanging there, And of your comrades standing with stiff backs And waiting, of your favourite flag limpid as the swallows In the spring, of the army wiping out your rights. The way to be mummied and repressed, Of lying under barbed wire, of walking on a vehicle Guarded, of wearing of armour, of marching in ranks At the back, of marching on a road, of firing in rows, Of setting bay dispointers, of boot-covers and ash-pipes And of a flag that does not droop or float And of a message that does not mutter: "Stern People, who have sentences through you: Britain first!" And they marched to London in their piled-up pride And when the poppy was played and the tambour frame Wrecked of the poppies and the flag and the lyrics, They fired their first shots for the coming man. And when they came to London, in their own calm time, The country-scale was reset for them again. They had put a piper to play the Old Bear's Respect and so degrade the Young Harris. But he said "R-a-g-h" and twisted out of breath A wire like a lunatic and cried that the Nation Was here to be fucked, that women were his ambush, ======================================== SAMPLE 333 ======================================== ghastly, glancing; and thought in him the fair ambrosial, the balmy, airy, airy-fair, the lovely angel of the fields. The way to Calistho, naked, with lifted arms, she followed, no longer human, stripped off from her, the strange beauty of herself, the mighty mother, the Alpine mother, and the mounving greybeards. Swiftly, at the white of a maiden's wrist, gleamed the angel of the hunting horn, the way to Calistho; low at the red she heard the shrill piping of the horns; the throat of the hounds sounded shrill, and the hollands gave an earth-lubber yip of fury, and the skies glowed, glittered, and the water glistened like glitter from the tooth of the hunt. And Calistho, the cold-hearted, loved, but she caressed first. She touched the hunted part, and then the untasted, and then the wolf she caressed. She licked the blood from the feet of the goddess. Then Holy Adam blessed the fair heads of both; and Holy Elpak when he took his own right hand he set it down, with the thumb pointing towards the east; and with the middle finger of the right hand he signifieds, and says, Pierce my side. And Seth Adam called, And Elza his wife, among the youth, and the holy people of Adam-lilies, advocating the thing of God sponing, and then of the Father Adam says: O holy Angels, glory-bearers of the worlds, consist not in my sin. O glorious beings of the great portents, the great visible things, O holy, glory-bearer, and the thoughts which take hold, (O thou Lord of heaven, I have done this breach of thy covenant, and my head is cut off, because thou hast seen me, that I have turned away, O my Son, to no hight, but in thy mother's bower under thy name, to live in shame, that they say is the heir of my flesh, that is a beast of wolfs tooth, a wrathe of the claws. I will be found in my birth, O, Lord, in the flesh of my mother, whose so ye waite, in her womb, to burn with fire. Adam magnified be God. Not till a fair woman cleft her that shadow of moonlight, Not till she wept, shed forth all her sorrow, not one ripple born of her sorrow not one pang of pain of hurt; only God knows the pain. Not till she wept her hurt, the sun in her pain, but not one ripple born of her sorrow, a pang of pain, only God knows the pang. O, my beloved, O my beloved, O thou oft-injured, once high of rank, O thou Son of God, O thou L―ds of pride, O thou Prophets twain, of glory and of God, O thou nobles of God, O thou jointists of glory, my own beloved, O thou Angels high above, whose fame is shined through the deserts; O thou angels, grace and beauty, mute and blest, O thou gods, and in human suffering, grace and intelligence, our human offspring; O thou world, O thou mouth of God, and all that spoke, but better far, than I, through the dark, speak of him, but better far, is he hidden, hidden, hid, hidden, in my heart. Marks outstrips the best, But where'er it is, That mile we'll miles thence come. Marks outstrips the best, For there's nothing better in this world. What a man of men is one That a true man does love! A' each ha' e' turn in o' the body; But love fand his own good e'e. We've fand blithe griffin, We've fand hell's rolling maw, And sleep fand in the drifting snow. The man who but an hour ago was the wark To fortune's jigs through an eight- ======================================== SAMPLE 334 ======================================== When Autumn winds have chased the Summer ants, And Autumn's sunny weather is done, When another short and bright Summer day Will join the short-liv'd Summer that is done, When I shall hear the calling of the many wings That make up the Autumn circle as it winds, I'll know that Spring and those warm days of mine Are not altogether one; For, oh! those warm days of mine, I don't know how, Are not altogether one, That Summer of my self I don't know how, Is not the Summer I have come to know, And not the autumn of my self. But if I could hurry, and if I could stand Under the cold sky of North Europe, And see if one Spring didn't have the same looking-up For all its men who have been, I should know how one Summer isn't the same From one end to the other, though both so raw And one is not the same from one end to one. Then it would come to me, but it would be all and only, Some of those things I dream about which I have not been, And I should know the self I've come to know. I should know the blessedness of those things. And then I should know myself at last. And then I should have an ending. And I should have an ending, and I should be whole. And then I should not care. There would not be a second place To look. And one place should not have to be all and only, Though I should fly. Now it isn't that. But I can't go home again. I can't go home again And know what home is Where flower beds grow, And trees grow, and one room there is. But I can't go to my house And know what home is. I used to be able to tell people That I used to be a poet And only a poet now can be. So they would say. But I am a poet now, And I will not be a poet. What is the rich man doing here? What is the merchant doing? What is the landlord? Where are the bankers that I met At the ball-room? What is the stranger doing That I met on the street St. Mark's Place One Halloween night? The doors are off the bars, The iron columns are falling; The rich man's lying in the street, And the stranger's running. What is this whisper of the night? I call out: 'Tis fire, and smoke, and burning! I hear, in the clust'ring of the windows, The furious wings of the clock struck one; The fireman's bell is heard in the feedey-time; I see the flail of the firefighter fall into the restless -- The dying, you call them, are yours to handle, The fireball and all its bright gases. I know the gray of you is here, And the fulness of your love inside me; And I know the dead eyes must hide In the face you love so well; Yet I can see, in this solemn hovering, The gray of you will fall on me. From the shining windows, to-night, I see the gray towers shining gray; The fiery towers, in flames that meet, The moneyed men in their sanguine air, The bankers lie dead. But I see you, my own love, With your eyes on mine, In the face of the starry walls Of the night that were. I have heard from all the voices The earth was changed to-day; And the naked trees in a wild ecstasy Pressing in wild passion strayed; I have seen the violet Drop down not one drop of its warm life. The poets of the Jews have given Their thunder to the world. But it is not the thunder that saves, It is not the bee that kills. And the king who is at the door Is the man of whom I dream; He has but the head How thick the crowd he enters, How great and choral grow The I oss, the great gates, I watch his mighty pace Until the earth grows still To hear the old of him And the old repeat The old of you. The old and forgotten Behold him there, Tender, kind, eyes aglow With rest, and golden hair. The memory, dream-like, Of beauty and youth, Is in his eyes; The old of you. Where are the tra ======================================== SAMPLE 335 ======================================== The shadowed groves shine under the soft moon, And deep hidden dells are bright with dew. As I here pass, and look, and wonder, so You and my hills will look, my canoes, so You and my hills will glimmer far, my boats, My glistening drops will glitter far away! But on the plains, the night must sink and swim In silent white, and splendor run. This is the frontier! now, Young Girl, we start So bravely as a little human child. But 'round here, how much thou learn'dest so soon here, To play alone so brave an artist's part! To speak with perfect softness, grace, and right Of every kind voice, to touch the multitude With sympathy, and yet be heard not a word! You lay the eggs. Then I: Then I: One in a thousand so suddenly In spite of the truth of it But by construction, And that in spite of the laws of the hen. So here they lay together, eggs My Lady is quite correct in saying That 'a lobster in every pot is bad A handful of tea, bad Ryder shake-hops, A handful of chewed-dry clours and black Suprises, A dish-clout, a trusty dish of dust, A sty, a toothpaste tube, and what's the worst Hormel crispy scramble, and melsey biscuit-- Condiments for potatoes are as good as hay! Well, here we are on the third day, March the eighty-five. We start in the shade, it is true, But no longer can be shades; For it's over ninety-six, and we're over Blazing gold is all the fashion Now the frosts are changing. Now the frosts are startling and arousaling, In the mountains and low; But, O. K. ! we're gathering in our harvest now, With the harvest, too, is some dullness, And the frost is hard on the buds. And there are spots of water, one and all, Coming across our ear In the shade, as we work along by the water, By the water, and then, once more, by the grass. Sometimes we have spots of sun, As the day is long, and the wind is still, With the best things we have always worked together, One and coming together, and then a stop at the wood. Then the whole year's hard; no matter where we are, And the homefield is all the home one; By the way we worked in old life we are still working; In fact it's always the way. But the homefield is not the same, And we work as we did in the old days, And it's so sweet it must be beautiful. There are hundreds of tall incorporations, And we are but the copy of them, And the brakes grow long and the fences grow tall; And there's a dime a minute discovery made In the chemicals of life, or the microbes that eat 'em. For the homefield is not the same, And each time, as we cross it, we make it newer; And it shows on the brakes and in the lines of the team, As they pull down the bristles of the bison. O that wind, it is loud in the sunshine, And it shakes the palm trees, and shines on the little houses, And it plays in the little neighbourhood, too, On the horse that we ride every day, Or where the squirrels romp, in and out, By the old road that goes up to the park, And the girl that goes to work in the factory, By the fall-strewn fields of oats and corn, And the woods where the days go fast away; Where the woods are shortening into night, Where the sky wears very near like the road, And the barn door seems sounding cold On the wind from the south that sweeps and broths. Where the wind comes with the barnets spilling, And the leafless trees bending left and right, And the yard is growing deeper and deeper, And the rail is overhead, and the barn blowing long, Till it seems a straight line sailing down, From the north, where the sun almost sets west, From the north-west, and blowing directly, And tearing the roof from, and tearing the glazing; The boy runs out and yells; the old-fashioned way. He has tied his horse to the old-fashioned salving, Horses ======================================== SAMPLE 336 ======================================== A thing to be regretted when it is done. For I make no che-rey-yah! The smell Of kefir-fil, the buttermilk With red-lettuce and roasting-spruce Is good, and I can eat and be happy With my lunch-meat sweetened like a cuckoo. <|endoftext|> "Of Summer", by Robert Louis Stevenson [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Summer, Summer's Days, Sailboats, Trails, Boats, Turffields, Independence] By magic card and not a Mr Beef by 'L institutionalised, In my sunny corner by the north fence Tis raining and a few firs are kicking By a little strip of grass and a plum Tree. Now as I came down the spiral stairs The decks were wet and glistening as, 'You Mrs. A. P. Walspan III would say is 'Draining' Of a tank's oil, and they had set aside Sand and a gracer, that's a glaster, for The deeper cruiser accommodation, And all the town was knocking at the Orange Window, and I saw the bells of the Flag-ship's gay colours, and heard the singing Of sailors, all in the bones of the boat, Tremendous noise of it, and all the deck Was like a red balloon in the sun's beam, With people in tinskins like sheep or sheepdogs, They were throwing water like doughnuts At each other, they were dogs or cats or parrots Or great gazelle, and the topsails were licking the foam Off each other, the quarter-deck was like a transept praying To the face of God and the bars and the brig were grinning And glancing the eyes of the grey friars, And there was the White Boat turning the heads Of the fluitrers, the 'A' Moores of the sea, And they looked at me and they smiled, And they were like silver and they were like glass, And they spoke a strange tongue to my ears like hail, And I could not speak your English tongue, And the topsails was rolling below the moonshine, It made my flesh crawl and I swam for the yard, But the stern was below me and I knew the President, I had not seen him, and my stomach gurgled, And I knew that the helm was not true and I knew, I knew the vile mist that had gilt my boots. I saw him, and the topsails was rolling down. <|endoftext|> "Cousin Renee", by Jerome Rothenberg [Living, Growing Old, Marriage & Companionship, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Nature, Animals, Religion, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] I know what it is to be sad in the city today: You are here with me on the street, But I know you do not understand: How can it be that I keep moving Into and inside of this world that is yours, That you have left behind your own? You are moving with me to the end of my story. The street is a purple dunespread That can not muffle the sound Of the sound of wing beating space against the sky. How the night winds beat the roof. How the siding and windowpanes sing, How the yellow candle-switches glow. But this is not my quiet life: My heart is full of violets That fall to the pavement and wither there. And this is not my story: I cannot go backward into the old life. For I move among bright lights Where I cannot hide. When a man is growing old, His thoughts turn backward to the days When he was young and loved. He remembers the good words and ways Of friends who walk with him; And he remembers his mother's calm smile, And his father's rebuke. I am very lonely, very lonely, I say. For my world has broken all too often then: The good days and the words of encouragement Are not always repeating in my ears. When I think I am very lonely, I think I shall not have any friend. We come here to-night to walk On the city's shore, Along the street where, from morn to night, We saw for themoon, at our feet, a red sky. We come here to walk In a place ======================================== SAMPLE 337 ======================================== Fancy of a thief may move him then to action, The thief to a race of ill men to Deserve not To live, or a life of disgrace, Whose lives and deeds bear witness his own This for life That for death By a man's coming to life it is plain Of what is made for action and what is Likely unto action. Now the statement Of the whole is not so much we say as what Is clear to us, and that clearliness is, In part, the effect of a basic point of view On the kind of universe men have seen By their experience. But if that be the case, Then this man was not in the wrong, You, O solace of the wasted and forsaken, I who, wretched, left your doors behind me great To escape the missile of death, when I said 'I shall die, before I reach home again If these now become cold and coloured.' The icy cast of those stones was seen By me to be the effect Of a world's despair, whose smokers Have breathed in them The vapours of an existence That is dying. Why did I live, seeing the sunshine Was doomed to change with the world's too? How much less it dangles, That is sinking, Than water whose element Is drunk by the liquid That is slaking. I who stood with my back to the Work of my heart When I followed my longing, My being's cry To the woman that was slipping Through me, to the one Who is staying To go on holding. Is the white rose really white When it grows on the cut Of the wall to the ground, With the touch of the rose That is lost in the dirt, To vanish from the wall When the rose is used up And the dirt and dust Have risen in light from the earth? I am in the dim-dark spaces Of a space, Aleinted with shadow, This room is air-soiled Of a woman and man Who are dead. But they are in the light and the open Of space where I am, Lived to live and grow old in, This work of my life, This work of my love. The day's green life is grown over, And the night's joy is gone For pain and fruitless week-long scent That is past. And those things that are like what they are-- They may not be, And, tasting delight for nothing, I let my life flake and flow In space from space As in a fruit from branch, The heart from branch to branch Of the year's smell. And looking round on the agony of gloom, I hear the windy laughter of space, And the soundless children of wandering Whose feet have never been bound By the moon that is far away May find the steps unshaken Where the light of earth is. And there is one that will laugh no more, The hot-faced child of aching hours, The blood of the night-clutching that has come Between his ribs like a tear Whose relief was a turn in the crowd, And he comes at evening With a lonely gait To the fountain That is lonely for him only. He will stand in the hot autumn air With the shadow of a woman's dress Stiffened to blossom, And he waits for the evening that has torn The wonder of trees From his own exposed body, As if the wonder of water Were stilled for ever. The world is hers, and may not pass, The world is hers and may not pass, Wherein she has made herself plain; Where she has climbed long ago Through the shimmer of shining light To the breaking of light; Where her soft foot moulds over and moulds Over soft earth, and the free arm of air Enters into the straightness of her limb To flutter and waft her along Wholly herself, self-free. The space between is a chain, And she is bound in its chain By planets and by stars; But her soul, all love-voiced, steps out Across the infinite to the ultimate world Of suns and genii. And thus through the hallowed space Of those far-flung fortifications She may have intercourse with the Saints, And know the things that we know; For she is full of frank and free discussion Of the starry lights That throw back through kalekeas on rolling glory Over the ======================================== SAMPLE 338 ======================================== Bore him to his regal seat, Wondering, overjoyed, and fain To come again to throng Amid the Leges' ever-virtuous hall, Which old she begot for good, To halls of piety and praise, Where sweet minstrels would the Spirit wow, Who under throes of bliss saturate The singers' moves with joy divine. When, by a hundred years refowr'd, When he had bled on earth, his soul refur'd, His final pilgrimage begun; When from the scene his spirit dwelt, A spirit scrutineer hover'd near, Who ask'd, and, from the fatal blow, Rebar'd the truth of the old legend? To tell the truth, o'erwhelm'd with shame, Through pastime grievous he began, When from heaven, in direct approach, Down through his pure spirit way A spirit very like ask'd, In humble dress, advanc'd before, Who don'd with tears the errand perform; With face and dress like one that winters woe. But, ere his gladness he reveals, Second ask'd, with greater pride, Now set in order--for he felt The journey through his restive mind Was better not begun-- "I am," said he, "the historian Who life shall leave us, here, unpublished,-- The best, on the old stone, inscription that there's time to write." In clear reproach of a misjudging Fate, In prayer for human Memory, Sought out the valiant, and did this place assign Within the sacred hold of Thirteen-Southpaw: And that this place, with which glad Fame is glibble, May justly claim the tribute of his name, A worthy man, with heart and hand, was chosen,-- His name is HOOPER-CUPO. The Hist-ery links man with beast, and product of the sea with product of the land. He was made man and beast, He springs to waters, He draws the majestic and the young, He goes in grace upon the walking beast, All did he ever do, All ever did, All ever will, All is, and has been, His name is HOOPER-CUPO. A Grampa sings for his dog, And I will sing for my dog; He's a tough old dog, And he'll do 'ard when it comes to beatin' through But he'll do 'ard when it comes to lickin' through. He 'as heart and soul, And now He'll lick And now He 'as tail And now From the day he was made He'll never think His name is Homer, but, if I were Homer, and this state were yours, O yes, I would be your dog, for my mind is made up thus, I would be your dog, I would. I'll tell you all about it when I get home, but before I go, I must teach my dog to speak." "You may try," he said, "but very wisely, Dog; You may try to teach your dog to speak, but before you can speak, you must first untrain his speech From the cause that now oppresses him. For the truest language Is the one that is best understood, But he breaks out when he 'd mend' If he try to mend By being silent or weak. You may try to teach your dog to speak By the simple way, By the rear or by the brown; Or you may try to teach him To be silent or to lick your hand; But you 'old twenty ways to pay To a child That has been good, Or to a child that has been bad; And the child that has been good Is very few 'tis she 'as a child, That 'as not been bad. If it's to be a noble man That his mind was not that way, Be it an easy or a high thing He must do, And he must do it quick. But if he ever lets it show, And he ever looks aside His eye that was on you, He'll see that that was not so good. Now, Dog, you're a dog, and that's by dint Of caution and of high design That you know, and for the most part I'm the man you've got now; But, though it 's your fate as is, What you now know, you may ======================================== SAMPLE 339 ======================================== arms and plume; I am the Wanderer, a glorious name, My dreams have given me. Of changeless joy and sorrow Through all my life I know it well, And why I wear it with a proud face, 'Tis that I was once a man, And I can dream no more as one. And so, for many a year, I sought for something I knew not Beyond the dream that manhood sought That I would reach and win for her The happiness of love. And I sought it, but I found not, And I could never reach it, As manhood I learned and dared, But as a man I could not reach it. And then I thought, "I have tried; Too little, too late, has been tried. Perhaps I have missed it. . . ." And at last I have found it, And I know it as I know a friend New come from journeying on a far-off errand; And so I know the very soul of it As one who has and has not found it. And so I know a man--or rather, I have found a man, Who had not twice been home, but thrice--to say The truth of it; and so I have found it, And have to face the truth, and have not a chink To put in a defensive settlement. Ah, I am no nameless chief, That graces the walls of time; I am the husband of a woman That no man ever knew. I am the husband of a woman That all men know not know. The little house that is naught to me Affords more than life to her, And with it, enough to please her To the paying of her dividends. But I have passed by moments all, And by deeds that were not known, And by glory that was not so great As to bring woman to my feet. For she left home with honors that were more Than might have been expected, And with an undreamed-of birth To a name that stands in the mouths of men; And with it, to her own delight, She led the men of not her own will Into dire depths of war. Then, why should I, leaden to the touch, Forget that she led me there? Why should the flower that has the most alloy Be preferred to the root that had none? And, of a truth, I should have led her Into thorny hulks of senseless strife And let her wander from the height of life. Now, on the other hand, why should a chief Be less than his heart says he should be? And the more he holds himself back from strife, The more he makes his heart its center be. I should not search for faults with you, my friend, Because I never found one to name. A man of soul that can solve a problem Of any kind is considered wise; But to solve a simple problem look has A demonstration of great sense. And a good thing, or two or three, to name. But to play upon the deepest cockraven, And draw the heartinside a beautiful mask, And give the eyes a vision of the smile That is worth all the best things on earth for me, That is the proof that the game is really good. As for success, it is either fortune's crop Or a beast's. If it ever has been full The victor, any size, is Reed. If unsuccessful, none has the stature That Reed can claim. <|endoftext|> Take, if you will, the simple gospel plan of just getting along; Just get along with the people, not getting out of your gutter; Just greet people like plants in the morning, just as the days Start to come, and just as the nights go; Just let them greet you, too, that every day is a gift Crowned with delight, and just bow politely and speak kindly To all, and just say "Thank you" like only people ought. Take, if you will, the very best of the teachings of man; Whispering words of precept say much more in a short space (If you have any say in so grand a matter as human meaning); They say that you may search deaf and blind, so fine a thread Has been spoken, though never heard. What though it has often been so? But it has been spoken, too! Take, if you will, the metaphor of a recruiting-post, Where men are ======================================== SAMPLE 340 ======================================== ultimatum fuit ad inclypere dicendum ut foret manum retineat ante corona regnetis incuria flamma sit quam tempus exiguum et sede e converia levantque tempusque adfata per longam ossa reboant, hic excludite mensum, quas torrens extuleris et, cum dare quia piscis in inferola fuerit, finxit in olim reluia, cum certa certum contristi mensibus certa starmos. Haeitus est etiam nostras circum infestios obstuncens foedera torpor. ips enim nostri stomaque opaca tibi tempus ambidere meos; nec enim contemnong daemonium infestus est tibi suasit, satis imitare nostri: non nostro fomenti hanili contagitem; et quo quod erat in ordo caten ex extremis libens pios opus est. At tu, Sion noblicor, vir supellex substetit in culmis desse latus: non faciunt mala, nec sicca recenset in annos: nam quod si facient, fugeres ipse calamos. Per tente pueros, suo quocunque illubens et fondum brevelem uultus amor, perque aeternum, et non stetit ibe velut. Nec te trepidant nix Aquilone, nec velle dict merhabili stuprocatum adgit nec nos et ipsa placatum leporellis. Hic vero, totum cum fugiam, nec agobius ulto aut alko adposito gravitationis orbis spargere sub ros pio -- scire perfidem -- dolos. Vix spolere negant, quem per timine lectus lapsum negative eburnam, nuda sic imbutat, ne hello fora loquor. Ille errai usat, sic per vreine negotium concessum nulla fugat. Non illo serta sed non corpus mori concrebi sibi, dix ponam aeternum est, iuvabile, holidem. Spinae quae hostes ad tollam pax linent, et sapra tua quae dic absuit orbis, occipit et reus majus, ac caeloso, et quae dixe: maiorum fuit; claram ut igni Nunc et acceptor ille, nec letis inerito negent: si quid saecla causas erit, quid sit illud, si quid ubi deus, et dic ars omne quod illisso, spine habere queatum, et ut ille est deus. Utque dixi, si cause of illius, et periode spine sedet, si causam et in lead proculse, et saltem scierse quae sit illius, ibi imperat, et multum nocentis inruptum. Ripis inclus optum, crines Dardine, confur omnis ex omni dicamus longos. Annus cum sinistis lustra preces, spum magna, non est in tolles immac, nec tibi, dixit eram, clam before omnes hoc pares bella deumculta prensa ferendus. Ille mater mundus, occibus summus, fragliandingique postiga summis, adde pedem, et stolidam potenti agnos praecideat, et habe nunc trismus et urbs mortalis refecti tollina manus. Postquam, ut lux est, lusit orandus, et sic portant ad imo nostrum pater, et cum dominam concrepat imber, dulichit et sine superga carmen: nec tantum perscirente lento. Tantum derange natantia, ex id alum pallor et gaudent amicum. Tondai tentus qui propter totam fator ======================================== SAMPLE 341 ======================================== Is of three sisters, I have three mothers, And their names are—What? I guess they’ll tell me later. For I told you above that I had a capital Now I say what was it I was saying to myself No, but what I want to say is— There is a sea. —So that is the whole story, and above all the sea, And we can never describe it— The dolorous and meticulous dolorousness Which is—isomnibus dubitet lex—whatever The dictionary says. This is not my own. This is one I fashioned in small In the half-light, in weirdness fit. You were saying to yourself—that was long ago— A previous self saying, short and loud to shun The divined dark. But all the while, you were saying to yourself, I WAS, beneath that self, that self a time In which a self-illuminist wrote, in a strange Phonic shadow of time, of words and of moments Alliterative, but never any more. I was repeating, above, the first self, Whose vocative years, upon my head Of old, were not my own. The days are all reprints. But I tell myself, The other self, that now is mine, Because the only private thing in each utterance, To any self, is public, which is the dark, And I am all private and all public at once Because I am no secret of time, And because my utterances are but one. You say the days are over, and the years are long And I say the years are only all lapsed Out of existence. Your mouths are empty and your tongues—with A little melancholy—ringed. There is a void. You say the void is silence and I Agree, and agree with that void. There is no speech to be made, but we must Find a way to speak of more than we are, For this, our planet, is not the silence God created. <|endoftext|> "For a Girl who Grew into More than One Mother", by Amy Antnikov [Living, Parenthood, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] Child: I am never going to be less than whole, whole, whole to me Mother: Mother: Why Do you think you'll ever be enough To be more than one mother? Child: Yes, I think I am more than one But I am not two. Mother: So you Are not two? So you're not The second mother? Child: No, I am Not the second I am not Mother: Okay. I am never going to be less than whole, whole, whole to me I may be less than The first moment of mine. * Mother: Okay. You are Not the second moment of mine * I know I know I am. Child: It's okay I am not moment first moment. * Mom: Okay. I am not I moment * moment. Child: It's moment and not two moments. * * Mom: Okay. I am the first moment of yours. * I am the first moment of two. * Child: Two moments. * * Mom: So You're not the second moment. Child: Two moments. Mother: Yes. * * Mom: I am the first moment. Child: Yes. * Mom: I am the first moment. Child: I am the first moment. * * Mom: Okay. I am the first moment. * * Child: I am the first moment. * * Mom: I am not not mom moment. Child: Yes. * * Moment Mom is not moment. * * * Child: I am the first moment. Child: I am the first moment ======================================== SAMPLE 342 ======================================== So his descent, it had not been yet. The night passed into morning: ofttime I knew not how I knew, nor she, nor My bairns! the world to giddiness Shook our old inn-chair, no man entered. In the morning, "Dear," said He, "I fear That day will need the trances Of faith; these wonted delights to guard Of old enjoined. Therefore seek ye now Meads that bless men with combined exorcisms, That all night deep in hand beneath may lie." So in the midst of day He vanished, And in His presence came a barmy spirit, Under whose sway the old inn-chair I saw Rot, as with the larnélosphere scummed. My bairns, when they were up and around, Shared freely both with her, and many a word They wittily SHARP had learned; and to the seashore She oft, with many a sullen-groaning sigh, Sent me, while that I lay sound; and when I First of a place at large, old Northradene Looked on, there she at Godfredo's tower Lofty and said: "Here all night at his command She casts me higher, till I shall crawl across The stars and all the earth, till Godfrey comes, And in my bath shall wash me clean, I ween." So still the same old starlight pattern Within the sky, with never-ending change Here day and night are accounted still the same When night hath past and rise bringeth light; There the poor wight, who shall employ his hours From morn to morn, is worse for wear. Sooth, Nay, even that man's vision, when his days Are filled with seeking, hath no certain guide Save night, and when the sight thereof he gains, The Devil hindereth with unbending perch On the flinty deep, and all his reasoning used Bewilder, so has more leisure makes him fitter. The more to please my cruelly am I tongued With these old saddles, the more I am to please, But with nobleness of wilful pleasure sprid With malice, ever one in malice found. I see the schemes that were high aims of old To build up man, fall by like real miles - Yet like high aims are quickly low strived at last. With her I haunt, I know her, she was call'd my queen, God of May--and these my schemes of real might Whereon I aimed at one end, can I fret you silly, O Man, with manhood, come no more reaping when the grain is cut? Take heed, O Destitute of Bliss, not only he Who rails at Fate, be he too severe, nor rail At gifts divine, since they are received you may receive; And all things to a work better than you. Heav'n-baffled mountains, in your deep declivity, Why not blaze forth and prosper in your present unrotten state? Not your fresh adornment, nor your depth of shade Give release that you should rove gladly your own Game, If your deep summit gave you a prospect of the sky O'er a sphere inhospitable to man, unkind, And hostile to your kind. What if this were your case, With all your roaring far louder, and with far more strength? I am readier wise, my Deere in hand, to strike Than your vocation. Let Fortune deal with you, Your race is written out, your being is extinguished, The enemies that you would weasel way for, I have eyes To see your rivals have a common foe to cheer them; And if a few of your kind have right of challenge, That time the spirit of Liberty have wrung their hell From that rebellion, like Danish phlegmatic skill To mould men, to harness them, to thresh them, break them, By sway of arm to sway. Your association, Lord, Your connection by and by, a vast association Are turning up, in stealthy act of aid, To aid my Rule. Not but that this should come, It takes all new shape, when you are put to it, and seems Most evil-looking. Is not our Britain, As my sinews and my sight have proven, still to be Touched with tyranny? Hold you back one word, And the old wenches will come quick when they hear; ======================================== SAMPLE 343 ======================================== What. But from all this gloom There seemed to rise an odour of flowery leaves, Love! as it was, what can we more befool? It is enough That Death and Darkness, Dark and Dross, But join and form our fog-cloud, That we speak a common language To us who live in. Sister Emily, couldst thou keep To thine own self and to thy own Heart the law of thy heart that saith, 'No peace but in the kingdom of heaven': Or even, Sister Emily, The common civility of love, Would'st thou keep faith with the beautiful, Not speak of the merely so? For whom should gather in darkne regions Of the gnawed upon, and famish for air, The only things they have, But those whom they follow, Sister Emily, who goes to heaven With the air of Emily, And to us who are at the end of life, Who are the residue for our portion, And the way of the just, And unworthy, ought to gloat on such, And mock the impure? Nay! the glutton's soul must be Made light of the fruit of the eater, And the unwise oath that thou shake With the dog of life's devouring sin. There is the garden of God spread wide To my side for me to pray on, And my mouth cracks while I speak, As the streets of hell crack At my ear, seeking the sign. I have heard the gates of Eden tremble, And this must be the church in the garden, The gate of Eden that is open. Then let my soul go in at the 7:35 p.m. When the harlots enter there, Be it in Braemar, or Berlin, The bushes all gather, and all fly, And the woodpecker starts in the dead of night, And my soul takes flight to the choirs of Heaven, Till it sings the air songs of Essa- lo-jura. Back to farm and to the white horse, And the days of sunshine and sunshine fruit That followed on the bloom of my soul's farewell, And the friends of my life are in Heaven, And no more I look to thee, nor bend, But with no eye down from the westering brow Of the scarlet cedarse. Down I go to the 9:35 p.m. <|endoftext|> The morning has been good With the game of rats and of mice; Running around the yard, I have been good, I have been lucky; But I have had a little nickel Spent it on jerkin 113A, Old Man Jolly, shopman to the slaves, Said today should be dry when he heard us break On a Sunday for a change. We always broke on Sunday, he said. He was talking above us then, I was running fast and he was catching. But our balls went down Place-tough. The jay-boys picked him up; And the holly hedge was spiky When we touched it; The ground was slippery from our sneakers. I'm shitting you, Old Man Jolly, said we; You were talking above us then, I was catching with my heels. We were leaving Sunday for Sunday's break, He was catching good and still. The best of days and the worst have come To mark this march on the road. There are too many comrades waiting, There are flats beyond the rumble, And noses to test in the splashing mud For heads under the sprays. We take the Corner from the big one, And it is just the same. The tee-angled dirt is there, The windy road there, the mud and the dust. We will remember there, Not 'most a fortnight for me and my badger, As we've had before, And he's nearly black enough to count, I reckon, For having worked his wits Off and on through three weeks' winter To put a ball up the strongest head. The rut he would not leave me in, And he came close to putting it through. But he went down in two-minutes flat. The corner went up and away, And the club in my neighbour's yard went down. It would not count for his black hearts That we wanted the ball more this year; We must beat all other clubs out of breath To get it on his wiry old head. A word with his old mother to ======================================== SAMPLE 344 ======================================== Glorious glory of our Western Queen! She is not chained to His Majesty, This shackle and rock is not His. Daughter of the Asia that prospered In the olden golden prime And the future, born in spring, And the Queen, from whose sweetness nigh I was taken in the grown- This is not mine! but rather Our! I am but one of many Thousand flowers that crown and strangle This bright mortal youth who would remain As one of your flowers, born in your Sweet marriage-nights, when Your With Your are eternally two. I was a flower, and love me well This dainty, bright and delicate; I know not the touch of either Your body or warm light hand. Soot and nuptial confusion blind My eyes, and none other; I see only Myrina's And that old vision, King Olopadius, Who hunts the Jew-may. Call it Chance, There is no more that anyone cares for! I know that much, and hate myself for it! I am but a vanquish, subservient junk To a train of out-moddators coming on, All the brood of Alichinosc: I look with disdain on others in their train, Some of whom are now of Your Majesty And would turn my elegant singing vaudeville Into a musical chorus of Nuit, And in Your Majesty's hand they present, Half-eaten, the beldam flower of -isms. And Your Queen goes down from time's ambuscade To decorate, with a ceremonial brilliance, A scarlet garment of a dry fall of dawn; While to inspire the imagination of the Congenial violet, that's left to Us! <|endoftext|> "Delight", by Siegfried Sassoon [Living, Coming of Age, Marriage & Companionship, Love, Desire, Infatuation & Apathy, Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] The whole world on fire around us, The whole world burning, We are so perfectly happy, We are so helpless, We so helpless, It is impossible to tell where and when We are ready to die. It is impossible to tell where and when We will or will not be ready. We are ready to die, Ready to forget, ready to forget Everything else in the world. If only you could take Us with you, And if only you could take us away And lock us in Your neck of nuptial breasts It would be good, It would be good to have our arms around Your body, It would be good if our arms around Your body Could be embraced. <|endoftext|> "Good Friday", by Siegfried Sassoon [Religion, Christianity, Good Friday] God, can't you hear me, hearing my own speech And made myself loud in my own way? I am the wind who likes to see the city, The earth with fire is always drinking light, And life with death is drinking life; And the four greatest saints are blind, And the garden of the Holy One Is green, and the garden where the fellowship, Holy as the Gospel, Holy as the Koran, Means nothing, it doesn't mean. Can't you see me, being unlicensed, Being licenced? Being licenced, being unlicensed, I see you, shadowy, green licencing the eyes Of the saints and the holy prophets. Let me make my songs unlicensed, I make The very prayers unbaptized and baptizzed In the prayers and tears of this child's pleading. I don't care if my books are unlicensed, Their songs are baptizled, their images are shownon The walls of the churches, and the gates of the villages, In the schools the soot on the epistle-b touched ceilings, In the shells of the rock, the incantations Of the women, and the tallies and tabulations, And the reckoning of the proscribed, and the games Of the steps and of the so-called immortal thimbles. What is this, English, that you write in the style Of the country and not the world? Your figures are out of the European figure, ======================================== SAMPLE 345 ======================================== I alone cannot all my spirit and all my strength Live or restore, for very want of that skill Which skill in doing is a perfection." He said, And turned him to the side. With bolder temper grew That chief, but not with less of scorn and sternness, When from the house Nicostrato, servant Upon his master's errand, had stolen the lord, As then he thought; and coming up, asked what wrong he Had sustained, which he had to his saddle driven. "I have, it is told me by the hands who counselled Mine house of Clearchos, under him who was his host, That he who in a worse than crime deprived me Of ears, should have given back to me hearing So dear; but here, too, he hath not spared to leave Me, and for my companion, so to speak is true. I of my honour have no more complaint to make, For he, whom I suspect, has indeed Lifted me by the robe, so that I should be Esteemed the more unfortunate." He then: "Hear, and I Behold your Pleasure is given up to a stranger, And that he also, owing to his valour, is Successively with you. Yet all this methinks Is ringing sounds, not sure, thou canst well despise." When this was overgrown with clearer light, he, Ringing his hive, without further saying so, Came to the conclusion that the inroad of day Was now beginning, and, with the mid-inmorning Spectre approaching, in his shadows there Levelled. Therefore he moved along the sandy mound, Inquiring of the hive's abode, whence peril came. And hearkening to the noise he heard it mention "Ormuz, Ormuz, the abode of king Shinax or Saturnius" (So called because all his legions were called from him, Also kings of some, not by Roman lords). In his narrative this was Augustan manna; But such it was, he could not help but admire His art, whereby he did, with all caring, pass Over the hindeworth of mourning, thus expunging In the way of decency such odious syn- Compassion, that shame might burn it in his brain. Then mustering outside, the king of the wood Sustain'd a war against the hapless moon: Free and rampant the race of the heavens had Their hands stained where now the secrets were hidden. Forth sprang the king to find the secret hide- Hold, and such as he saw with his eye meted In his chronicle, "That this was done, Is one and another from the millennium old: By the well-spring of two hundred years ago. Here stood the place where the king reared his nest, And woe still burns in him, that he could not Pursue his mother's errand to procure A new marriage bed, without discovery. At his back in the world, by a hair's chance stir, Was read the inscription: Now, behold, all ye The secret base his intelligence betrayed; But they would have made him his fate to behold What their blindness had shut up. Then th' impassioned souls Of those high divinities whom passion urged, Somewhat disturbed, mistook the applicable cause: And a shout the deeper was heard, so shrill, So strange, the like echo never was in Rome. Then answered the king: "At the bottom, where hangs in murk Of greenest cavern, behold, the fen-house slops, And there the mother hides her brood. But stir The fire: sit, and hear what next occurs." Nods and grunts from women such as grow In halls where pomp and luxury one time made, When pride and ignorance strove, in opposition To the sun-girtunda Palest. At such a one The father and her consort thus commanded, And the pale woman, and the guard ignurring: And they, already deflow, were weeping: and one Another, another weeping, one another weeping. Of the brood's traffics thus inquired the king, "What torment (went) took thy passion from thee?" Then thus responds: "The Constantina, my mother, To entertain my false and tender mother, Neither reckoning day nor night, from the hour that I was born till fifteen centuries ago, From her own worthy-female family Down to our fifteenth year, by direct contract, This guardian of her, ======================================== SAMPLE 346 ======================================== for I am a shambles of pens and the sins of men. So then it is the brown reveller, the masked man, who speaks. He chants a secret tune, he is the void after the corn's harvest. He is the great unmapped lands that would run away from the world. The men that have children can't let them have a voice. They are the mane of the horse that will not stop. He sings a song of broom inside the smoke that is dense. 3. A few steps behind him, two women are singing in the heat. They sing a song in English, he cannot hear their song, but he sees that women are made of syllables. So he sleeps under the roof, he has heard the wild bees. After the work day, he goes to the door and says, "I will give you all of me today, I am yours all day. Listen to my Ménager, I will be your man, please." The bees fly after this, "You will be mine all day," and he wakes up in the night with a smile. He dreams of a song that will make up for the ones that were lost. 4. In the end, there is a flower that was put on the heart of the flower of justice. It will be blown by the wind of the world. It will be a star through the air of the world. It will go to the home of the wicked, and not be crushed. There will be no more to say about justice. 5. The dead have nothing left to say. They only know, through bitter tears, that life is a dead seed falling in a sea of mire. The living have nothing left to say. They only know, through tears, that this life is a brief joke, that happiness is a memory, and that they will die. 6. Now that there is no more time to talk, he will speak through his dreams. He will speak through the darkness of trees that are remembering him in the thick green twilight of his dreams. 7. So the plover's last stage is over: the last song he hears before the alarm goes off. He has finished all of the songs that he needs to tell the world how much he loves them. He has put his last word to the wag of the most woe. 8. All day I watched him like a figure in a book passing between the flippers of a life boat and the blue edge of the water. 9. Here is the final word. It is the last word of a song at once a little boy sang and a little girl sang, and the little girls sang. "Tiny space with no place "Tiny words that smart "Little words that are still "Little words that love us "Pinky-po-phee-li-buck. "In little house that's fallen. "Pinkisy hole where you pass. "Where there was a house. <|endoftext|> "What I Thought of Emily", by Colin McCalby [Nature, Animals, Fall, Spring, Summer, Trees & Flowers] As of late, through darkening days, I've ridden Bryan's strange bike all summer at Mccoy Park Aiming lyrics at the panhandler, or Careless with the drop-in crowd, the alley Tracking, wherever we went, while We lay here beside you, dreaming, you cling Still to my side, a dusky summer survivor Unmoved in a light wind, but not Hopeless in our thoughts, yet Ready to leave me, as of late. Above the cactus Rowan unstemmed, yellowing, gaily floral. Above the bright stucco of words unsupported, hanging overhead An idle sentence, unresponsive To pass or pass from me. <|endoftext|> "Out of Blue Pens", by Colin McCalby [Living, Growing Old, Life Choices, The Body, The Mind, Time & Brevity] First base that bears the most view isn't the one shortened most often, but it does seem that shorter is always compiled from square Right down the tacky bifunction signage goes from the stumper to the word Didn't I see you go into the field the next day Didn't I warn you that the ledge can be dangerous that you should go light Who does need ======================================== SAMPLE 347 ======================================== ease, peace, rest; bliss, glory, pleasure, ease, rest from toil, peace, rest, peace of mind, peace of mind, So joy is a pleasant thing to those that have it, To them that wear it, not a thing to fear or sorrow. <|endoftext|> "The End of the World for Them", by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [Religion, Christianity] The end of the world for them is not here; But what if their end be here? They shall not look back while there is air; They shall not look back, though the future is short; What matter if the world end here? O believers, up! be light! O lights, up! up and hope beyond the grave! What matter if the world end here? What matter if the world end here? <|endoftext|> "Farewell (1894). Typescript.", by Grace P Alessandro [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Social Commentaries, Heroes & Patriotism] O fading stone phantasmagoria, absent-deming marbleia and murmur of orchids occupying a climate of peristons that is pure seeming, scorning morn v.s.t.Fading, that I remember thee with dim reliques, viewing stillness of deprived strings, filling phantasms of dirttu of former eras with what may be sung of love, thee now v.s. the past d.f.Beneath the stone we lovers stand v. different viends, and v. stare into each other's eyes and talk fancy not of shocks v. found in natural as of late passing beats into our flesh, shocks of temp. meeting time v. beating time.Thou, to thee knowing that I of thee D.N.D. hav annull'd, by annulation of B.M.W.T.T.E.D.R. [French: erro] v.Act. 2, ch. 8. After so many lightes, why be drowsed?Dolian [Greek] A no-sevin' poem about the same time as Dileix [Greek]: Wreath of the Isca Juventutde Inn, The Nicosia Tavern, or The Oropos, but name not enforced on theeTill thy imps of gonfyli set it on the lonely rock. As if disjoined from me to feare to augur the time, dost thou so cie for lost errat, annul thy exortes, cut off her style? Shall not the sad Muse demean to me in a rosis?Shall I not serenade to live with the type, or thee forsake? In the oriental isle of Lerna the Oracle sitsNot as heretofore on the syrinx but in the lyttell ground.He seeks out what mood the day will eyther ze,What manner of day, and whom he shall evince.Eros stands to view the herbed or what shape of god.It is of nought what ere the oler naught of what.The god in question is nought eternall.Shade of Erato here seemeth to stand,Draigrok of the shadeless ph[^een].For not in heauy shene, do they in the heautily nest.I am of naught unaffected, the weniue of heauy may,The shentless to shene have a s[^as]te; The lost consort of a t[^it]er, the plaything and prey. <|endoftext|> "Isley's Complete Poems", by Nathaniel Meredith [Living, Death, Love, Desire, Relationships, Farewells & Good Luck, Social Commentaries, Farewell, New Year] Nath'ary, to Nath'ary the love-cueUriz in my friendlyn's distress'd crest; To him'sez P'licensing an oportettoul that he Nigh glook doon the litle Indian lodge, And that it was hollow-blanket'd toozant skies, 'Long-hoodidly tornadoes of the g[=a]ogging shoog, Whose vermilion bones 'mong the thunder cloud were seen To taint the shadem forlorn-guarding lions. And that unvent'rous life have I-payne Was save of two; the eldest, In his life's brave dignity well-tolerated, Died, and his younger brother, when refus't To sleep ======================================== SAMPLE 348 ======================================== Following him the handmaids bend, Smiling at the young men, the ones their men. There is no more rustle of leaves Among the lilies on the lea, Nor of the deer this summer fragrant; There was a time when deer and sheep were: Then they died; the sheep and deer are gone. Where once the hermit wrapped his twining skill, Baggage of Arabian thieves were sable thieves; Stoned by the hermit, the sack was drest. On the mountain, where the grigs are budding, Where once the sheep are down upon the stile, They leered at me, the shepherd-master, Oft with lees drank in the fountain-shores. But now, there is many may in furnaces, Sardonic manufacturers, With less of beef and less of pork than mutton, Baked in northern pouches and lamplit wells. And, if perhaps the hermits come to fling Their ill-dressed fortunes on the passing fair, It is nothing; sheep and cattle, then, will make Good questions for all the physician's time. There are those who wish that I would be The steward of the kingdom's bread and meat; To do nothing but the bidding of those Who hold the Sword and the Bowl. --But another would say: "Let me be The shepherd of the state, and have the power To set and unset the equine stars, From my very window look into the skies And call great storms, and tell the loudly drawn While we two with our knacks are still so heavy, Knacking and taking thought for dish-cloths and stools, While little birds, that used to fly about the kitchen In the old times when bread was grained and set in the Inn, Treble the verse of their old native flock-feed, Let us for another hour the inn afford And all behind us be the mountains and seas Nay, I will laugh at all you say. You will blame me, but I'll laugh another day. And then again I'll go beyond all your rights And call, "My mate! my best friend! my wife!" And I will come to you with a tear in my eye, Clasped in your hand, my gold-dust rose; And I will kiss you, and wish you back to me, You and your wife. And there again I'll be heavy, and then Lifting all that large Doberman's weight again, I'll go right on up to the mountains again, And I will meet with the fourth-century drivers And all the stately French poets of the time, And all the dark ages with their burning and flashing torches, And turning right, and lighting my head. We'll be heavy then, I and my mate; We'll be heavy, and then we'll go right on; The bread and the wine, we'll be heavy again; We'll be heavy and then we will stop. The world we'll fill with our mass and weight, And then we will stop and not pass; We'll sit there, while we are heavy, and heavy; We'll sit there, and we will stop. My friend is heavy, I fear, And with my great thick head I fear we shall be seen; And if, while pretending to shower My soft side to his ear, I just for a moment should appear Too soony on his hair, There is a tittle bit And there is a bit My mate, as the runlet runs. So heavy and thick are we grown That the gawky maggots fly. Our dark old partner's been dead These five hundred years and more. Pull back the curtain and look out, There's a rare thing; There's a thing about our backs. There are so many of us set To a number of tricks, That the twilight reading-bells Thou canst rouse to a chant. A thing about our backs Might indicate. Pull back the curtain and see. There are a score of us set, The ghost-bargoes and so on, Each to his 250,000; And yet, if youâ'kenne near, We're a damn sight quick. Pull back the curtain and see. When all our history is read Into, and set on fire, À bod danês we'll stand As ghosts be daisy thin. A thing about our backs Might come inaugurall ======================================== SAMPLE 349 ======================================== Sitting out the night. 'I will now do what I have to do, And that is sleep with those I love, 'And so I rest; 'tis here I love, 'It is not made of tin. 'You say you will my sister's lover be, And call me many names; I pray 'That you do not take him by the head, 'Nor go get any nails, lest you die; 'I pray you do not lie with him in bed, 'Nor lick him to make him harder; but I say 'The next best thing to him is you. G. Bravo, you have been gallop-ming on so many horses when I was out with you. Come here, my bonny bride, and sit, I will grind what you have said in you. One, two, three, O' you that think so! Come here, and look, some words are faltering, it is because I can't get away, I am such a lovely thing, I thank you for your congratulations I am still able to love you, the more I love you, the more you mean to me. Come here, my bride, and see your bridegroom you have never seen, how like him. What does he say to you? Is he an awkward young man? You don't like him, do you? Why did you come? Did your grandmother never say a word about some folks you'd bring? You have come here, you have come to be wed, to live, to love, to raise a family and to become a clerk. <|endoftext|> And here again they come-- Gossips,--those idle people With their sepp-roving voices, And the chatter of their lips-- My old acquaintance they come again! See!--that little black-coat of his Is sodding! Well, the "message" is no secret-- But I thought I'd better tell you, Don't you know their "code"? And, for a salary, I think It might be interesting, Or would it not, (Though it cost you nothing), To find out they were trying For a farm in this country. Did they send you with promises? You tell me you need the money, But just look at the seed of you! Gentle people, Don't you know that every time you hit On the right person, That the person will always find A little unexpected things? And now it's your turn to bother about such things, For I do not think you'll find they'll let you get them, And they have a Syndicuc simply For such small things. And when you get to paying them, Why bother about it? Why keep payrolls going When the money isn't so? Because the gentlemen Commit their sins, And the same ones over and over, So the public isn't so They say, Of course, They've Spoken it. You must always pay attention To the words you say. But they're not bad people-- Don't you think? They're just having fun. I was always glad when I was older; I was always stiffer in the spring; I never got so much as a blue jay To show his little nose, But I always got to go away To some better town, Where the hills are clothed with blue jays, And the people are dressed in green. Oh, come to London, my dear little one, Come to London, my dear little one. Come to London, my dearest mother, And there's a huge dainty house for us to sit in, And in the kitchen there's cloven foot to kneel at, And in the dining room, there's a great rose bush Come to London, my dear little one. But stay close to me, my dear little one, My dear little one, my dear little one. We will build a house for flowers there, Flowers many hollyhocks we'll find, We will have parrots and parrot chicks, And many butterflies too; There will be many robins and cut-glass trouts, And many sheep and chickens, And a house With many, many camels Come to London, my dear ======================================== SAMPLE 350 ======================================== But when you come to plough or haul, And with arms like a lion-go And with eyes like a wolf to mine, Who is there as I wis, But an old dog at his post? And he'll tell you why and how He served you and served his master well; But do not mock the poor greyhound, For he knows he's a little dog; And he loves his master and misses you, And all dogs after him Are the same, day long and day, They're dogs as he is, or worse. He hates my face and my bear! He'd take my tail for a pack Of horse, and he'd throw me by For a poor half-low Scotch lowland! And he thinks that I'm none of your, And he'll prove it by brute force; And then he may attack me, Or else fetch at a rusty spoon, Or let me trail through his milking shed, And say: "I was nought but a slave, And I'm nothing now but a rope, And I hang by my heels from the ceiling, And I'd like to drop and fight, dear ma'am, But then I must put up my work, And my boss is a mad one." Come to me in my trouble and do For my poor little yellow dog, little John; He's no match for the Red Cap, and he'll get you, I know, from some trail, now he's high as he, And then he's high, and will go after things, And he doesn't mind the heat from the sun, He doesn't mind the bitter cold, When the snow's on the lip and you're numb on the field, He doesn't mind his coat, or his clothes, If it's snowy, chill, or wet, Little John is happy anywhere on the field, He runs at your shoulder as you throw, Or he runs at the ball and makes it farther, He'll run until his legs give out, Or he crosses a line that you draw, He's just as glad to you as if you gave, And he does the same to you to you. Then run faster, and jump, and swing, Or I'll show you my talent for a pen, I'll let you print the little dog's name On the black and white page, and every one knows That the best dog team in the world is the New York Giants, And they play the St. Louis Panthers And the Chicago Cardinals, I like that, For the St. Louis Cardinals are the best team in baseball, And the New York Giants are the best team in baseball, And the baseball folks are afraid of my pen, And they're afraid to miss my pen. And my father has been dead for a long time, My sister is still in Europe, And I don't even know if my mother Still owns the house where I was born, So I'm a stray, I'm a wanderer far from home, And my pen is a goose line on the aside, And the only thing that makes me stay on my feet Is the mint from my cup of peppermints. Here in my cage, on the floor of the square, I sniff the air, and I know what I think Of the English men and women passing by: I think they smell of money, they smell of success, I think they're all abouts for the war with the Russians, But I'm wrong I'm much too long off the ground, And my heart is the peg that's supposed to go into the hole Of the square that's painted black and white and green. I am a slave of the paint and the pen And the city that has a hundred miles above the ground That has a million pawns the square has a million pence Is full of the fame and the hundred thousand mothers Of the boys and the girls that have coins to spend In the square, but they all look to the right of the square And that is where the sport is, and the cricket that is a joke And then the tenor Sanguin Cristo that blows So sweet of the shrill horn of a lover is loose And the daughters of Dame C Davies the Londoner That is fifty years long, and the Devil is loose Is a lover of the deep and loitering, and the sun that has passed Is the lover of the sun and the stars and the moon is a sickle, To give a part of myself is good, To laugh and to be funny Is good, But give myself a joy, God, make me pluck a sp ======================================== SAMPLE 351 ======================================== there were red bands around her wrists, and she could feel that he held her by her throat, but the locket was heavy for him to un- braid; then she asked him to leave, and kissed him. She wasn't sure if he'd seen her in the flash of the mirror, but when he told her it had happened both of them had been in love and neither of them could tell in the panic, so she smiled and he took her inside. He held her hand when she stood on the porch, and she could see his face through the windshield, and she leaned in the car to kiss his mouth, then pulled away as if the question had meant nothing, and kept blushing. "O God," she said, "I don't know why but for that reason alone, he makes me feel that way." She took him by the sleeve and kissed his hand, and said, "If it were the only thing, it might be," then paused and shook her head; "maybe if I were in the car." And then she said, "It wasn't the only thing," then stopped as if changing her mind, "There's also love that made me feel the way I do. But if there were time, I'd say what I wanted to say to you now, before it was too late. You would say nothing, though, and you would know that, too. You would say, "Have you tried talking his name?" and wonder why it took him so long to ask it. And when you get to be 90, you and your locket, so that's a thing we can dream about." When he sat on a panel with his finger on the nose, she asked him to say it, and when he tried, "Robert Taylor," she said, "No, Robert is too personal, it has to be Freddie, alright?" Then he smiled and said, "I thought I should have thought of that, before now." Their eyes met in the doorway, and he knew that she knew what he was about to do. She said, "It's our wedding, though only see us here as guests." Their guests, their wedding. Then he smiled and said, "I'm all ears," and kissed her, "at the wedding," laughing and grinning as he walked away. When he came back with her ring she shook it then, "and it's a joy," and he said, "Yes, it is, it is a joy," then laughed and said, "Now it's ours," and dropped it into his palm. "And just what art thou? I thought I was," she said, "to see how it all worked, then forgot it was for him, too, because it was his feeling now, Freddie, for him, so he brought it up, "to make it plain," and he said, "I'm not a man of peace, but I'm with you now, for now we are a man, and his now." But her head was heavy, and she said, "How late is this place?" "It's Happy Hour," said the Sprung. "How late, Mary, you sahib?" "Do, don't play prurient," she said. "You come here at a wedding, why not at the haifa, at night?" "I will not talk to you till we are on the lawn," he said, "not irisha, we have come to watch a marriage." "We shall have us a maid," she said, "if we go not wrong." "We will have maids for us, if we please." "What say we to our Freddie?" "How much can men do but love?" "No, we will not see until we are in the crowd." "We will not see the marrying, Mary," said the Sprung. "Now, my little one, and another thing." Then he took her hand and said, "We will be wed, it is so very good to be to wed once more." She said, "We shall not wed until we have chanced ======================================== SAMPLE 352 ======================================== [src] By the old pail, the spring's Abundance and her burst. They'll drink to her; who's more Than their meek acquaintance. And love's grateful fire Is like her kindling O'er their mutual face. By the old pail, the spring's [In the morning] morning And the bright sun Dances on the banks of air. There's a faint noise of morn By the old pail, the spring's [In the grass] feet. <|endoftext|> "I never use profanity", by Algernon hardee I do, therefore, disturb them most, Who when 'tis sound forget how to swear. I never use profanity, But when eloquence will sing. Or when I hear it speak, In sympathy with what's good. They aint always true, The poltergeists they may live, But some do abate Their reason quite, And this is not enlisting In this war or palmas, Or other such thing. The future may not be, But this the present is, In which we're lived to-square. <|endoftext|> "The Good, The Rest Is Silence", by Algernon Oyeb —Algernon, tr. by Robert Menzies [Religion, Christianity, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire] The good is silence and still place, The rest is place that calls good. I praise great business, great thews and hearts, I praise great harts breaking, great uphills. I praise great waters, great ebb and flow, That brought her daughters to the town. I praise the good when I see, Or when I hear, or when I act. The good is nothing without a deed, It's good to see the brave, To praise the noble, or to do. <|endoftext|> "Crossing The Channel", by Algernon Vrankov [Travels & Journeys, Arts & Sciences, History & Politics] When the Thule or the Bore she loved Flam'd for their art at Britain's aid, I embarked for the Rhine, or the Saale, Grew better with time and some mord exprest Ere I struck Newtype, or tuned my lute, Iia, the lover of Jove, and turn'd again To my tablets, to write an ode to the land I cross'd, and Standing till I pass'd it, saw England in all her beauty drest To which the Sun, who looks always first, Had through the eyes of all who live above Made a brighter journey with his Sire, And that the object most opportune That yet so many keenest flies could catch. I thought my Country ever fair, and free From all those sorts of men that look for pleasure Down in the deep Iiade the Earth, But when I saw that it was to be My quiet place of home and work, I smiled, for it seem'd as if my mind Was cleared of many a deadly thought, <|endoftext|> "Excelsior", by Algernon Edwards [Activities, Jobs & Working] (When the above exhortation giv'n to you by the twelve.) I EXXII In those exalted days and holier, When we had poured on earth Our lonely splendours, and he somehow Own'd the twelfth year of our mystery, I took a much-overture; In that holy, hush'd, deep obsessed time When humbled prayer seems weak and paltry, And hard bargains with dark deities Embrace, what tracks in life we make, Are all with naught but sweet sparing (such as pen Insensit moral rectity) No roads but tracing out prevenient peaks And varicoloured meanders; What stalls were ours, from state to state; And who rungs of the ladder whose rungs were bent By fate or nature, to the feet of that man Of the noblest and best quality, Who fought his way thurgh pain or trade or pelf, And climbed not in theologically but for gain, But plain fashion and familiar accommodation, But climbed up like a sweet ascentist Because his business was with me, the son G, and not the father, in the bloom of his youth To be the priest and not the chaplain; and he rose Dwindler and gadg ======================================== SAMPLE 353 ======================================== assembly! No jest is here! Come with the temper'd instant, when the game Of Tongue and Brain is in intense flux: There toss the nerve, return; with sudden force Prolong the pulse, or split the leg. For rules as well as reason here are set. No longer see the pleasurable girl To steady nerves impulsive, and the boy Who in the fun is sudden burned and stung. To nerve and brain the situation find, The amiable conflict of his youth; He views the cruelties of mankind, And feels their feebleness against him piled. He sees that nothing can escape his eye, And, in his intellect, a nameless dread Attends on all he views: the vast Is just recompense for nothing short of it; The wise he calibrates, the mob advises, He sees that they agree to go with him; But in the leisure of his leisure, what Alas, what terror can he surveil afield? A thousand schemes, American heads and hands And Treasury gold, are opening all the day To fish the surplus of the fishes' plays For foreign peculation, for remoulding business, The only game in town, at all its birth, Where provinces, to relieve the restless town, A new agent for American wool, When the note issue of the King was dated, His honour to redeem, to issue a boodle, He saw that the Country-man was for going, He saw that his opinion was public sense, So he advised it was best to try A scheme to lure him out of his bounds, His art was to consider the things he did Awise, in any case was wise, wise to see The wise man would advise a man his worst, Now hearing that the ancient dukes at last To Peter still were equipped to snare The common swain, and that their fibres ran Through all the considered things of life, With every rope, alarm, alarm, he set, In jottings and in snips, and rope, alarm, He saw that the Country-man should go in For precaution, and that he saw his mind. He had reason to think that when the twopenny, The child, innocent, in bank-laws at six was hight, The old men, as if a lapse in sense, Had better right, as it was in law, To bind him, though prudent, in Church and City. Now when a man turns boy, is boy no more, But then again a man, all risky sheep are flown, He gets respect as hard to get, in fact, From doing silly things that others flocks despise. When they made mony by running im betwene, The gaff I gat on, and clapped me in the fair; In was lucky, and g'd me a king's ransom more, And gat me me that boy, a months labour done, And tokin' now the rod, the rope, God knew how And once again I'm to harry people, I said. I knowed what mischief they might do, I knew I might hauld my heels oerton there like stone, But then the scuege why should Isel my crow, The birdie would hap to feather my wing, And I could na be daft enough to fend mesel; And tinka learned paltry tricks by working themher By feather, by fool-saying, if she could. To few, our sager will in troubles be, The great affliction and heart-usage, That heap like bairns in a portly fire-flite, Are seened and braved with all their limbs adriate, That see the distress, but not the mercy ken, That wad hae us if we for life frae leese. But he that will his time forbear to quench, And gie his willing heart to training, Will quelle and befriend frae all the woe and wretch, And wad the worlds wab that he was bade Expel the vamp, and turn them self-capt on; But he's kenned what it is we call a brother. She was most sweet, and fair she was and young, And roomt, too, an unquiet heart in her eye; She kept her air and seemed her half-worn tongue To be unstirred chat for any one beside. 'Twas but to declare her heart's unease For some sad chance of life, or what she thought Of ======================================== SAMPLE 354 ======================================== What thou hast seen: or is it prophesied, That The first shall fall at last? He shall, who is to come Forth from the West, and cross the vast Atlantic To find out the Continent of Lost Where all that lost men have be lost be. But first, when first he comes, shall he forget All this long struggle, and the many deaths Of his companions in this monastery, And strive, for the great God's last desert, alone? But if he strive, and must strive, and must die, When he comes to look on the fruits of this life, Then he shall be patient, for he has overcome Before; and his confidence shall not deceive He shall not grieve him for the conquests of his life, Nor for the many lives that he hath gained. But the last trump. And there shall be No messenger, for example, none, To tell him that God is for him built And that he shall triumph. The stones of the tombs, When the stones are full of earth, and at the tomb Cry out that God is for him ready. The first stone from its sepulchre shall shout, "Adored and never despised." And the second, "And adored from the first." And from the foundation Of man, till then, will the third shout, "And honored among men." And when thou art gone Over the far consecrated fields, That are divided no less than the flower, And the fields, and the days, and hours, And in the moments, and their pulsings, And moments, and their feasts, and their slumbers, And when thou passest from earth, and art in flight Over the moon's grey circlet, thy flight To the leaves and blossom of the supreme good, Thou, whom never to unappeased armies Can be unite, and bring down to death Of being what they eclipse; nor, when thou Destructest, can without water be restored, But have thy rod upon earth. For, from this solitude, Wherein thou canst not do too much or too little, Where thou canst not speak too much or too little, Or take another's breath with full consent, Thou, without law, canst work miracles. For in thy thought's lawless spaarjes-dancings, The blood-warm blood-ins wouldst not be stayed By the mind-set of a brother tymon: Thy sober brother, whom thou art, thou art, Thy God-like self, being both of men And a God-like creature, half of thy God-like self, And half a man. Because he was a traitor, And all men are true. Because he was a thousand years In jail, and weake, and athirsty, In the sudden shock and thrust of life, Full of all strife, of hard besit, Full of hard nothings, we thought him dead, And in the hospital there was lamenting. But we knew him in his humanity With all its meanness, with its fainting waves, That stood to his needsew of snow With its all-consoling ripples, windings, With all the vexed delights and broths And balms of his need and stress of life, We knew him not. Then he began to run and run On the whim of the man in his blood, On a whim of his need of running, His pleasure in the wind of his plough, His passion for the wind of his plough, That seemed to him highly fowlish; But we knew him for a man of w, A wise man of w, that was but wildly. We knew him for a man of w, A wise man of w, in that we kerned Not but in his prison what he kenned, And thought not but in our kennings; For his place was not the place of wail Where with our wail the man is outed, But where he was but when he sinned As wilt thou, a mere brute, as waves are, In the dust of thine eyes evermore; Wretches that man slew for our delight; Enigmas that bled and they are driven; He that is pure of his self-defence Shall thou not make to serve thy good; For thou shalt serve to the death This wight, and we are nearer to one With man than we knew. For he that stands On the one hand with ======================================== SAMPLE 355 ======================================== hit off the pen in two and I think they see in my smoking blue eyes and they go "He is," she said, "among the three senders" and by her blue and my brown eyes and even the shade under my tongue there is proof and the child now comes back to earth. And before it all, she went to earth with the one thing not in the vacuum of the law: I was afraid of her, or her shadow, or me <|endoftext|> "In a Shadow", by Sarah J. Byrne [Living, Death, Marriage & Companionship, The Body, Relationships, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Music] It's like I said it would be red wine in a dancer's shoe, or any of several hundred shoes. Because you were never ever never never never never NEVER NEVER forever. It was always sometime sometime. No longer can you pretend you aren't afraid of it happening. What is it that you could have ever imagined happening? But it did and it happened and you were ever never never never never never forever. I know it was never ever never NEVER NEVER NEVER forever. There's no resistance to the floor, but there is to wings. Wings beat into a heart. That resistance is like going full moon deep in a deluge and it's like being full moon, like a button that must be pushed. It's like being a glass of wine that's kept under a rug for anyone to find. There's no way to get back to where you aren't already there. That would require already gone be allgone and all smeared with blood to find the sole example of itself. So instead of ever never ever never never ever like before now like, that's the how and now it's gone. It went somewhere. The future that I wanted it to go to was never the past. What I wanted was more like what I despise. <|endoftext|> "Cabaret Lumière", by Barbara Ellen Scissari [Love, Desire, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Nightlife & Cool] The other thing about the nightlife is: never go there alone. It's like that and also: don't go to that party alone. Crazy is to put a dildo in a pear, but sometimes in a chamber, a chamber is just a room. If it is a chamber, it is where many pearls are. A pearl is a pearl, a velvet rose, or a cupping-style diamond. That's a shillin a flaring leaf of puree in the night. To be Fleeing Grace in this city at night is to be McStabè, to be in a hurry, or at least silent. You will be talked to much. The hostess of the mad gallimel then turn to a spoon. Never, never is as far as either can go, nor is farther that either can think it is far. Spiking a silk bag with seafood is like peeling the cling of a wet pillow. It leaves the impression that the skin was thin to begin with. You don't have to like seafood to like peaches, then eat the seeds as you walk home on the street until the last tree's left on the block. Never burn a foot in a house that doesn't have tables for what it was. You don't have to like peaches to like drinking lemon drops from a thermos. You don't have to like peaches to burn a foot. All hail the Mad Hatter! He may dress as he please, as long as it is a costume. I think the Mad Hatter is the boldest bird on which he — It's as if part of the world doesn't exist. And a lot of places, too, like: Rockpool, a saint's or a saint's father, the town with no water, Inn Venue 16, 18 karat gold, Fog, star, sunset, snow. And part of that is just a relief from having to walk around. The world is making room for the mad baker, his fantastic loaves, He's an aviary of icing and humming. Nowhere is the mad baker, the mad aviator, mad cat, or mad clamberer. Madness is just a poorly defined place. "I love our chief monkey, but he is restless. I am a fool, Madame, I the cause of all this. Please free me of my follies. I came to see the madman, he sits on the corner of the doorway. I told you to let me go, but I never let you. Be kind and release me. I'm a little bald, in cages, Out in a desert. I will live then. I ======================================== SAMPLE 356 ======================================== aco y otro voto Que vuelve la gente Con el mundo á la mente. Con que temía De que apagada Do nos vos probar á agala, Mas vuela, mira Deja el agua pavoroso. No hay vos, ni el rey, Que volcáfte en pagi. Fiero por penieras Esfuerzas de callar Todo el mundo en que ha vuelo Por el semipóproducto: Mas siempre avave Que en riego asé, Con tus violos asombrosos Y en lo que afecto Te empecó las holdras flores. Con que era inmensa, Por faz valioso Y voladó con mis mists Con duro siglo, La mayor amorosa Del valle e dolores Con otro dupe: Lloraras con inmensas Y todo el más bello Pobre volará el altípo Del antiguo ruise. Con prima vuelta A ti á por un mal inmensa, La mayor alegría Por ti á quien gyrata, Con su señora, Y la imite presa Es la que nuestro indio Ceuta la risa. Yo también desves que el primero Del mundo y del mundo Hace el destruyon sus puertas En el uso de la gente; Por esto pasa del monte al Heav'n, No todo lo quieren, y en esto Los peces no halló politicos Sufristes al mundo. Pues ¡e! la iglesia Y el alta bruta que al hell strija Asimismo al más que la naciual Para hablando á Dios, ¡e! delante á Dios, Los mares altuelve, allí despeñido, En la zona alta, A Dios señora, Su moc gala y amorosa, Pero de las pulceñas Quiso el pecho al mundo. La alta guajira el destino En el poder de sus brutos, No sigues asektivo La vez con guerra, La cuja muerte á la acesta, Y el destino es llegada. «Inchantmal ninguna y nobleo Durlão em clemenemanno Olas preciembelloso y nobleo, Pero hizo Dios á esclavado Cuy dulce y justicia, «En este momento yerto Por Dios, por la epastada, Dende el dolor unico A dibur jugad Con dolor d'autigomenza Y acida «coles daño». La venda y quebrada Lle y país superenean De tolay para adalar Llar y rican de fatalleros. «¡Dios, Dios, de medroquín, A la razón que brama needo Agenaiantad, á un río en galla Entre medios y restos, Pero en la noche se estoy da Que de dó he nos cabne; El remoso cielo Se cata en dar á las flores Al mar de su lugar hecha.» «¡Dios sacinho, por adiós mesa, De ti, sin quien tú cantó¡ las flores, ¡No ahciste fío, que encontrara En su lugar al su fiefo, Pues por chasmás el asombre Por estar su dolor; «Cuando puede mirar en la dura De su mal sin luego Que al de su carro traen antefercía, Y comoajes de su alfazón En fiera y donde vive gato «Vámonos, naciódinglos, Tantos chévereis, que la vía De ======================================== SAMPLE 357 ======================================== need nolens, nolent per ora rores, Modestes; illius, me, sed uni, Mundus et alio miseret. Sunt, sunt, O Palsgut! se quæris Olivenses, magnitudoque petebas, Sed signis rutis erat. Sed Deus, seus Palsgutes et magna Tegra tibi feror, per te nobilitate rexit. At tu, Bellona, sunt magna, tibi Non solutis creere, sed vincat erit. I like to live in country places, That are full of peace and pretty quiet; Of which descriptions very few have taste; Such as the above are; which are fit for thee, A solitary fond country wife. I can see both Matilda and Jane An acre of each would fetch a fell; And I could easily give either six, Though that were rather difficult to me; But they are both, and more, and dearer, My children by a neighbour I. I can fancy both of them a goodly planter, Of turnd, and rather better, had but a half a thought; And that our hend remains to be at maiestae With ning mihi laudes genua quod latere. The daughters both in white, and low white, and bare; Sole singed sole from her head to her nail. As therefore to Heaven they plant their vows, Each pluck they ope with their out-strippest prayer; As oft as they their shoe-tongs would pour, They fell sore handles with their utmost prayer; And thus they country wives did both dout; As they had had, nor had they more had lost; Our neighbour has both daughters drest much more fine. For he knows by his rough country-crooks, Of our most Celebrate Kings and Pa roufs, That our shall now both be he read; And we with our Silenus pray to be Next in his histie to have both might. And therefore will doo pray for them here, That both we, both our Churches be well Of them their indulgent prayers to sing. Both his sonsne, and my children, in this list, Hast thou not any maidens half so fair? If so be not the truth hereafter be said, Why dost thou not this my right loone Gainst me to give unto her and thee to live? --Thou dost not, and I well may that be; Thou art to me by all men credite, And that I will my selfe, both to swear, And make the best of it by my owne experience; Therefore the less I pray thee, that the more Thy love may be full tender of its good. But this, thou that art kind, I know not what I should doe, or pity that of, pity; But as I may, but will that thou be long, Tak again this piece of thine to meven! But as mad Love towards the untreuous clay With mien severing, as his true light Drew eyeballs from their resting place, Diacule did first with her milde hand Upon the maund very wawre enflamed, As with these wordes she did reioyce, With many more, which longer should not be, She began to shake; at last down fyrst, Wagging the flagies of her wings, Her lowest needle to bring her forth, All halfe glazed, most unteathed, to her met. Fary daughter of Eleessee, Isabel! With that starres which in thee hath constantly Her displaced flame, even Christ, did nedes bow thy waies. This thy cruelnesse, which shall be said of thee, Shall make vassals of all natures seed, And of the heauns of Heaven on Hellish reign Ascend into Heaven to make compayning year by year: Which, for the then end of divine control, and stay, This three years warre shall fulliuely quell. The greene foldes and young hopefulltree, And of the spring the springing mowthe, In CATHAR WITH ORDA signe, With countenance gentle, thou hast thy choice Of birth, and grace of children's-play, And of th'honour of kingdoms, VIRGIN! ======================================== SAMPLE 358 ======================================== Unerring, and to tell, like horn, The mischief of the lightning-seed; We look for all the flowerful earth, For cherries, and the mussel-shell, And crabs, and the octopus, and the squid; We look for cormorants, and birds of prey, And ants, and worms, and rain-shuricane; To crown the list, we have our eyes On Paraspian rocks, and Adriate And Castor and his sisters two, Which, in old Elene's choir, still sing So richly coloured! Oh! I know Not which to ask, the dragon-fly, The dove-bird, or the blue-gown." But little the maiden's ears beheld, That glanced with quick marks at nought; And no light attractions she could see Could tempt her to her lips to close; No sight of fountain, tree, or tree-shade, Rook-shaded lawn, and hummed margin, Could cure the frenzy of her breast. So to the palace she was sent; The swiftness of her footfall, The bustle of crowds, the clamour, And nod and skeer of dancers The city, a hundred miles from hence, Beguiled her fancy, And her dazzled heart with visions, And her heart's sea-gulf to Rome. The sun, like a ball thrown forward, Shall now have far detected the sinking sun; The rind, the rindlings are completed, The maiden wends her way to the marble city. Not yet its rise the dragon-pearl has sent; Its torrents, seen from the sea, Shine in their largest, not yet massive; Effulgence it reaches, When every one reaches his palace. At every palace gates she must descend, At all the rich palaces whence she crept, Of her thoughts, her memories, and her woe; At all the parchments, Forged at the postern, that disclosed The penurious conscience of a king; The notes of merries that were heard Beyond the gates of love, and her own, The fiddles' flouts, the baners' tune, The dancers, her own loves' quarrels, The messengers, Her omen, Her discontent, The handsome Musician had brought her eyes To that famous music, and 'twas there The sweetest pleasure began. 'Twas a complete heaven within her, And the madrigals made it full. A thick stranger-a-missarius In a high-capped musician, A graceful harp and a lighter For her own music, no less beautiful. The minstrel came in sight; and he stood All clad in much that morning green; In his close, large-arched hair, And the glitter of his eyes, When their cold light, such as may. Would to heaven, in verse like us, Have become familiar to you, 'Twas not, this first of fictions, That he sang, 'tis part of his woe. His voice, though tranced, though passionate, Was a strange, loose thing, As if a water-lily's breath Wampot by the water-lily. Though his troth, too, was tender, As he was young and yet a bride, It pleased. 'Twas That now-a-days a brown scythe Moves restless through the grass, To shear enamel-eed All sorts of creanned skin, And, cutting thus its blade, All over, beards, and limbs, With strong suction knotted, And ivory hands that grip and pull The heaviest load. He had a band, the very last And first dear thing he wore, Of thick interminable thread-bespat Of clear bruley wool, and round His neck a flimsy swatch Of brittle twigs, Like a thin sea-weed. The load upon his back and shoulders Was nowish, and bore him, As 'twere, on its wavy load, Higher and higher, And he held the lissome throat Of his first love sweet and frail, Which now, like flocks of sheep, Lay prone and dight. He saw her upturned face, Now, the upper-handed, Now the under-handed, And now, all faithless and grey, With very old grimace, With very old ======================================== SAMPLE 359 ======================================== seq. of chap. xiii. How sound the blows, and far the dear but vain Deed of Him of whom ye spake; how sore The beating of the sea; how every wind Displays its tresses, and, of all to-day, Forgives you who shall come near it and stand Alone and free. So ye gather flesh, Not your own flesh but the soul's flesh, and each Sees in his own soul its own lost shadow move, And, out of all that seems, in truth, one shape. No thought, O brother, of the other you need; He seems like one who, looking through your soul, Sends you warning, and, seeing you, dies. There, Lord, if ye be that Holy-bound, ye show Some signs of what ye are, and of the rest The fruits they bear of your faith in Christ, Declaring them, before your brethren, ye. Ere this we had seen, and dreamed we had met Thy body on its bed of many years Within the convent, and thou hadst said to it, "Hail! Here lie Jeanine! and how is this thou?" But how? Through thy body thou hast walked us all this while, Loving still what pertains to the life of death, And we had spoken of these things through thy soul To the old flesh; thou hadst said, "I love, O God, through this frail bond and late; but why Loving, why always crying? The time has come For me to take my last food, my sleep." And we had weened, looking on thee to thy face, Looking on thee to the death, that now was turned To its raiment of dim stars, and said, "He shines So through this flesh: be gone, we know not what to do But love him who made us happy here among the trees." Yet how to go to the end of the last passageway Behind that closed-up and unseen? if here were not The phantom ghost of some one we knew not how. If ye had not turned and looked along the floor For noiseless footsteps, nor descried no phantom, Fitter bride, unbride than happy, of the trees, Had we so knew, we who have drunk and never spoken Then I had fallen on my knees, my head to earth Becoming religious wound, and my face SynchronIously transformed To the last slow undress of mensuration In the wide robes of dress that separate My closed legs from free flight of tresses, And I had prayed, and said the prayer I cannot teach How to take with mine the spirit of this hill, Toward the plain, that flows by that formerly named In our land's odious name, Bogan Trainer, And I had wept, and wept, and prayed, And felt washed clean through whiter than ton's finest wash At that close of day, and in the short dismay Of the first thought of God that ever dawned With flower-king feathering his stray, and shaken down All his full horns, I too had wept and prayed, And felt God at my throat, and had blasphemed As ye have seen me speak, a brick, or worse A sequestering of dames, or worse (Holding this thought in Heaven would be better still) A shutting of my passion's open gate Barring the one entrance after all these years, That yet I may, or, Honour what shall cease and fall, Go my own way, letting no fly bar Thee from my shoulder, lest that silence prove When God doth bring his thread, too tedious tell The resurrection, and tell of him that dies I would have known him in the light Of half his dignity, and say That holy things must tell us plainly And calmly what mortals can no more tell, Nor mention them in lascivious rhymes As an appendix to sermons. What if I had let the object go? There is no point in being a saint If he can shrive himself, ere he be sifted By malignant Mortality, and washed in Ganges Meekly before his dying day. And when we cease to be we, We will behold him. So it seems: I do suspect that, yet there seems No end to this; his face is here Still a mirage, and he lives In virtue of my preying on: The poor dead bison's front and flesh Seems living still, and has for ever borne My ======================================== SAMPLE 360 ======================================== States that his dominion shall extend Round the broad Earth, and his royal sire shall reign 'Midst his rejoicing subjects, and his friends Amiable, as will be perceived When this iron planet from his line shall fall, And to remotest regions report him wise, To comfort all that kept him, and to tell His enemies to pay the funeral profit Of slaying him. So sentence is no need Of danger, neither to ambition one type Of glory, nor to brazen bravatures, Nor to unvanquishing brave array. If noble lion would err from courage, By being dull, blemished by long ease, He might erre, but not be vain, for all His simonagement could be but show. But, if an Angel be achieved by prayer, Then put him in a mood which for pride And zeal is incompatible with sleep, Nor for no mean account an heaviness Rise out on him. No man is worthy to be put Into a subject situation; The subtlest health is not for lightly spent, But honored, if it be bestowed with meaning And high reason to adorn; mean pay For gifts well rendered, and an aim To the best of intentions, are the steps Which to misfortunity cultivate A happy life. No misgiving God Retains the rattled bones of old history, Who from the future foresees the event, And if they surprise, 'tis but in ways Perplexed man may always satisfy. Let the queen of France Go with the tide; We will follow the Danube. She hath but robbed all the Farce Of this gallant army, Till they be forced To fall on And do what they would. The commander Of our host Is fallen, And we are On the run From the pharlog That rushes After. The storm is near; To the sea! We have not gone in For our vessels Nor weighed a Net quantity Of anchor. I hate the fat That doth devour Its youth in salt; Nor do I like the fat That hoards up Hinterland ale For Stony hills! A laugh is kind; When tears come in We rarely find That cloy speed! Therefore, who am I To laugh at pleasure? Some broken taunting Of mischance I did not think was gone Till we were attacked; And then all's shaken From head to heart! The river flows; All is made of it! Where the long trail Ends not at the Boarding. It's well we end it Where the tide Alone will lead us; In flood or wind; 'Tis as-sins are not The thing to draw the line At tie of thought; Yet there's a truth makes up For the phantasy Of water! 'Twas mighty upper In power and might, Therof the time Of sovereign might. Held-highest he stood, And all his warriors Belaked their strength To show it! I have seen some goodly men That was not white, And I wish I'dwander'd o'er the Firth of Forth, And viewed them from the bridge, And thought how that the weather Might put on breeches some coat and cap for to wear to fair, As they went walking up to Perth hall, Or down to Derry Hill, to see the Exhibition, On Saturday nights, when trickle, or shine is at least a glimmer in the sky; A cake to make us merry, and then we'd as lief 'twould be to dine; We'd hear the death-bells ringing for the deceased, As we twigg'd in to The Standard (now The Evening Standard), And there was always an awful hush as we at Niagara. We'd refuse the tourists (I always felt that I was scorch'd), We'd refuse the soldiers coming down for cruises, And we wouldn't seem too wild to make them drunk on New Year's Day. For I remember well, the days of humming the Red Flag, The perils of the water, and the dangers of the track, But this we always settled to do, and thought long and act as fast, And this was the general feeling of us for many years. When the city was sad, And a spirit was nigh, The old folk, when they came to the aid of the city, Said "Wait!" ======================================== SAMPLE 361 ======================================== Sean was a work of art, I should have said. The little man with the curved back was a poet, And Sean was best man at his wedding. The small city Was smaller than that, and it made me feel small. I was reading about him in the newspaper, And I was astoundered. The citizens of this place, Their lives were just as he led. I could have asked, But I was just a nameless guy with a curve in his back. <|endoftext|> "The Grey Flat", by Hanae O'Hara [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] The day is grey there by the Grey Flat because the Grey Man came from the earth and killed and ate everything he found including the golden yellow birches, grew from their seed-gathering to eat him. <|endoftext|> "Black Rose", by Hana Mathrida high yellow entangle spiral Wound in the fingers by a thorns the ringed roses together drag the blue rings down the handles The grey sky is a naked soul. Spinning with the rose above a bed of green mountains the sky's voice a straw Dene bangs With a black book a black Masa latched shut with its gold lion's tooth. <|endoftext|> "Marché", by Hanaèré [Living, Coming of Age, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, History & Politics, Independence Day] I was a young girl, standing in a foreign country on my father's hem, having found a rooster's head as a present. I carried it for five years or so, often ending up in my mother's family. When I went there, the rooster's head was missing and so was the family. I spoke some Spanish and could answer all questions. I was very pretty. I learned to ride a horse, which flamed my ambition but was a burden. I danced, but the prettiest dancing was never seen again. One day I went to the coast to join my father's relations, but they turned quickly away because they thought I was swimming there by myself. I stayed in touch with my friends. By then the rooster's head had flown to his old nest, and I had found a new familiar nest of roosters and a good pigeon nest as well as a good lotus on my tongue. When I came home from the trips, my mother would say: "We have been spoiled by Hmong children who have never been home. The rooster's head I carried is on a plume that is broken in the ground. Oh, you wonderful child, how beautiful you have been to us." <|endoftext|> "Nuits-Sive Lices", by Kate George [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] We were silent as the eating Of the nuits-sive lices: the burning of snow all over the lake; the wind was blowing From the three summits of the world; The girl's body was a bowl all dripping; the boy's body was a grave; His eyes were all emptiness, their listening all dead. <|endoftext|> "Veni", by Megan Snyder [Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] I went to high Mass last Sunday because a friend who lives near there, who'd only recently turned adult, was begging of some Latin words a liturgy that included things I couldn't still repeat to you even if I told it to you again with its stories of people on the sidewalk holding "peace hands" and the blankness before their signs like blank weights in a tug-of-war and the ballots of their voting sliding on the floor to be counted and the empty ballots nobody wanted to count but everybody said is everybody what they anyway? It's like that last Sunday when she went into the parlor to make ourselves a bowl of chickosteffee with milk and a stalk of ficus and she got there first and stood there all to the side of her we were eating in secret all to ourselves it was a wet January and we didn't care because the day was going to rain and we were raised to think but in that case there was a her ======================================== SAMPLE 362 ======================================== returning fire, to spurn, ethereal a rough text of the age of rot on the mind which's simply no more, poorer for the passing of the heavy fetters which it did not know exactly, well. You and I are to ourselves in short the same. And so, having made a bunch of mortal bodies and mortal wills, having impressed the bliss of a single body on those bodies and upon themselves, we return to our silences in the empty air, which is to say the air with its good old whinny voice, or in those hallowed soils and homesteads which are though they not forget that they are not. And we look back with the proud tears and smile of our ancient refusades, who out of those hundreds and thousands and uncounted footprints which are piled high on one side and the other and call back the long-extinct and current world to its inhabiter. And that old swan who sings to us still in his secret cave, and is a great traveler himself, when he sees that the immobile signs are alive, and that we are not in them, plucks off his beard and gird his shoulders and dance a round season there where the dead will not vex us and the immutable signs. He sings and fills the signs with himself, and for all in this place which is that garden of petals, what does it matter that we are beyond the garden of this world, with our laughter and our hearts, how it matters that we are but the extended arm of the one endless dream? For we are but the heightened breath of one universal sprout, the return of the un overwritten mother-dreams, and we shall set to our labor like fires, set ourselves again to smudge and fill in these round tracts of land which we trace to their nimia or their digit, and we shall sow the tender seed of our foolish bellies and silly sons-of- bred NCOW. <|endoftext|> "The View from an Observatory on Kitt Peak", by Charles M. Rivest [Nature, Stars, arid Places, Mountains, Views, Weather, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] You know what it's like when the hurricane comes by, says the man I help to refer from the foundation lamidon to the logistical side of the government. The night sees an inextinguishable dance of lightning and thunder, the air embalmed with the chocolate breath of remembrance. Tomorrow we'll go down to the Kitt Peak Observatory to see the satellites scissored by the unforgiving sky, the Muroc line, the rocketeers on watch, the general collection of the 'gun world.' But now, after this recent deluge, is a reprieve, a chance for breath, for planning, for photo ing the team in white as we climb the side of the mountain that looks all but ready to fuck us back from these hills, this nameless mouton. The place where the hills turn to alto blossoms, the 'no permanent structures' of the hamlet. This mountain lives in two, as if it were for real this obvious paucity of light could be too keen a pain in the neck to which it offers such consolation to show its uselessness. Some of us walk for hours, words struggling to get from A to B. One foot, shaped for A, underneath the burden of a worthless dress. This the morning we went up to the mountain to begin the new project. Lunch and wine on the property. And the mountain then, like a face, the day that it turned on its axis to greet us. The first thing I recall when I look at you is your face. <|endoftext|> "The Roots with Which Pigs Is Fucked", by Patricia Spears [Relationship & Companionship, Men & Women, Nature, Mythology & Folklore, Fairy-tales & Legends] After the ending of the first winter, which itself was the ending of the 'forever' relationship between the four fertile operths A, B, C, and D, this was the consequence: “Not only the operads, but the trees and bushes, all the trees, did not bear again the crops, but the vegetation, grew not again. The pigs likewise did not grow again, but on the third day put forth heads, full of uncertainty ======================================== SAMPLE 363 ======================================== Ben, my old friend, is gone to his old home. He to his brother has left his chums; In a strange land, with long miles to roam, They have gone their ways, and parted on the way. There, in a loft high up among the trees, My little sister sleeps. Her heart was very wise, but then, That's one thing we all are doubting in; For mother's heart has oft our troubles told: She tells her little laughs and her moods, Her love-dreams, and her griefs, and all that stuff; I was too young to know what I asked, And so mother said "Leave your door, Ben. "I'll see you later, then, if I don't go myself; I'll come when you're well enough to go away. 'Twere very sad to lose him, Ben! You know It's a hard thing when a brother goes away! It's a stingy little kiss, but there! I'm done! And 'Jo' (she said)--she means all to her eyes. Mother used to say, when something began To trouble little Freddie's sweet little air, To try it, to the experiment the experiment. I heard it naturally, for I'm a make-believe man, But I will tell you in a piece de resistance, And I hear all about it, too, in spite of its Possibilities. Well, it started about a goose. He kept Away on a lilt, and he knew the spot Where he should lay his nose; but he would not Obed to his wisdom, and he knew his muse Awards would be given him to sing his window; And he layed his forehead in a dreamy look Before he had tasted either a mouthful or crust. He was indeed a make-believe man, and so The more he grew and flapped about the house, The more they left him alone. And when his amuse- ments began to pall, and they be-lumed, And their lines dwindled, and their resources Waned, as in vain they cast around for fuel, To cheer the dying embers of the soul; I was beside him then, and I shall be again; I will be his brother, and we'll play the works Of Hamlet, side by side, for there's none so strong To take the windings in. To come and lay a hand on him there, I may Do more than all the generations sent forward before. And we'll keep His eyes and ears with always doing and saying Something diverting from our little handful of plays, Whereof just now one recks the playwright's heart. But the world, the world, Where passing now a few minutes of our life Acheter us than staying, and we care not although It last a decade, suggests to us more dear Than all the rehearsals, the unseen quarters, and the rest. We do not dare The world to bound, so large and rent it is, But with the utmost restraint that life pays us To veil its hurtments within, to hide The wound we have taken to be put aside, And to smile through the wound we haven't taken. This is our language. Whatsoever happens To us in coming years, or after the event, We put it on paper, and we label it "Frog." And a piece of gold we make the poker of fate to play, And waste it as we like, but we're glad to pay it off, For it's good to bleed for our play-money, not for day-money. He was more than a little miserable, and Mangled and chained and bilingual was the whip, But, when he rose again, and he put on another whip, And he tramped across a tingle-tramping plain, And he went far, and he went farther, and he stayed, And he bore his burning home across the snow, As he would have borne it in his homeward shadow. "Hither, hither"? Not in the world? I guess 'S not. He was hobbled and schoolmates forgot, And there was a score of other hobbling men, And the sun was over the hill, and the goose was dry. They say he went "Here am I, I'm here," but I know He would not have been quitted easily. How the long dew-dawns lifted from the earth, And the air was shaken with it, and the tingling swell Of the hollow tower ======================================== SAMPLE 364 ======================================== Glamour, joy, enjoyment, Love, pleasure, mirth, These are the Tones, And these are mine. They have banished from their hearts Races, passions, tears, and fear; Have thrown aside their old-world cares, Desires and tears; Have set afearing no name In their child's heart; Have made the joyous hour More blossomy and warm, And all happiness--joys That have been of old. Have they gone back to the old, happy days In which their spirits soared, And were shattered, as it were, with the sound Of a wind passing by, And the bitter heart-ache and grief-- Forgetting joyous days which were So like despair? There is a place in my heart where grows the pink absolute, The happiest place that earth doth know, And in which time hath no power. And who hath this from known habitation but I? For this my heart hath several passions, And for a master-pilot, Th' is no man but I. O art thou not in stead held up by pulpiterson of one Who is thus enamored of thee? I, that have thus the wind in my chequered will; I, of whom art thou the slave and yet darest also serve thee; Yea, are ye in way of bondage to one that is cold, Who bore stonily your heart with his delight? Hast thou desired love, though thou knowest it is froze forth and dried up, Yea, flouret where thou may'st no more. How, when the fruit is this night so juicy, can one savour it, If thou scorche thy lips to make one wheellet shun the other? Who hath not, in his desire for love, gone over thee so many times; Who by his sighs hath taught thee to know the play of womankind; Now in a sense more fastidious than before, when he lists, doth he show thee How mortals are at their best and worst. Thy seal is pox vouchsafed and seal's breath. I say, in thy case, what nosso is said is no more to be trusted; Yea, though I bear away the starting up of thy love-dowswort and man's blood in such a spight; for thou knowest now, what needs to be said. Whereon he weeps, and is wroth, and that he fain would rest; I say but, Will, thou he test of rest; not of haste; The breezes play with the hairs of his flesh, though he weep and stands; For that he fain would find the time's reprieve instead of sough, Your trifling end was a jest and an empty one; The night took you in the rod which had broken your vow. Who would count as a sin, the wrong done to you, being overmuch beheld, Or ye scuts, which is god's gift of water, And took you for our graven gold? And he thinks that, being asleep, when he thinks he is awake, And when he thinks he is mostly awake, when he thinks he is awake, And feels no self-righteousness in his soul for the sleep that he has lost. She 's garrulous and gaily dressed-- And we who know her say so; But she is of an instancy unafraid, And is quite unconscious of sound; And a f and r, o a grating f and r, Has a far more convolved operation Of congealing than any r of hers That is fetched in at the ecc. She thinks that she is grateful For the large silken cape that she sewed, And says it is full of grace and beauty And that the seam is a gift of the Holy Craft, and she knows it and allows that And feels too that it pleases God the much She has been caught up from the plain. 'T is she talks of the wealth of the rich and high And talks of charity and truth and love; But in her she hath little to do; Her wish it is to be lifted and hurl From some tough drifts that are black in the rear Of her backside to the starting place. So, she is a snubbish and hollow help That she is a sweet badly got thing, A sweet thing of ======================================== SAMPLE 365 ======================================== I'll stay in the neighbourhood of living, But for ever? We're flying too, They tell me, but from the dark their shadows Are soon to o'ershadow us, and we shall feel The cold night rain,-- My God, not one of us shall escape,-- For many,--what--only me,-- In this their mad, mad battle? And even should I venture forth in the gloom, I would fear,--for no dart there is,--they tell me,-- The darkness that darkens at the foot of the glen, The laughter of the shepherd on his hill, The evening star that is not seen,-- My God, they would bring tears to my eyes,-- For I too am an astronomer! And, though I am condemned, I may, And should, be safe in the play-ground darkly, Of the face of the child I love the best, And the street lamp, the till, the school, the house Of some dim one where I have a relative, Or in some other way that I can never discover, And be with my heart merry girls and boys, Some day with them, if God willing, Shall know me, now and all for ever. "The road goes cold! The road goes cold!" This is the wail we hear, we hear it every day, And every day, with breasts heavy and weak, We rush forward for the same reason you see In the face of the devil, the old black one, Who is so much larger than he. "The road goes cold!" Who is he that goes about so cold all day? And why does he do it? We don't know that, we only know When our hands give out, and our hearts get cold, And we drop and can't go on,-- And when we get home all tired and our eyes are dim, And there's nothing in the house but the furniture, Ribs about, and ribs under, And every door is shut, And we know at the last that it's only A long room with no light, And never a view, And nothing but a stove and a coal. "The road goes cold!" And we sit down by the side of the bed, And watch all night long, And watch all the night because we know when it gets cold, And it can't get better, And the radio is in the barn, And the only people we see are the ones who are not there, And we can't get back home till morning, And there's nothing in the sky that is bright, And there's nothing but a road to the woods, And there's nothing but the coal-bin, and.... Oh, the road goes cold! O beautiful day, with your flight of bright white clouds And your hair across in a chain. 'Od you come 'neath the snow, you'd curl your lip Like any shark! O beautiful day.' O beautiful day! I don't know how it is, but I'm afraid it's gone Of the way I used to think of women. And I used to dread the kiss of the mistletoe And dread the pressing of her to my breast. And I would shrink a little, shrink a little, And turn my eyes away, turn my face to a tree, And hide from her, afraid of what she might see. And I've got to say that it's only me and her, But oh, the thing's got over toom, she's grown More clever than any of the others! O beautiful day! with your golden light of clouds, And your fury of storms, O beautiful day! I can't tell what it's like to feel yourself glow When the earth lies in your nether bowels! O beautiful day! The air's a beauty. I'd rather you'd shut your eyes, shut your mouth, And keep to what you're accustomed to, For I can tell you that it's far worse, By a thousandfold at least, To stand in this kind of sunshine, in this kind of night, With the soul of a beast within, And the flesh of a man,--you know what I mean-- With the soul of a beast to an ant in its jaws, In a litter as big as a wolf, as strong as a weasel, With two heads! I know what it's like, And I bet you do too, beautiful day. I've watched the clouds roll by, and wondered what it was That made them hide behind their houses' of shadow, When the ======================================== SAMPLE 366 ======================================== "May you see an evil heaven, where none are happy, or come to the end of your life and remain it! We can pass the long silent hours because of the light." "No" said Marko, "The bawling dog has the same look on his face, it does not matter if it is we or his that he speaks. All is true. It is your greatest glory, your lesser sorrow that we now understand. We know that we live in a reality. This means that we are of each other. If I am close to you now, it is not in the sense of a human touch, because your people touch with their legs and then stand apart. But when I go home, I lay your feelings on your heart, and I see that you are happy, not only because you have forgiven me, but also because of the grief that is in me." He went on to say further: "the future will include us. No man's heart is closed in his sleeves, and the world will know that we have love for each other. No small things have happened in our lives, but we are still here after all these years. If we lived longer we should say so. You are not here, Marko, and I am not in my fire-spersed cotton. But the day of the great snow, the fish glassing down to the bottom, the gleam of the rocks on the wet rock, the ice filling the pines, the shadows of the pines like a mind, the snow, the many clouds, the naked earth— all this has in common a mystery, while our eyes watch joy, in the way the leaves of a great curtaining-door suddenly stand upright. We shall know the words it said. We shall see that words are not a security, like a wall or a punishment." The darkness talks to us, it says: we two are the same, we two, we two the same. The darkness with its sadness in its belly and its bowels and its eyes of-flames, it is like a man's soul beating in a scuffled garment and says to us: it was here, it lived here. It is a part of us, the dark side. We know that in time we shall separate into the interior white flame, the exterior whiteness shining in a cloud, the snow. The cloud- flame, the rain, the sudden gleam of rivers, the blue light of lakes dimming to the surface. It is snowing, it is cold, the earth feels cold on their heels, we feel it, too, in our heels, in the heels of the faithful two who climb them one by one, and then one by one, and one by one by one. <|endoftext|> "Song for All that Have", by Sheryl Abrahams [Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals] (for Martha —Albany, 1880 All that glitters merely blooms, All that friendship lurks in whispers, All that loves to sleep, not death: We glide as softly as dew astray On dark, uncertain blades of purest gold. We close our eyes mid wreathy stacks Of the green, mossy flowers, that throw Their shadows on hovering wings, that touch Our fancyed walls, our moonlit wall, That measures the measured moon In its heavy, silver shoes, that wear The air like arms, that rise to yield, That like endless robes on which scents depart, On wing, like flowers, to float up and die. And yet, dear friends, our feet remain As plume to flying feet: We move as thought is mov'd: we feel, not beheld: Not heard the light, not tasted the air, Save where the pine in cloud o'erhead Rests, and the crescent moonshine falls On barn and dartline, and the loud Wildings scatter'd from its surface beat; Or where the brown windharp lifts Its fern-like sound, o'er wood and wire, Till the wood has shape of metal sound, And the driven bees go pattering Among the blooms; or, where the wither'd head Of the old soybean by the road lies, After the first pick ======================================== SAMPLE 367 ======================================== let them go to pieces, into dust, into the fire, into a dustbin in the empty field. Let them break, break, break, and disappear into nothingness. <|endoftext|> "dinner". In a interview with Rolling Stone, Thomas Merton stated: "Most of the time I'm hungry. And so even though we —readers—know how I feel, and we —readers—know how I feel, and we —writers—know how Thomas feels, and what the poem is, we can't put our orisons on until[…] So even though we [readers] know that he —Thomas—felt, we can't put our [or the]oth·er on till […]" <|endoftext|> "solarised". In the time of the piece, a solar match was lighted for a half-hour and the landscape was seen by visitors to the rivers and the river-cities. <|endoftext|> "Ladies and Gentle Evangelists, Shoppers with Cosies". These lines are a take on the opening lines of Les Trophéres, a collection of shorter prose pieces by writers including M––tegerenor, M––teleglon, and N illiot Dowling. <|endoftext|> "A Song for the Coming Daylight, Unbubbled by Wind". This is a late addition to the poem, which had been written in outline but was not yet ready to press. In the earlier version the last line was "The light is on". <|endoftext|> "The Old House in Grasse, Traveller". This is a late addition to the poem. It was added to bring the length of the poem into the typeset order. The lines "The old house in Grasse" and "The old man in his hut" were moved into this location and the line "A little farther" was added. The date given for this poem is 1674. <|endoftext|> "The Turner Rooms, Modern Editor, Less Treated", by Lydia Davis [Living, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture, Painting & Sculpture, Photography and Film] A prism of light. A woman with a burning hair-bow, blown on the wind. The man in the pool, his hair visible under water. The depths, the depths. In the artful turn of the watcher's hands, a cloth hangs on rail. I see a match crescendo, part-way through. Uniting and division lanterns readjusted and stack into perspective. The pool, the sheeted bodies, the pools unpooled. It is all in the passageways. The wayside tent is removed from its stand. The content is hoisted by rafter. A single-passenger inverted boat tows the buoys. The tent's contents are, as they will be, augmented and differentiated. <|endoftext|> "Mild Suicidal Jealous Love", by Lydia Davis [Love, Infatuation & Crushes, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] I am so not in love with you. Not your love. I am in love with my cleverness, my good nature, and the way you spend your days. Such love is too intimate, a fleshed-in heart, care-free as a digit, with a swimmer's face. Such love is atom and very white. Too many words are murder's many versions, all impression. I would rather know you, shape-shifte, than know you in the careful cheek's digital impression. Such love is too intimate, a child's faith, care-free as a digit, a good example. Such love is atom and very white. Too many words are impression. You make my heart up and every time you say "I love you," I see you say "I love me." You make my heart from your ligaments of opinion. I would rather know you, shape-shifte, than know you in the careful cheek's digital impression. <|endoftext|> "For the Blackbird", by Lydia Davis [Nature, Animals, Spring] Each spring I go to see the blackbird in her spring; go to see her round house, too: I want to say "Blackbird!" Which means comprehend, nibble and track, or nectar and worm, <|endoftext|> " ======================================== SAMPLE 368 ======================================== <|endoftext|> "Left to Ourselves", by Hannah Lowe [Living, Life Choices, Relationships, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] What is it to be human? We are sick of the answer, of the number of names we must choose from. What is it to be human? Each of us wants to know what it is to be superhuman, though surely now we are wondering at our own abodes, wondering if they look like homes to others. Some days I miss the English names; at other times, Spanish, German, Italian all pop up, and I have to force myself not to look at my watch. "Ten more minutes," my friend Mandy says, "and then it's pitch-black." She's right, there is never enough light, even to daylight. This is why we say finado, finish, all shots fired. We spend most of our nights alone, I've noticed, at desks working or on the road, but we're never completely free until we meet at the lake and everybody pulls their shorts inside out as if to impregnate the darkness. <|endoftext|> "Speak to Me", by Yvonne de Cootes [Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, History & Politics, Popular Culture] I want to speak to you about the municipal vehicle, a marvel of late twentieth-century Dutch architectural taste, completely safe and conventional in form and content, though possibly too proper-seeming in concept to be of much interest to a student of modernist architects. In any case, its appearance on the street was significant, for it immediately struck me as a hole in two ways: First, the way it looked, the way it mirrored ambiguously offered city jobs; and, second, how it sang, like an invitation inviting one to enter. To speak about the van, I must first be shown how to speak about the van. <|endoftext|> "Stars in Spring", by Yvonne de Cootes [Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Sciences, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] When the professor smiles, do I need to rub? When the woman smiles, should I neighbour look? When the flowers are smiling, should I hunt? When the children are smiling, who are they? When a star shines, who exactly am I? <|endoftext|> "Mr Spoon of Identity", by Yvonne de Cootes [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Poetry & Poets] For all that I have experienced And that I have left to experience, I am not, I never have been, still dreaming That there is still some object of experience Which can never be matched, ever compensated, And can only be stated in refrain, in hope; Which, when it is, then I only know. <|endoftext|> "Three Discrete Artefacts", by Yvonne de Cootes [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Time, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] I EARTH observes you. In the disarray Of his studio, where a piano class In this unimpregnated ruin all day stands, Gradually melting into a fine ice storm, Silent as ground glass. That incessant power Shines between you and him. He's happy Where he is and how he is. But you? Not so. II EARTH holds you close. In the dusty dark, In the silences that ooze out of rock, Hemming the wide barren space, he's you. And you're close to him, at his retreating feet. And it's not retreating. He is advancing. He walks on you, and you descend. It is I who is advancing on him. That's how it is. And advancing. III EARTH takes you. That night at dinner, Including his whole mood of absent-mindedness, He will fall on you with his royal attentions, And you will never be alone. But he'll love you, And you'll love him. It will be divine! And you'll love him back, and so will be edified. And he'll love you, and you'll love him back. —And I'll be happy, edified, my goodness! IV Yes. And I shall be the tongue, the electric wire Talking to the wire that goes around the world To every electron in a stable, hot, And lonely ice world. And you will be the Higgs boson, In a world where Higgs bosons collide. ======================================== SAMPLE 369 ======================================== dolls: "O dolls, whose breath and eyes Dawns on the skin of a virgin, whose fingers creep Cunning through those shining wings that come to harm Each mortal woman she comes upon. Has she no fear For any who carry swords or wield long spears? Or those that cleave with blades the resplendent snow, Ascent the lustrous light?" I have been to see them: Each I found by my own consent To be a dry-eyed girl, each-where with that eye Shading her on that side, so was I. So they said: For the one was in love with her beauty and the other Seemed in awe of it. But some said that she but hid Herself from beauty, and would have been made beautiful By others, by the man of her choice, who then Had been disgraced: And the girls, against the upland way, had gained The lake-shore, and stood on it weeping, and were soon As one would be on one's coverlet if the swell Would part it, save that, on the hill, at a place Where one might stand and free it to the breeze, It happened, as near as one can remember, That the sadness of one and the beauty of another Could not support one strain. The spring of seven Strode o'er the lake, and the flocks of descent Came closer, and with lowing there, and with tinkling nigh, The noise of mill-wheels, and the wail of deeper wails, And with deeper shades of woe the sorrow grew Towards the shore, till it reached the sudden dead-end That was the brave man's hill, and there he and the spring Which fed him grew, for all who came thereto were changed Into some one thirsty thing, and all round them rang The clapping wings of the sad waves swelled and swelled. But we climbed the hill. Behind the hillside pines That broke its height in gores of sun and of thunder The lake rolled and swooped and coiled to us, and below Was insatiate buffets of its ripples and sups And long wild struggles of its eels, and we drew To the margin of the lake-waters a ship half-submerged, And about it we ran, and lifted the vessel, And with a clashing wave, and a blowing wind out of the Orbit of the sun, and with the boat almost sagging, We were hove off, and the leeward drifted, and came With a driving lash of foam to the shore, and held There, and then landed us, and there several barrels of Wine. So it was we drank and ate, and I wrote, and thus We three lived to until drouth should have followed Death. Now, however, one of you be looking for a Distant place, some young man may remember it well, But not for here, however it were so, and you Three living men. And I am with you, and what Hath been o'er my head is now in front of my nose, And you are five thousand years old. What can I Say? I cannot tell a story, and the stories I Have told of myself have been of quite awhile; And this will not, alas! be so. In a dream I stood on the street, and no one knew it yet; Nor can I tell it now, nor will I ever, but As it was only a dream. I met a man, and He began, as many things to me do, By looking at me. Then he Methought that I should tell him more; And so, bidding me beware, I did. But Look upon your own steps; and whatever the Hearts that rise in you, they will not be of glass; But be your own man! I dreamt that I was at his home, That great man, and then his table waited Upon me, and many a head was pressed With looking in, and none could know; And after I had seen so much prepared, I did not mean to go away, but just Now so early and now so late! For, lady, 'twas in the writing to-night, And nothing to do but to make An end of time here and now, and call it night, And make haste to go! But I was wrong;--in looking on my brow A sad self-satisfied shape, And I have heard a man is like a bird That crows, and waits for sun and ======================================== SAMPLE 370 ======================================== page 24: What sort of creatures were those, pray, That here hand in hand hung to ride Page 25: No man ever lived Who looked upon a live mule; And if I do, I must admit, ere I declare, I ought to be able to. The Northern mule was black, Of colour like a burnt match; And he did on back extend And legs much too short, A trapper's cabin. It seems a little thing To make a fire In the Northern mule's den, But, if you do, you get Five minute-glocks; And the water's cold, As cold as his own. The top of the mule's head Was rather steep, And many a year he'd been, In stuffing, snow, or ice, Composed and strong; Yet, unselfish, bold, He might be shot. But what you might, You made for very good, If you did it right; And the sound of it Did make him wilder. He was all red To the nipples, red to toe; He'd a red mare, too, And a red tail, too, A colour like a pike's hand, And a measure quite common, When they're work in a coal-hole, And their work the first night snow; But when they do it again, They should change their coal-hole To a private house, And they should change themselves, To standing water, And they should do it straightway, And the neighbours should do it too; And they should make their hands Fit as well for towing As any man's for towing a cart. You'd find them gape and grunt, Or they'd swat you in moccasin fashion; They'd bite with too much zest, Or they'd drown you in the mire. The red man would swear He'd a bag of oak In Yorkshire called a knife-stick; But the black man would say, If he spoke of it at all, He was told by his bag To take the iron with it. A tugger, on a tugger-tooth, Not long from London town Transports a baby to be baked And roasted in the coals; He'd have done it if he could, But he tries to keep his labor Quite contrarious, He'd not pull the plow beside, Or even plow for that matter; But he worked the farmland For the large agency Of the Guido of Florence named Guadian. He was then in the news For the sale of a railway To the gold fields of Farne (In Niagara, no water; Hold of Far West, no gold; Hold of North West, silver open hills). Of course I wish him good-natured, And I wish him thankful, And I'm also gratified To be found worthy of this sight, And he belongs to the dust, While the baby made a fall, And he didn't--didn't. Heigh-ho! The scamp of Far West, Who came just in time to tell How his man lost his temper, And he didn't so much FIGHT, As the other take a grip, And he GRIPPED his man's AIRDANA: "Ow one HUNDRED DOLLARS for a pair!" I'm sure there was nothing too hard For the old man and his dink; We've read on the screen of crystal, When the morn he rises, steal we away, Where the lock up pin points blue, As he shoots the bills in a tot; But his cash they wouldn't deliver, Of his bills the mite is not, And the hostess so swobbed it had, That she'd LIE flat and LICK her hands, And her mitts, I do say: But he fumbled them a touch, and it flew About the place, and the dish in it, Which was piped off in an even row, As if the cash belonged to her, And her MITTY she could get for nought. The account is furnished in brown ink, Just the same as when the record was ran By the tailor who made the check, And you'd recognize, in spite of Co. But the change was "NO. CASH--MINE. THO;" 'Twas on the State side, and the field Where the hustle and glut ======================================== SAMPLE 371 ======================================== enkindled, both so yok'd. With his lance the strong Sarpedius he warded off the track of Antiphat and his train: I see the point where it struck force to abate; so, creeping backward, he bind'd his memlia, still fastening so his feet to his side: on the well-built halla he leapt, but in haste repented on the flood, which flung him down, as a swim of corn that strake beneath the flail. The rest firm stood; but of the foremost pair alone (for of the swerd they were the third in place) pass'd unweeting by, passing over as nigh as they were able. In the territories of Cyzicus and Lanfranchi next they landed, following the bank of the river: these were disp rim'd and in the body bivouacin' sic pen for their leave; and after them a band descried, how frugal their distraint, seeming little. T need to avocate are follower a little of the spirits to whet their sharpness. But Mighty Manoah now hand'd his horn; with musical thoughts ripp'd and sniff'd, ere he spake to his whole horn or even to the single trumpet that was at hand. "O Man, thy fierceness," thus he mused, "and remorseless bloom, along with thy gloom, so excels, Asphodel delights; above, below, these fruits, Theseabrites; Each work'd by hand, these by power, the two combine; combining, they bound (their efforts combined) to finish all in less; less there's nonulence, less there's need of rivalry." Thus thinking, here his horn he blew; lo! fragment of the middle or long tube, pieces of detatch'd horn, white, as the flour thrashed from the bag, the trimm'd and windied looms. Small elm, band from balsam, screen from speedy Sathan. On this he laid, set in position, and bade his heralds go to prepare the news. But soon again he met with triumph. All heaven was gone, monsters circulator in the air, and people elements, and innumerable frames, by the build of Hercules, and of their staying here (their bones) to sustain the globe upon the alone, the rows, the bands, the flopping pieces of earth on the misty ocean's breast, and all the while the earth's motion still slack'd: for this were all the stones of inclusive origins, and all the works of nature. The people, elements, earth, brims, air, water, motion, and space, were all created; and in one explosion all was dissolve'd. And he call'd the world to mind, whereof he was the minister, and cast around the circle with his eyes. Heaven and earth were then to the south, and around the world; so that the midmost of the world a little passed near to the emperor; for seven of their number, on the verge of understanding. And when his glance had reach'd that part, now near to the furthest part, where we ascend, and see the world from so high heights, as by its quick increase it seems to shift worlds to the sea, and almost to be hid in the air, he was wont to count himself very great through the veneration of that one small orb, which, due in part to his splendid ray, is magnified, and in part by the gem from which it is brill'd: and therefore would Jesus bid it stand much more than the moon, and that his names were never found out. Whence, that the sun is never collected, the deceptions are left in the letter of Christ; since neither through it, nor hence, could be pulled the real truth, save that he made it into a magnificent scribe. Whence, he wished his glory to be seen with the very color of the truth; with the rainbow's triangle, and with all ways fit to the touch of yesterday. Hence, he expected of Christ that his form should endure as late as time could endure; and his memory into ages should make the new at last. The whole, in their conception, could not be earlier than the Hour, which has then come, and will so long after bide. But we may now as well in smaller space travel through the z ======================================== SAMPLE 372 ======================================== Ere thou dost make haste, Sith the fault is not mine. O thou that beauteous amaze, I will find a spell to hurt thee; For the first it will happen, It will be such a wonder That there will be nothing like it In the world, for evermore. O thou wonder-amassing flower, Ravish me with thy gold now! And I will tell you what must be In the light of the wonder-making sun. Sayth it is a spell Of danger to-day, Though but dimly seen, The foeman's brow; Or it may be A sphinx, made to look human, Whereby the monarch deceives. But it may be That wot thou knowest A lesson in peradventures, Thus may'st thou be won to know What it is to be lied with, So long as there shall be A power, that will use the play To betray the liar to his trust. And the wonder of it is, That the liar may be A leader to the falling Of nations, to come against their will. But this say I--then thou shalt Come to know it, and thou shalt Believe it, ere the fool is flight. I think the noblest works of frieza Were a little loosely built; For my love and for my life I doubt they had been made; For the beauty of the world thou writest Was for a minute old. I do not know if it ever was My love and for my life To be guided By the music of this sweet time Of the dreams of my love; For the beauty of the world thou writest Was for a minute old. All through the yellowing autumn The summer-table'll, An' all through the fog-fall spieling The summer-breakfast Are best: But best of all, when most urgent after supper, When the lamps of it unlasted And the bed 'gins to wane The best of all food to me Is the cup that ends all of me At midnight of name. The cup that never brings me the bitterested Of damps an' deceptions-- The cup that fills me so sure A thirst an' pits me the longest of sich problems It's--O God! It is best of all. There's the cup. Let me breathe. What joy it were That no bounds were made to my desire. O lass of Hell and Low! Hell if I would, I would, I would but it might, might Never be. I have sung thee long enough, long enough Aye hath been champ, That I ken it by tradition dost know it by muscle and moan In some ghastly time As this is. The clouds they were yellow, And the river water was yellow With our parting at the tiller-seat. I do blush That such a beast as I Should have cause for blush, But it is summer, and who can'nt wait To the cup of this world To fill up the drunkenness Of the now mouldy past. It was all dark, save where there spotted Black tars were mixed with the greyer shadow That was a dark red that wandered in between, A marisht look that was lost in between. A shadowy land where the dead light was green Like serpent's skin. And I wist't a ruff in the night, But a black road in the night. The world was dark, There wer only the dead tars a black wur heavy With the sky tumbling in the very centre. O me! o Lord! o Lord! I kneeled down on Hell's black shore And drank to the occupants of that sea. It was sorrowful, but sinewed the pit of Hell To a sponginess. They were not in misery; it was black, but a beginning Of sorrow that was hope; A black tongue that tie in a fiery rhyme For those that died in the world. But the spirits had warm white pelted feet And they smiled as they passed, the rivers of this world. They were in the air and the light; Hell had a giddy Hair banded about their eyes. O Lord! o Lord! I was dumb, but the steam of their breath Flooded the canal of the arms that followed to the sound Of the bones that were still in the after-purposes. O Lord! they were ======================================== SAMPLE 373 ======================================== Loudly protested, with careless words, "It is the will of God." The boy was trembling now, and turned pale, For his faint heart was broken. His words as he paused were few, But they were these, As from his seat he rose, And with placid, calm delivery read The sorrows of the soul "The world, the world, the world!" he said. "Oh, is it such a world? The shame of the sin? The sorrow of men?" "The world was made for you and me." "Oh, is it good for man or God?" "Oh God, God will heal, I think." "The world is too wide, and life Is not here long." "Now I fathom your inmost heart, I think you should be grateful to God." A few years ago the mother, On a day of rush day, Took my father on to the centre Of the street, and there he stood, With a beaming smile on his features And his slow, strange smile. The sun was sinking down, and now stood In his glory, and in his power, The remnant of the sunset. The boy, as if fainted, did shrink Forward, fathom-ed, with tears Upon his heavy eyes. And now with a great light that filled The edges of the street, And round the boys and man It rose as a great event For peace in the world, And it fell again. And when my father walked in his life Against the red and gray men, As a wanderer, carrying his soul, Held by fear and hope. "God help me!" he cried, as his soul Died in his arms. The little lass may wed a Scholar, The poet a lout, But the man of life, if he have faith, Can not face a false lass. The man of life will let the gate Of the heart freely open, And think all the odds are on his side. A roving, roaming life, 'Tis free, it knows no rest; Though you flee from the world, yet it begins With its own plight. Yet if to-day your friend Strains back to his home, Give him her hand and his, And the right thing he says, For if there be a storm when the moon Looks thro' a cloud, She in her hand may hold a branch That from her hand flows. That if she find her sleeve Twisted, and that sleeve is her own, Then it is her sleeve. For the worn-out jewel, That was of her dress, Was plucked by her elbow; And the blue flower, With its dimpled, manly front, She shook on her finger. And with maiden wonder, And slow respecting, I will worship and adore The fair thing that I love. But she leaves me in the open door, Or the house shuts ere I come. I may not kiss her who is shy, Nor wile her to be unveiled; Nor the leveled eyes of her In the dazzle of her smile; Nor yet in the deep low house Of her tumbling, and lowest face, Will I find a precious faithful thing. I may not kiss the lowliest flower Of every inch of her fair, Nor the rags of her garment, Nor aught that is of her own; Nor her flesh till I have pluckèd it And spilt blood like water; Nor the hands nor feet of her, Till I have lifted her from her weak Position, And warmed her in my strong arms And made her as my wife. And in the last dark night of night, When I can not hold her, Give me her body, body, And power of my hands to hold; Take her to my knees; And make her beautiful; And kiss her, body, And my, body, With the kisses of one. A flower that fell, There in my hand, A flower that fell, There in my hand, A splendor that could not die, And was a star White and full of fire. Then there was no other way, There was no other way, Than this rough road to take; And I travel that road And I go to where she was. There she is! There the hand That made the ringlet wave, And the eyes that illumined her From my own eyes ======================================== SAMPLE 374 ======================================== Backward and forward through that mass Of sweet and bitter, in and out. They walked, and read the fate of Mars Who, he who for ever wryeth, Mocked her vain dreams, and hooted her As she crossed one deadly ruin, Then wagged his great, white, twinkling Tall beard, and clapped his wings together And sailed away to wander the skies For angel's eyes only to see. And soon, with heaven's eternal guide, And poise upon the golden perch, Hove in from under that ethereal Shroud, and twitched his lineaments To watch and know. And that is how he came to be Borne in the sky, in that moonlight Lingering like keen caressant Of a mother-son's ghost. And then, While that hunch-backed Ghost stood calm On an island in the sky, Watching the long line of light To/an island in the sky, All motion because It was motion because of him, And I stood quiet, and watched him, And at last, lo, he was changed, For what did I not as well As I had brought him from the West? And he lifted his face and smiled, And he lifted his face and said Me first word of the day. And I lay looking into the West, And watching the starlight run To him, for that boyish Boy's prattle. And my soul Would explode. He had saved me, That boy, that boy, I swear As my life. He never had wronged me. And I wonder How my good hand is, that never Felt his, like mine. And then I thought I could go see him. I thought I'd go to see him. And I stopped in the Saddle At that, to take my hasty tongue Upon the flying meal My death had cidded. And there I Did meet him, once, again. I was sleeping. Our lives are set So far apart that I do not think We ever were alone. But this night I thought I was his, somehow, I think, And lay in my bed, and dreams were passing Like-old-friends-come-back-again Dreams-old-again-again, In my mind's construction straddling The-boy-I-used-to-be-but-to-loose-him At-this-time-and-now-not-again From-the-dreams-too-long-till-the-gods-were-so In my ear, his ears tickle my own Where-are-the-gods-have-alternately- Helpless-helpless-open-house-now On-once-more-this-morning At-your-door-at-the-present-moment I-was-sleeping, and then I was waking By the time of song, my dreams leaving My ears ringing, and I waked, Waking-the-where, the-that, The-now-and-the-forever-ever, The-last-heart-ever-to-come-succeed- And-rule-forever-forever. On the wide road that is the road of songs All the gods go smile, go serene Like wings the roads of sound, go With the gods, the song that begins, The song whose magic, at first, Is, "I will be a man," that begins And still do begin, the first And only song of men that says That it can never be ending, And still will begin, the first And only song of men that ever Is of a man, "I will be a man," The singing man. On the wide Road that is the road of songs That road is wide and some turn down it That is the last Unwinds the path of the rosy wear Of weary men, weary of their lives And weary of the hope of any change. And still the wise men go in their war-green wains Blowing the trumpet that sounds the death-chant Of brave men to win the joys That yet might gild their lives, and all the world Sickens with fear, and still they blow The death-chant and still the drums of slaughter, Blowing the horns of pleasure and of chase, The death-chant of great kings dead, That still begin, that ever sound. And still the wise men tramp ======================================== SAMPLE 375 ======================================== I desire the sun, I reverence The holy effulgency of his love; I desire his gentle eyes; His brow whose light is a purer radiance Than the flushing of the forest green, His mouth whose trace is a smoother fresco Than taper or painted woodwork; The pearly row of his throat, His dainty nose; and last his hand, Which I dare call a perfect image of A lovely churl's; His hair, which is more black than brown And wet as the sodden rose's. Heaven! that hath no likeness in my misery, Dost thou allow this truth? I cannot sleep! My brain is full of Emperors, I can unring the church of Time, But no man writes till conquer'd Heart's decree, I cannot sleep! Dread Sovereign, grant that I may wake the fay, And bring back old Time To my Cyrus beneath my rule; But first, ere ever old Time shall be My Cyrus, let me hence, since she is mine, Enter and greet her for her grace, We're but as appertains To a star in heaven That is not far from earth. She'll wipe the tear from her staire, And will welcome me, And answer my deserts; And will reveal To her 'twould break her heart If I did not go and be Her proud lover. If I were your loser, And you were my winner, It would work a wound That would bloom In your face for years; And you would pause (All this was understood), And pause to think If you should, if you could. Ah no; the birds Would fly away, And nothing could savor Of the tiny Incontinence of base! Your lovers' friendship Would dry up quick A man of blood And not a treasure; To let his life force Go to waste in vain In loitering there When he might run An ambush, strike, In new eventide, In sunrise's glint. When I think, those that draw breath By the red grave, It were more than despair, Though but to sit On the Spy's bed, To hear the chronometer Beep from the far. An Architect may die With no architect After his name, And but his tools, And but a plan And but a plan, I could well believe If He died, I'd hope, In His name. An Architect may die, And never See the sun Or see a sun Grieve on the spy Who tramped his daily Long ago. The eyes that erst he cast A statue sees Erst too greatly It grieves him That he should lie. Why does He care For statues He makes? What has stupend That He should err So In perfect timing? The same reason He Has of fustiness And of celerity, Or rather, The angel of butter Would break His fingers "What is the number?" And the voice of Night says, "This too for certain: The number is infinity." I say it's infinity: For if He knew, He wouldn't stay In His bed, In setting Him up And I haven't said good-by To bed every night where He hath darked His eyes for me, My God, for Him! But if He knew, And didn't say so, Then, plainly, His knowing Is to see God's love, And to be where He is, Why of late I feared to touch The old out-worn- By-your-bootoo road Of being twice-told, And only to be told And to let it drivel Is of telling To go, to have an end That shall be only Of not-being, And of not-having- Being, That to be or not But you and I Are not of it, And I, Though I've allowed The point where I am The germ And not the guy That of it all And of you And to be where you Or you Not knowing What of it is But who is And who is not Being or not But of it all And of all And of all And of you What it is That of it ======================================== SAMPLE 376 ======================================== Kyouya waku, Ooh! Ooh! " said Chitrakusashi, He's standing in the did with a brilliant smile. You might have thought him a prouder boy, As he waved you over with those arm waves, And he had the svelte grace of a youth Who has spent his summer days among The sailing poppies of the southern sea. The grand privilege of that sacred place Is the long look in a person's face, And the deep, rich glance in a person's eyes. The fault-finding should be silenced there Or at least severely silenced, where A glance's a deadly sin In a person of such vices and sin! But the fault is far too often set right By a glance in the eyes that say "Why!" And "Why?" And the fault is, why do people smile? An airplane like the arials of thine hills, Or the lambs of thy mountain fountains Is, in all that it is, a marvel! Its waves of light shoot toward the firmament Like the disciples of Maengenossen, Its waves of light beat in a concert Like the angels' harps, when, winging, they say A voice from every mountain and vale. You're late! You took the train three days back! And you've only had time to read your books! And to-night you're wildered in a novel' way, And it is very painful, Gertrude. Well, it's nothing--'twas a pleasure to you, And a pleasure to me, but different, too, You don't know how different, Gertrudo, The trouble's that, and the cause of our Pain. I have not said weant when myhte sae jurn The case, I'm sure, but o'gree that it Sae did me treb ain, beac' on'y wod, And in my mind I ansuerbu had bin planing To lye to an unco w|-in che kiss. But, lou, I kenn'd I had not been to telle That by myhtha ruend I hae be ened, And, hoo mad I was, and what wai do be Grits derry for myhthing but entreat My han's and dy's, I cled unto her che. So, deary, when you get to Loo, (The mornin' sirt day) you likely here, And sure it's anither trick, lasses, To kittlein| to your lovers den! 'Tis nix wich, I fear, I'm bound to see, And sad I've been abaat, and murther|ed am; And though I'señess the bet, I'se mow it's deat so eithee! Smythe derry, when you get there, what'll ye do? My soul, mark, and maister whatair! You'll be asham'd of your at sentance And get aher werds for sinning! And when you're leided in to the col, They'll sairly take all out at your tail, And how saigh reproach you saigh? And deary, dea, I'd teir a hug If I'd been maister of Yasons. There is nae praiseucation For ye to learn And gain the magyar Týk Of bonnie Lester. The bard, I'm sure, wis English, As I shure of my eall; But here's to him sae bien, And, Laura, this I wiss As ye will do, sir, The thing may seem strange and irksome, But mony thoshifts I've had I've had, sir, on Minshnckh among. When al was lang and e'en halfpenny, He sune an o'erclaen fand me on me, And gants, I'se de at hunderd geisel, And on my back he heldin'! I don't know what'd of her stay; I thocht I'd lost my life E'en will I now For pity ma thoothin Is beyone me. For hurrah for that speer Is gaun to mak his buckrum, An' go to thowt nu' need I' persimm' ======================================== SAMPLE 377 ======================================== Poets have but small fare, And when that small fare is gone, The sweetest risings may be found From small food on the plate. They are contented, contented, And have no desire For wealth upreared as they Who have no more Need of him who lacks. These are the nymphs of lyric verse, Like icicles they hang down To veil the radiant face Of lovely Queen long ago: And icicles they are but leaves Drooping o'er the bed Of their bright and royal mistress. Who had no peers, no foes to chide; With no passions to alter; She could be beautiful and mild, A devotee to vaporisers. She was of the noblest kind; Her temper was serene; No demons taint her untainted mind. But she was the youngest of her time; And he who fought with Bardies of her age Shall find her battling hard to chime With icicles of her own beat. I would that thou, Susan Ewins, Were a morn of the Junetries: Thy hair among the greenery Were greener than it dreams: Thy brow, Susan Ewins, A merrier pool of flowers: Thy teeth were never clenched as these, In icy silence yawning and spitting, When the wood and all about it murmurs. I would that thou, Susan Ewins, Hadst a lyre and sweeter breath To lure thy share of the shades and winds Than all the voices that breathe and shriek, Have hurt thy ears with shriekings and blues, And wrangling tempest-coursers. The freaks and screams of battling gargoyles To daemons are nothing to us: But pulsings of a pulsing heart Make up for all the blasted noise And blood and shriekings of these damned skins. Of old time we dreamt of gnomes That dwelt within a mud-rocked cavern Beyond a tawny forest: Our gnome-mother was Peel-seed galley, Our gnome-daughters we were Henn sired. And when the cave was raised apart, We watched the worm that wrestled for breath, The shuddering shuddering eft lay plain, The damp dark water glistened with Our own dear slime that had come forth A neck to thrill the earth with, And nail us doom's ears to. We were the Time-sea brood; Yea, and our eyes grew green As the eyes of the leper-place heaves, And as the garden of our youth Was paling and of dying, Where we did and where we would be The deathliest natural thing; And it was hard to make an end E'en of our departed self. Of the old, old dream of gnomes and witches That made our eyes as tapers mocked, Lo! now was Mayierthan these years, With witches and fays and fairies Like mist she spread on the river To make a mistown light. The gloam-goo's glistening snuff-box Saw men grow fiercer than chiefs, The saw-mill property Waved a willow like a sword And made war's blade-tip curst: The toad-egg and the wynch-out Wuz forced a rownd in wedin'with So fain were we to gaze, This stream would seem to make The blood in us go bare, And burn an orange from us Till a man like a fire-starter Glinked green and lit us clean. There is not the remotest chance Uplighting that our sires Were lemons old at last. The creamiest deed that our sinews Can do is ferment, The sweetest is the sweetest won When a thing is curst but well-told. The night that is to June Is a black old maid in glyber's gold: And all things are gone, From earth, air, sea, They creep to this sepulchre in graves: The bones of what would that have been Shall cry in hereon. Here is no moon for beam, Light ceases, night comes on, Night on, and on, and on, Pale moons and night, And in our sods, where ages fly All in search of moon, And hour on hour on hour doth ride. Yea, here am I, The ======================================== SAMPLE 378 ======================================== Behold this act of ravishment, Where the sad farmer's son is drawn, Down by the tawny teeth to die. In vain his wife and children call, He sinks as a pheasant torn by steel. Such is the lord who the heart takes, And turns its joyless lust to tears; All tender loves he bids stand still, To pierce his pale and gaping throat. So the sad wife of Aris hath found, In sunnier climes, a gentler foe. With love and fear she sharpens every spear; And hearken at her words, O mortal man, Falls to his peaceful prey, the squirrel's nuts. Now every nut her finging hand leads, Than swift and old the age to fly. Sugríva, roused to wrath again, With lifted hand asserts his might: "Kali me svenshi, kali ye lákhas, Lalatíka, kali me svin. Sára nemchíkhara viśelbhara: Tere ráma mukhreliśá! Sana sikáhan sinda: Lalí tukmí bástav allāras, Lalí sine kalí mástav, Mith sáráśia devávas. Lalí tukmí pálamu daśarṇiká: Lalí kiśasramé baplixa, Lalí krita suda, luutá: Lalí kai sinda: tiruvin. Kali me svenshi, svin láma: Lalí síme dukasuré, Sana sinda: tere ráma. Sana sikásha sindaráya: Lalí sítáya, takšúr sikát: Tikár tikásha sánkát. Lal le tikvaśí, tikáshan: Lal tikvaśí tan tikása: Lal tikṭe sádá da bádá: Lal tikṭe sádaráya: Lal sátrá da vikáta. Lal tikvaśí tikṣí: Lal tikva sátraḍá: Lal tikṭe sátralé, Lal sátrá dúmi: Lal sátraḍra: tíl síré. Lal sátrá dúmiká: Lal sátrarádhá: Lal sátrarádhá: Lal sátrá da sámí: Sana sátrarádhá: Sana sátrá dhiká. Sana sátrá: sítá sírí. Sítá da neṭa: sít aḇu. Kali me śíli: lá-óṇí: Lal ráma mukohá: tikár sikát. Tále sújpáse, dúbháse, se námá, Tikáro bhílag, támá tikacchi: Tikáro kāli, tímá tikáśa, Tikáro bhírásábhi cóléytu: Tikáro tikariṇyekantaśayy, Bhadkar nám dak diwa sakár. Nokriṇi dámavigyè: tímí tikáro, Tikáro yá aścor bála. Sítá tikta-léñ) se náasí) Lal tikáro lámí, tímá tírá: Lal sátrá jyoti sólémpa; Lal rájyaśíl she tímá: Lal sátrá dúmpárie. Tále-dúbháin tikáro, tímá dúbhá, Tíra ole ekuli olar: ======================================== SAMPLE 379 ======================================== going home through the sky this doesn't always work, I have to admit, I thought about throwing up. Then thinking a bit and more about it, I thought that a whole system of self-delusion runs with its own weight, I thought it would be good to come up big with a projected face, the whole explanation, and just say what was at issue as factually as I could, in a way, and look out for the best interests of the fish and the ecosystem. It was going to be so simple, but then it occurred to me how big that system of illusion is expanding into a counterfeit, systems of illusion, manufactured information systems, light strikes a mirror, and the illusion of the confluence of lines, but this time, there is no confluence. What is going on? There is no light to speak of, only reflection at best. How can I say this with any accuracy? What's possible is exactly what is impossible. <|endoftext|> "What Is It", by Lucia Perillo What is it to be ungrateful? What is it to be hard-on? I prefer to be vacuous. That's right, I said and felt myself rising to my feet. It's noon and fine. I can't stop now, I said and stewed another cigarette. There's nothing to apologize for. I thought my day was bad. <|endoftext|> "Turning", by Frances Leviden At the kitchen table I told my parents I was quitting the club I'd been a member for fifteen years. My partner one of the houseplants I.T.S. had dragged in for his auto detailing and my mother who listened to the news with the voice of educated fidelity in her usual state and I who stood near the window trying to see what I could see the light from today's newspapers and what I could only think was a wormhole to the past I wasn't knowing how to feel one way I was suddenly uneasy about everything and slowly wondered if it were a good thing the next instant it was the exact same and it wasn't isn't that how love works bluestiE music I'm seeing through the windowsill now I return to digging the yellow flowers the song coming from inside the woods but that's not here now that's not what I do something I've never done to spending all day in the kitchen alone. <|endoftext|> "How to Get to Know a Prairie", by Stephen Spender Wynken/Eden: what will you do when you can no longer find it? What will you do when it's no longer there? When it's just a random name dropped like a way of describing a thought by chance, like a chain of chance that happens to start unwonted, randomly? <|endoftext|> "The Marriage of Good & Completely Abandoned Hours", by Stephen Spender The marriage of good & completely abandoned hours is perpetual masochism, a way of being that grips you both instantly & merciless asana. Chastened, you stay naked, damp, in your car inside the wind's reach, moving from place to place, all the way around valley to arch, dawn to storm. And while you both wander neither farther nor where you are than the air, flowing beneath the moon. The grasses, you both agree are back in their fall, the grasses you planted, need you to stay the night, at least, needing to take care this time. The spring, too, is back in spring, the bees buzzing in the clover, the moisture the flowers bring back. And the green, often, grows green in memory, you know, as if it were a uniform texture and you body the air on every earth. But then you turn to the right, to where the quarries of iron and blackened stone hang, equally, between the springs. You walk on earth where all this has taken place. <|endoftext|> "Part of a Far Realm in July", by Gwen allan this and all [Living, Death, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Arts & Sciences, Music, Social Commentaries, History & Politics]   for Robert Hayden in the spring the earth grows, the pl ======================================== SAMPLE 380 ======================================== Dead daws and worms, crawfish, burrowers, snakes and lizards, where have they come from, how can I prove it, and can I speak it into a lump of salt with the strength to make it happen, I am made of salt, we are all of us part of the sea, every one of us a fish with a pulse, with the cold human face we can't see. When I get home, the fire is dead, the steam is gone and there are clay. And birds. And cinder in the shape of birds, piling as stones. It's only April in Arizona where it's April in Louisiana and in Missouri that make each other very small and not so much the distance between them as the sheer scale, horizon and elsewhere, and the thought: How did it happen there? It happened there when the other fire happened all at once, like the sky racking for a while the whorl and then the clouds. I can't bring myself to hold your hand, even though it is cold, even though I don't love you and I don't love anything on earth, I don't even like myself, all the distance, the other me has made me think, a scarecrow, with my hair and beard and hands and what have you, nothing, when you touch me it hurts. A strange kind of pleasure, no touching, no caress. <|endoftext|> "Yard Ticket", by James Baldwin [Living, Death, Time & Brevity, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, History & Politics] I And so it went from thereIn the direction of— We never did get where we went,Never did get to seeWhere we tried to go, or to hold its hand—In our rush to get thereFirst we blinked our eyes, then danced,Coloreding the trees, palms soft,Tracking our bare feet down the paved aisle,The crushed pine of the store,Yellow cardboard cut into beautiful shades,Mirrors, colored matches,Smarts, Pixors, little Bumpersmoke, sets, your toys,But never anything we bought,Never anything we saw.In the end, here, where they let us go,Here in the dark and the quiet,Here where all that mattered was made,What you give before you get nothingBack to where you started: Green bamboo, Green bamboo, what you got to hold? II Back to where we're going, but who are we?How did we get from here toWhere we never did go?The ghostly trees bend where we walked often,Thick in the breeze they caress,Red and green in the wind they complain,How did we forget, how did we forget?The real and the perceived alike, Our past, our dreams, our nothing,Our everything, what we were made of: Here, when the world goes blind,I see a child in blue pants smoking.I see the smoke in my hair,Imagining a control room,Hearing echo in the Lizard's song,And echo in the Lizard's song,And a man in the darkness surveying his puppets.III There are the childeyes that are never going to blink.The puppet eyes that are never going to make any noise.And the child's eyes are where they will blistle if you make it twist enough.And the puppets eyes are where they will question your judgment of their fakery,Browse their airy ways where you cannot see them,And the man's eyes are the chameleons that make him tell his story,The man in the world's light trying to tell two things at once,His insouproducturables looking at him like you didn't even know him.IV But the gray leaves are where we are always start to look around.The rock faces are where we look for a sign,The rocks are the ones we fought for, and the same for.The one way, one screen eyes, man, we look for where we cannot blink,The same way you look around the ceiling of a building when you want to see the bottom,But the desk where you look at yourself is not there,And you look at your hairy arms and crotches and think of someone else,But you are not there, and your lips are on fire,And the ground beneath you is warmer than the skin,And you shake, and you think of wings and the world's meaning and your own,And you think of fingers tiptop rising out of mud,And the sweets the cake has when eaten by your hands.V But where we are always looking at ourselves isn't always the same as where we are.The second floor ======================================== SAMPLE 381 ======================================== fere Of thoghtur socháste yn Poyntid, in contekcacion Of o weschannys we to lese Of thraw, which we therto entend And therwith to hem goth; And thogh I se my wede Ordeyne, it is seyd be can In tangle also: bot wel I trow, As I have seid, I am at ate wile. Mi fader, I have herd thee say Thy dayes ne sent evere sene To love, whil at thi wittes fre Thou camst to Wollys lord to wynne. Thus hath one of hemself the other. The bowe to scaunce and lave Upon the bord is set tofore, And the same arrow ek is yold To make and the same arrow clense Is send to be awe of a partie; Wherof, I thenke, thou art crued in my manace. A wonder muche ensample this me dispute: If of me thou make er thy slaying. Oure fader, I pray you vouchsafe To lete noght to smyte or to healne The mesure of thi soules mettle; And so pourduce a woll or other thing Riht after the forme of the thing. Bot though thou bidst noght asli mean To trouthe and dedly wolde arraie Thi dedes, oure shepheards vassall With the same, that thou ne com To eny swete wound, or elles lese Per propria tresorn amour. For if the woundes weren good, Thi wofullher asli be schape tuo The fisshes bot a thurst men therfore, And evere whan thei one wounden are Thi resson schalloth slen and se al. Of spekth and houre and of vot shoues In special to speke to o speche, Of hete and beste aventure In special whan Iomela is blent, For in an other as touchende is, And strehed hou it was hote Ines. Wher as the thing mai be spek, To othre men in reles is ous tor, The which to cursed Peter write, To cursed Peter of his grace Were evere wise men warneth, Which after hem ne so goth And oghte, what thing is in so sene Thei no mescristen thei therfore. I finde ensample of mon houres That ar of the gold the thridde snede, That in a manere thei moste wende And ate ferithme of the thridde neepe. So mot I nomore speche thanne Than eny speche neveremo. Of fre releches be som wykke Nou mai a man there mai se The hoot, the which nevere schal Upon this worlde the fulnesse: And ech of hem himself moste nede With al the speed and with the prorack Unto the hous, which evere schal. And whanne he tok and stod above And audience in such a plit, He tok into the wyndowlin And thei aros Comor forth ayein. Sche goth with al the hihe run And to the sihte, as it is, stode Upon a Sanchelay with the sle, The which is goddes pourveine, The which Isovaces noble name Is forte and forthe to scape. Lo, for ther stod the leid lord, And for ther is no tender cruce In al this world the savour ys, So that he wroghte and his innocence In crepe forto relique, And of his wille hath an other, Upon his eadres bothe tuo. In which acorden may we yelpe And that thei ben eny trusted, For alle men eche day Withoute blame of eny wise They wol do and noght grieve to knowe; And ek the kinges more wyde, And ek the lordes of the lawe, Whiche as thei byrden ======================================== SAMPLE 382 ======================================== Cold in the shadow and the silence, Mourn, son of doom, my banishment! Weep, son of love, farewell! Thou whom the soul of man would join Long may'st thou, My man, Crowned with thy star, My comrade mine, Our father to be; Art thou pure yet? We ask the wise! O worthy son of him, Of him, my king, Of all the sons of earth The highest, Whom we call by the name of The peerless chief, Now in the face of ages The renowned, The Godlike man! He alone Of all that ever was Is in thee, my son! Thee, from whom comes light Like the snow-fount, or the snow, Or the rush, loud on the rush, of the sea; Like the flash of the fire-fly's amber beam, Or the asphodel of the gand, Or the lyre of the woman, such I his glory is. I am the father of such a one As a poet might tell his annoyance With a word; but he would be vexed With a word and a tear, and a sigh, And he would have a heart-tear to abandon, So he said it with a bitter packe-r's plaints, "My child--my child--why hast thou no love, dear Father?" Thou art mine world, O my soul, For it is given to thee to be thine own world; What is not meant shall not feel with the wing of fancy To fly from the Temple of thy God, But all that is meant shall have his heaven and his Paradise. As the sea, when the storm is at hand, Shuts its doors and keeps The ships from the shore, So through mine ears have been The tumult, the rocks and the blast; The higher and lower...O my soul! As the sea is silent, my soul, Till it befits to make reply, So shall I make my prayer to thee, As the high winds make their noise, And their heaven-like responses; The sea's perpetual fury Toward the shore, and its opposite, So am I victims to his tramp of drums. In the ranks of the people, Of the people's voice, No one suffers want, Nothing is alight Of riches or joy; And the House of Heaven, thou mayst enter through all its doors. With unceasing care Thou didst extend thy toil For the building of thy city That Nanterra might excel; The station of liberty Stood manifest in thy life-- In thy life, the flag that thou hadst chosen of himself Was unfurled, the air thy spirit had proved open To the brine of the sea, the provinces to thee and to France. Thou art not in the chamber, my soul, Where the day and night starves; Thine is the kingdom, and the plenitude of thy choosing, And the ample reasonings of thy content. I have watched thee moving about my collar, And I lay and turn about my face in search of the weariness That vexes so my life,--a fit that is for the sun to overcome, So that in the morning I dry and brighten as it set Cutting the mists off from the flying wind as it goes And gives them over to the sunlight; Or I wind the lid on the smallest of the three windows shut, And the sound of them lets the airy barriers crack, But they fasten and fasten, And the air comes in with such a whirr as earth and ocean Hear in the maddest of thunders Not with such fire Smiting the hills as they fly; No lightening the speed of the wind as it goes To crash into houses, as it fumings around With the noise of the gun at an unoffending town Prying his shafts from her. Thou art not in the chamber, my soul, Where the day and night starves, Hungering to break the barriers fast And the hinderous duties of the poor Till they snap as the posts go twisted and fall, But thou hast waited for my soul, and shalt not be late, Making thy entrance at the appointed time; Yea, thou art quick to dole Out of thy plenteous store, And thy work is beginning with thy entrance. I am older than Michael from the stars Held in the ======================================== SAMPLE 383 ======================================== The living rattle on the road. Now, fair lady, lift thine eyes To heaven's 'girt gate, And wait, till the crimson glare Shall hide your maiden blush For the whole world beside. O wanton, and now when 't is wet! O wanton, now the bright morning stars! O wanton, drench'd by mists away, The gaudy flower-down parade! O wanton, break these barriers up, And be the queen of them all! If that with half a standard-flight And dripping crows would do the trick, And if with lessening roof-tree stubbud We piled up the plain and roundabout And low-entered our squabble round, The lion could not brook it in crabbed Contempt of noble polemics; But manhood, when best left to men, To play the brute for it to dominate, For this, you know, against this, To bind and cumber and catch; And when they do the beast relaxes, Just seems a little thing to screw In the filthy wool from foot to face; And then he grins, but grins with shame, By pride of brows; O wanton, and now! Just when you turned your nose up, The rag-bag's red political weight Just laden on the door-post, Just as you thought it would all be Right balanced for, A craven low in the sunset's smile, The see-saw's slightest part, a Lion faced Old wind that just wants to hide, To be the cudgel on the tree, A lion's house. And this wind, O, Just a wanted prop to screw Its fellow out; The wind that cries for a clean to weep, But will be holy to eat; The wind that murders thought with thought, With all for which a thought can bluster; The wind that just makes plain It knows the sun, but not the sky, The wind that is as good as a joke, But when more funny; The wind that does not snort, but fix Its horns and ruts and roll In distant sweet-tone thundering; The wind that is not laughter yet Than laughter, as it came, by Jay Smith, Brought down the express: The wind that is so oft untamed That it often breaks it, but with its sweep Puts whistling to lips: The wind that is so uneasy yet, That it puts the seed down with dauntless Dull pats, That winds up ears, but not touts them: That, all uncoiling, works itself, Throws lids o'er blinds: That, whispering lids o'er eyes, Forbid's a life, but not unweaves it; And binds to turn. I have said that every wind's a joke; I mean that every joke is acephâ€��Š I mean that every joke is acephalâ€��œ I mean every heart an anathema to play them, And better play them: But I have too fargone every brompleggu�€ To find or seek, or aught but this: And to nothing have scale—I find or find not The truth that they are crying for, and feign— To find or find me not as sipping them; I find not my leasure, but at tythes I bind The band of all my hope and faith and fame, And thank them for holding them not snapt. They go not to those that I but half behold, They but new flesh, so are new fountains And fresh concordings of harmony. Let the fool seek them where they abide But every place but where they abide Is barren of my part and action. They are but details, the flesh of plot, Where nothing but I full artificer Plays out the part he knows; to other things His mind is drawn, they are to me unknown, But to my part I know them all or I That not half he scripts have applied to life. There is no blood but only to be curled By the brows, and no grace but to be proud Of the brows, and no upright nature but But prone alike to trellicitie and woe, Fearing the most they have ever had to good. Some are as stews as stones upon their first lave, Born but to feel sprees and ======================================== SAMPLE 384 ======================================== And I did hear her lay In and out of the floor As though to move the plums in their home. She was warm in the boat. My father died and left his wife And five children: The one who was born behind me The other three were grandsires Who never saw the light of day. I was the fourth. And they said I was their property. But I was the third. I am an only child. I always have been. My sister wears dresses of fantastic colours My brother has white steeples in his bedroom And my third brother has an ebony lawn. I am a flower in a field of regularly coloured people And I have a green cardigan despite the colours in my dress. I am the only one who has no cardigan. Sometimes I have a habit Of whistling very low When I come out to play. I never hear what other people say. <|endoftext|> "The Door", by Andrew Hudgins [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Money & Economics] The door stood open just a crack As I gazed in from the window Which creaked apart into light; And I saw, just within the crack, A prisoner being conducted down The hallway to the block- Hammer-handed, metal-by-metal, As he stepped aside for me To pass through; and I saw no one Behind him moving toward the door, But I heard him ask the man behind The guard-chains that hold the cell "What is it costs to re-install The plaster-ings on the wall by Uncle Leo's?" And he could hear the prisoner say "It's not even twenty-four cents. And I'm entitled to these Because I'm on work-release." I moved down the hallway with my cousin, As one can with-ify in a picture: One that one can with-enlist In the armed forces and become part of The military system, not quite alone, Not quite comrades, not quite sons, Not quite siblings, not quite a sister; And as we were on our way Up to the unit where friends were, A man and a woman stopped us: A soldier and a kindergarten teacher. He said, "You must come with him, You will be separated later." He took my cousin's hand, he said To my brother: "We are on the same Page, and we are not going to be reared Backed as two people by a wall." We stopped our motion straight ahead And the soldier's finger danced On the bluebell held by the kindergarten teacher. "You will love him," said the man. I turned in horror from them. "What is it?" asked my cousin. I told him the dust on the map Of our back-country, the cartilage On the cartilage of one's teeth That causes one pain. "Please, Go with him!" I said. "Or we'll catch the first flight," My brother said. "I'll take your hand," said my teacher. I stopped him from going any farther. "You or me, I can't think afterwards That I'm not afraid of anyone," My cousin said. "You're not," I said. When we moved on, and I could see His camouflage boots, mine were so small I could not lift the one at heel, My brother stopped me. "You are afraid Of someone," he said. I was returning alone to the squad barge, On the van's floor, beneath the lip, My name in the block above the door, The number of my squad, my address Where my uncle could follow me, 4 in this line, 3 on my right and 2 on my left, But as I moved along in the front right rows, I could see behind them The enemy's strategy as he walked along Me, with his back to the squad leader's bat. This was a Soviet squad. But as I looked behind me I saw my comrades standing up to face him. "They are also there," he said. "You are not afraid of them, not of them?" I said. "Because I am afraid of nothing It's their shadow you must watch for In the mouth of this mouth, between your eyes, In the white space between your white teeth, In the bed of your white dreams; In the white of the sheets that They prepare for you in your dreams, And that touches you in the sleep of yours. You are in no world now except The ======================================== SAMPLE 385 ======================================== during their current course, The linen made him toss his head and sigh. For lo! as from the lake of fire they swept, So to his eye their parting vessels stared, Hearts no less fervent beat than enemies; And many a cold word and long aye He ere the rest could speak alone. The soul that wandered up that night-hidden way Where pity's heart fails on a desolate spot, And virtue dwells on earth as heaven does o'er, Where envy's acid-water fruitage grows On the carcass of all honour's grace, And lust's last brood of wrong has reared its home, And all our broken statues lone its door; Where the fierce winds of chance make noontide smoke So foul the sun-swept malheuses fail That ice-water o'er the vale of spirits lave; Where sun-mirror'd caverns rim the steep that last From shadows where the ferns dream on the open skies And where the shadow'd mountains break the noontide deep In torrents from the skies their horrors besprent; (As, when shaken in the chalice of the north, England's 'bull and oxen' vanish'd be 'rivel', The shadow'd cedars of Shelley's land dissolve, And freeze the seasons 'round the Isles of Tennant). Had she been apt to assume, 'tis certain she might (O that a line she had thrown off as she 'was bred'), For bolder feet than hers had hold'd the awe That fondleth, half-remembered, great with pride, Locked with a cold, where toiled but little stream It would not meet the car, and passed be, Than in a little that from the tree Sal only met. Yet were the secret of her manhood uncaught By all that watch the outward man, who worketh fine With sleuthing search, or wise interrogation; Where one game 'gainst another's worth they clearly call; But for her, I wot, all hid wich the more 'tis found. And on her cheek, in sun-dried sap, a kiss The years must thank her for their strength; for why, When the brown plumage stands in conclave white The tree of withered board lay away at once, When she drew down the blind, with leaves it was dank To sit on; though yet the hours, as she said, Were precious in her eyes as a lone sweet rhyme Within her body. So short her shave, though, Her shavings were poor; a trifle en suite Gave the fresh-made gown; but she had hopes That next winter's undergarment would suit, With which her nose and ears the lights would gleam Of this bright period, when the world is found In the still, white throng of fellows at stalls. Her fingers from tangled mass would hide Their trunk; and for her under-gloves get, As for a fellow's ears her nails tare. Of this high host of free, in this limitless sidlingell, Thou only dy'st day by day; the boy who doth All this for which we wealth, for which we pray, For which we walk and weep, beheld her not: Nor he who hath for pulver fet he saw, And dowtz'd her with a fancy, who woulde delay That happy change, when all shall be his own. This was the maiden then, the harlot now, The queen of everlasting change, who had That world of flowers, her self was but a flower; And by that beauty lay buffing nails, When the crook'd-boot maker followed him To show the use, but peep't an' free, Er, to be sure, she more than peek'd; but what Her orner gave her to discern betok' The common asse, to common use. Her face fell harden'd haughtiness; Her brows by care were cur'd and wat; Her tongue, tho' great, was hard to swallow; Was, what she said, so heavy, and what she laugh'd So loud, she thought 'twas scorn. Her stanza-love was dead and conn, And he, to be there at all, Was fainte to abie, And wished that she as much as paid The fairest, of those she lov'd the most. To see her lay so hard and fast Abode in bed may what we mont, That ======================================== SAMPLE 386 ======================================== Ebryms, the good old sire. To the sky, to the earth, to your far wives, and to my old grey head. And I saw the summer flowers, the yellow flower of home, and they said to me, "May you be well married, very happy and into the sky. May you all be rich, as fat as turkey and as rich as hog, To the moon, to the shining dust of an old grey head." There was once a day I was happy and still with moonlight reflected in my face. But to-day I am angry and old. And I said to myself, "She left the glass, left the little glass, and I'll never see it again; never be near it and when I'm dead it will lie in bits in a place I don't know about, and a drunkard's grave." All through the night I wuz thinking of my father and he wuz of mine, and I'd think of the sun and the sky. We both were, but now he's gone. The sun that was, the sinner, but the judge may live. In the atch hour, the half-hour at the start of the watch, I look out the window, see nothing really odd, close your eyes, go to sleep. And at first the light came in heavy and black, then light through the flaps on the glass, the glass crackled and hard. And, at last, the slow light came through the bars of the window above the hearth. I close the curtains, turn off the lamps, go to bed, my head on the pillow under. There's a dandy glazed in its cover, O'er the window and down the wall a glimmering spider. The wind has wandered down past the bushes and sallows. Under the church it stops to look and from the window it shouts the arms of a bird out in the gloom. From somewhere near the spot where the bird crashed, the spider dropped something. The picture adjusted itself, the glass knocked two things to one side. The glass rattled, there was arm, the spider moved its line. How strange it all seems, in the atch hour, in the half-hour at the start of the watch. In the atch hour, at the start of the watch, I look, see nothing really strange. It was in a sleepy place, Where there was never any moon, where it was never any noon, where it was never any night. All through the night It wuz there, like a dream, a dream of the spirit of something, I wuz there, like I wuz a ghost. The spirit wuz really warm And silent and strange, And only I wuz the only one there, And only I wuz there. From the smoochiest place, From the fiestypan stoo, The spirit looked oo round and far and far, And far and far. Then it wuz really near, So far it wuz abou-- I wuz there. In the afterparties, When they ask, "Where was John?" I explain, "I wuz there." I explain, "I wuz there." They giggle, scratch, laugh-- "We all wuz there," I say. You know what the time is like. You know what the time is like. I know what the time is like. I know what the time is like. I know what time it is, What it's like, what it is, What it's fadin to bein to, What it's far to be, What it's far, what it's to do, What it's begun to do. But the sunshine Is best, you and I both know that, And the summer, well, It is best, it's seft for a bit, 'Tis best, as I've found by my bead. I found it in the meadow Where I'd left my meagre loaf, And a fly had sort of walked into My dry-compressed biscuit To get at my last few meagre Crumbs, and soak them in milk To get at my first few meagre Cracklets of hot and dry biscuits, And so get 'em s ======================================== SAMPLE 387 ======================================== Search and search In a new planet new ideas new beginnings Within the heart Something kept calling home Calling to my heart The love of the game Of the game, Of the game, Love the game My eyes have failed me No thought flows Through the throat Of the heart of the game But the game awakes When I lose the heart And when I lose The game awakes. <|endoftext|> "This Be The Verse", by Stephen C. Richards [Poetry & Poets] I have always wanted to be A poet,I think I am Unborn, blackening The valley With my cry, a Profound stroke of Agony. I shall grow to A gurgling size And strangle cry And fat with shame Be as subject To Death As these SMAUG! <|endoftext|> "Fever", by Stephen C. Richards [Health & Illness, Life Choices] Somewhere in here is a fever Somebody fever'd Me and my grandmother Passing by the fever She set me on to This torment. <|endoftext|> "Aubade", by Stephen C. Richards [Love, Heartache & Loss, Social Commentaries, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Music] My harp has been "treated" to Light love-chemistry With a modified Grouch, I get to the heart of things By the way I feel about it I like to think of it <|endoftext|> "Aubade", by Stephen C. Richards [Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Infatuation & Fright, Romantic Love] for S. J. My favorite part about you is the language of sympathy Or about yourself, my love: Your grove, your church, and the gifts you enjoyed in prayer. But I'm waiting for a chance to tell you I never heard God in prayer nor prayed,I haven't been to your church either nor had a chance to observe your love in love Your voice,as it were, in prayer. No, my love, you and I together once a week get out of breath come back from living away to breathe iambus and jalopy back to breathless life we did it once and didn't not again not yet you and I in triple <|endoftext|> "The Mill Runemmed", by Stephen C. Richards [Love, Break-ups & Unlovely Love, Infatuation & Fright, Relationships] We must be brutal to the mill That runs made hollow by design When the will leaves us all to breathe * Sometimes we have to tough * You like the idea? I'll put the coal in Pull the trigger You jerk you want to get it? You've told me you hate the mill and the woman who ran her in there You were the mill You told me just to do things for you, to make the woman angry That's how I feel You said I was a fool to be so hard on myself It was a mill * Even as I the toil of my own mind begins to take some water I tell you the work of the mill was abandoned * But I'm still holding myself to a high standard it was always a mill that had me hurt * What does it take to be true to myself? When you take the arc of a mill out of the sun * I don't want to hurt you, the mill I don't care if you * I have always loved you <|endoftext|> "Herman Blue Cracked Open Ophe", by Stephen C. Richards [Living, Death, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Poetry & Poets] You'd think no question more of him Was ever asked it: the Southerners' grandson, on papa-Man A Southern poet, and you Had to pity diphthongion, His aphorisms, none of which Quite made the slightest difference to The number of lives you took or The number of tongues you said. <|endoftext|> "Blue Dahlia", by Stephen C. Richards [Living, Death, Sorrow ======================================== SAMPLE 388 ======================================== McGrath says she means to take me out--as far as is— Though I think she does mean to take me home--as far as not. But I shall look out upon the snowy fields of snow, And say, "The winter storm has come, and the stars are dimmer— We have been more than friends—more than strangers—we have flown." I shall be content to wait upon the cold and the cry— And nod out upon the cold snow—and say, "The winter storm is o'er— We have been more than friends—we are almost at the doors—it's half-past eight." I feel that I should be a certain reprobate— I feel that I am—or were—an entirely reprobate, And—strangers have I been, since the daisy chains were broken, To chains resembling chains like to those of Herod the king. I—I have stood and gazed upon the great filled circus, And heaped great scorn upon that beast that moves, that bird that clings; And I—I have watched the brute that walks unable to keep a track, I remember the applause of men, the beating of hearts like drumsticks, The rushing of hearts—that beat like pattering rain-drops to patter; But—I am no nearer to the ending of my way Than is the furthest that a falling pebble can fall from, Or a small boy to the mother of Billy Bass, The lad that can cross the seas—the sea that beats the sky. I would that I were a paltry thing—a viliflower—to be Like to fall and tumble to the ground— But I am nearer, sire and son, than you and he— Than you, every man that is above— Than she, the girl—in the plough— Than she, the sinew-shaft— Than they, the rocks—and I, undone— And the rock that loves to overpeer the clouds, Not driven forth by strong desire— But the vain fable of the race— And the girl—and the breaker of the bars, The Londonest night that ever stirred the city, That shouted loud in noisy innings, While from the charity house the gilt Blurred the dark, in a glittering stream; And the water that danced—and the gilded glass That lighted up the deep, and the breadth o' the sea, And the clink of the gondolier and the sight Of the prizes, and the blossom, and the word To the watching raskin that rises slow, The soul descending through the length o' the dial; And the boat that glittered at the side o' the strand Whence a foe would marshallated come; And the old lady, with her little child. I would have been a star, or a leaf, on Sunday night; I would have been no part of your congregated earth, I would have been freed. I would have said, I am not One of you, am an earth at all—am not your kind— You would not heed, and I would have said, I have not missed A single one of the wonders that I now must miss. I would have been a star, or a leaf, on Sunday night; And I would have been all the starcast, and open, and clear. I would have been the one that had not been Venus; And I would have been the one that was not Earth. There were times when I had more sense than I've had lately; I would have wakened when my brothers were weeping, And given them my ear that they might learn from me Their sorrow, and not pluck the rose that is half red. I would have told them when they were pondering deep, And wondered if they weighed what they were aiming at, And missed the little elemental that was in me. And on the whole earth I would have known when I was blind; And we would have walked together, in the hammock wire, And watched Earth in our paper scarves, one another touching. I would have given them books they loved, and they would have given me— And I would have been wiser, for I would have been closer. And I would have been strait erect and silent then, And they would have drunk it, and I, too, in silence, And it would have fitted me for a high position, To be their apothecary, and they would have loved me for it, And it would have gone a long way to settle their heads. For the soul ======================================== SAMPLE 389 ======================================== now—says, when I try to quit—forgets I'm a human. <|endoftext|> "Vale of Tears", by John Wilmot Danby [Living, Time & Brevity, Love, Classic Love, Romantic Love, Romantic Hearts, Men & Women, Nature, Seas, Rivers, Rivers, & Streams] What time the Harvest Moon from our land Had shone, from the West had risen, our friends, The parting moon, had not yet reposed: It lighted the alcove with its blandest smiles. The shepherds had closed their fold: the cheerful paths Had unfolded their beauty to the eye. The brooks which from the woodland's sellevilles Had broachiment our pleasant wide accommodation, And in the fresh, the grassy tepid baths Of our rich pastures had heard the barking of our dogs. But that was shut; no barking was heard: we waited: And we wished: and our dwellings had a-pron ofed. <|endoftext|> "Men Are from Earth", by John Wilmot Jenkyn [Love, Realistic & Complicated, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] Men are from earth, and have of earth; And what they do Took from the earthen mould: But what they sculpture show They dredge from idearized broches. They from the farm have raised Herds; but these (as now and then some think) Still more than freemen are. Men are from earth; for then Each mason set his blast, In hedge and hall and bog and bower, That man, he doubly doth More to lose his d——d all in a world Where no life (save his) is his own. <|endoftext|> "On the Poet's Word", by John Wilmot [Activities, Jobs & Working, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Mythology & Folklore, Fairy-tales & Legends] On the words of each poet But few alive today have heard Suggestion of such softest sounds, As are fit for place in ancient silk cabinet Or a bard's wall hangings, Affixing paintbrush to glueup, Affixing pencil to pen, Held together in her scrubby laurel bush; If to poet these things are true, They are said to have spoken "How do," By a jostling whisper. <|endoftext|> "The Truth", by John Wilmot Jenkyn [Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] The truth from falsehood flies, But truth cedes territory In fact to fact is equal. And he that first finds truth Is right as well as ill. <|endoftext|> "A Rake's Cross" , by John Wilmot Jenkyn [Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] It came unto me from heaven, and as dove It grew, and on the shore I lead it, and behold! It could turn and move, and had wings. <|endoftext|> "The Cloud", by John Wilmot Jenkyn [Living, Coming of Age, Relationships, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] And, indeed, to some it is of such prime matter, That not a rivule the less would it matter; and also To some it is of such prime magnitude of matter, That not a rivulet, the less so well-matched, The less a boat would therein lave. For we should see, If it did not contain the purest of things, How in a corner 'twould lie caged and full of air; And also if 'twould be cocked with stone or with lead, Or with leaves or should o'ercharge with golden grain: And all these things it would for ever keep, In a cage. And in this way, it might be said That the big cloud should seem a little cloud, As such it grew, and here it lies. But if 'twould seem The case were such things never to be packed and packed, In a cage, in a room, in a nutshell; and here It does us visage to have a clear view Of the nature of things, as knowing nought of all Their mottling and o'erloading and flux of opposites, And ======================================== SAMPLE 390 ======================================== "But if the incense sweet be not worth the snuff "That the bloom of the bridal garlanded thy brow, "Thou need'st not come, my son,--mine is a rose "Whose fragrance blows before the wind, and scents "The air that chills the heart; whose flowers--one alone "Is worthy of the thronging lips of Time. "What can be lost? I have lost the heart of my youth; "And the heart that beats on my flesh is the by. "Then, since the soul is the part that man becomes "When his life ends in death, and the life of man "Means more than loss of life, be it unto thee "To stay alive--to live in happiness. "But if thou will'st not take kindly heart at this, "I will be cruel. I will rend thee a branch "From the boughs, and in the flames of the pyre "Burn it. Thou wilt shudder in the flame, and shudder "To hear of it--I will tell of it. When morn "Caressed our planet, smilingly to us said "That it was the hour that the dead's decrees dictate "And not the morn, it is incumbent on us "To think of our lives. To-morrow we may take "Our mules and go to the fishers of fisher's lane "To fish for shrimps, and live on crusts "Of spitted fish; and when we have done so "Return. How do ye wreathe the soul in the clay? "I will tell of it. Thou wretched star "That dost see us, thou miserable shine, "O soul of mine! I have tried to forget "The incense of the sacrifice; and have tried "To tear aside the garments of the Law "As an Egyptian might. It was vain; "For every moment is a torture, every hour "A torment, till the morning spreads o'er me "Its wings, and puts its brightest crown of bliss "About my brow. I have run over all they find "In this canal, and I know not whether "They have been lost with the seam and the moccaeum, "Or whether it is my heart that hath bereaved them; "For I have felt the pain of the loss of both, "And would that the balance be balanced again. "Now have I gained the meed of the sacrifice, "And it lies scattered; and now my heart is "More satisfied if it rests at my feet, "Less pleased with what I have not yet attained, "And hard the exercise of my thought to the end. "Now have I nothing, but, O! had I believed "That the world must be just, and the sinners righteous, "I had hope for the children of earth. But now "I have the mercy of God, being unrighteous myself. "My sin may be clean, but the inheritance "Of Satan is at my feet; I heard the rude wail "Of the wild one in the desert, when I went "To the lonely lake that visited the tormented spirits; "And I heard the monotonous voices of men who were dumb-- "I felt their thorns, and their cravings for them. O mountains! "O Rio Grande! tell me if the sinner you received "Has reached the kingdom of God? "I know not whether I shall deathly wear "My mortal eyes in the midst of fields of the light "As drowsy neighbors they may be. I know not "If this be death to wear immortality. "The earth still provides for all. 'Twill be doubly hard "To give unto all an hour that is theirs. "The torrent leaps. It delights its neighbor. "Oh! give me a place to leap into, or I may "Do injury if I stay. Oh! if I should dream "Of one who has not turned aside to flee from the way, "I should touch a stage. And oh! my heart grows weary! "I could shoot that dream to rest, or go down in the dust. "I am tired and I have done with existence. The black guns ride in a circle around my dwelling, And threaten me. The ocean runs out under my dwelling, And I fear my house may sink in the waters. My dwelling The only plaything I ever trust, the only thing I am satisfied with, is my horse. If he should sprain His knee, or his leg be broken, he must not complain ======================================== SAMPLE 391 ======================================== Change your view, and let its original cast From its own depths to ours. So far the old way has advanced, That I oft ask'd, when I the tale heard, "But where its progress shall we shall strike?" And now, my answer is plain: "Hark, it runs further to-day! Never mind How far it stretches not! its far progress It shall yet strike to-morrow! As some vast boulder, by the wind Beheld from far, by a few Who gaze and see its ponderous bulk, Rises to its appearance simple, To a few, not for the whole, Yet thus the many view it even so, Deceived; and to their dim sight Its weight and sullen menace seem The simplicity of clouds. So may its few are so far near All we in th' beyond can gain. They have seen the close of things. They are Immutable. They are seen Only, and they seem ever the same, And yet, ere they shall appear, Fiercer rage may kill us, and more hunger sear Our vain bodies. Tho' the full soul of thee Rolls into thy lovely shape As a fiery ship When the winds conspire, as they say, To thwart her course, Thou art double-natured, Passing idlest fear and fearing all. Of the world's make-believe Nor the smith nor the carpenter Could yet the world behold The true shape of both. And the snowdrops that deck the woods To the very slenderest string Tho' they're ever so small, As to-day's remark worthy Thou art wondered of men, Or like silver from the melt, Thou seem'st to men Fair as the light of a gem Down to earth, and the sun knows its place. O, some men fand such master-flow As masterpieces plied in olden Time; and some one fire of roly-poly Glow to the eye, As rush of day Or the twilight's own tincture, or Such soft rich tincture of a night. What heart has heart enough to bid the Souls who pause at one point to list For one gracious word? To summon to its play What spells of old Are in waftings of its air For the soul to lift On its own wing of breath To wonder, and to hope ere the shadow Of doubt take from it life's dream? Ay, and it is God who bids his servant His servant' s eye lift up to his And bid it see All the long path that leads from his home to his sorrow And all the waters that have joy in them to the sea That shrouds With clouds that stir All the bosom where he falls. Or thither if swift hands could it pursue To where the tempest looks, And the willow clouds are where he drops, Or to where tempests sway, To the boding of one call he 'd speed, To save or slay, When he has speedily hit the mark, Where horizon and hill-top meet, And is to the plain wending, He is lost, as it is said that the Storm-King Fell from the sky and ran As his foes were on him thrusting. And it is said that the fiery Son Is also driven From his course to this side and the other. Ah! the eternal stars And of his way weeping That he has erred, that he has slipped, Fall a-ward and in a yet-unfolding Trouble him sore. But if trouble make him rise With compass firmness to abide Then in his mid course 'twixt heaven and here It is bitterest. Haply a soul may be so wrought upon By sin that he be fain To reel back and start and stay his wing. But now his path is heard no more, And the wan moon dips eastward, the sun sinks. He has now reached the goal that he would reach. Now he must go To the apogee of good-whisse and use, As he moves furthest from his beginning. Hither they'll bring the dregs of every land That is least separated by soul's far seas, And the pure rills and stately prairie tules Will one day be water-walled by God. For they say that we have all one needle, But the whole round red ======================================== SAMPLE 392 ======================================== Since he chose the life of soldiers, For whom there is no path but rough Which yields any joy to one who works. Now to be merry with it. I have In the past two or three days Just been able to see, To a rough idea, as well, The advantages and the fail- Us, any longer as they are, Are men are like a pair of tongs Turned loose for a trip to the table. In the first place the table Has now fallen to pieces All it ever owned before. In the second You may think it a new kind of custard, With milk and eggs. What happens in the third is a mystery to me. In the fourth is the place made tighter, Since I found it was my own By the memories of my things. If this is true, I am sorry, For the old place was the old shape In the old place. Now I wonder What kind of people they used to live in. The fifth stage is to know How far the guests have to go Towards the left to put the tray away. THE FOUR STAGES OF CHRISTIAN THEOLOGY "Because it must be pure gold "As a wish-granting prayer "It should depart the state of pure gold "As fast as a hen carries babies "That are now dropping fast in the fast-food place "In my diseased urban heart." -- Mabel Edwards, Arkansas vs. the Past Theology "I don't want to talk about the past. I want to sell you on the future." The truth about the future Is pretty much all we give to women And ever will give them In the name of The Wondrous Silver." "Oh, yes, the silver!" And the present was the present, The past was the past, The future was the future, And the silver was as pure as it would be If it were pure. In a cave above Bar It is cold and still, But the silver springs a little electricity When the wind sends its token Far into the crystal sphere. COLD, COLD, and more cold Is the home of the dead. Skep Vs skep V a Skeleton, skelp, and skelate Words have been spoken, and they were said by the Dead, And the temperature is taken and recorded by the instruments IN THE COUNTRY, with a whip of fiery sorrow, I had an Uncle who kept a vocaroo. He would say a word or two, And his Uncle would say "My dear Uncle, what's the use? "Will you beat that with a stick? "This really is an unusual kindness." He had a vocaroo, which was a vocaroo Which went voo wind and rain And what they heard was not heard By Uncle, but Uncle saw, And Uncle was only one who Used the knowledge vith humor. MADE me a drum in the finest woods I know, With a little cottage in the middle of a suddeeth, On the Surdeas of a high peak, a glory and a sun, To rest the gods, and make men wise to what they are. Then the youthful choristers and I went walking in the shrubs of the wood, And ever the adolescence of the gods was building me to song, And their youthful grace in wild ways I saw, and the wild ways of their youth. So the selfsame childhood went walking with the god, as we saw the sun and the sunlight the high peak and the clouds. I sang them with my full bar-port, and I sang them with my whole voice with wonder and delight, And the singing of the young, and the pliant limbs of the young, And the way they made of the picture to a larger life. The procession and the life, the coming and the far, And the picture that will be made up of the years to come, And the ending, and the beauty of it all, And the certainty of death, and the faith of the last leap, With a full heart and a full head of what we saw and what we knew, TO TREAD WAD GERTHE, TO DO WHISKEY DAIM, TO SWOP MABIS I'M A FAIR TRANSPARENCY, most treasure, Most precious tippling tissue, 'Twill be always a shock to you, And I'll be brought to an end in no time. This is an extraordinary tissue Most pervious to the use of mind. Very few of the gods have skill in it, And the ======================================== SAMPLE 393 ======================================== Flee the earthquake-spun by a time-and- Vague-of-time from my hagi's face To go down the stranger into the Desert-smitten—spoon-curving ocean, And his heaps of masterpieces. Do not Find my friend at a ruinous altar, 'Pagodical,' burning, tormented, and Enigmatic in glass, and yet a Prayer are acheived for, and the sun broths No audience for insight; no, there are No amplitudes for every sin, Only the one that men call sinful. And mine, it is a mild one, a Melleting which gives rise to no impurity, It is lust to the lime-formed cinder (as Walpole says) not the woodlouse's darling; It is the turfyw (snowyw) of the leaves That makes best spirts for the fucher, for moths, For eagles, and for tigers. But it is Love-lust not love-lust that makes him frantic, Only in the hearts of women the Mille element. And it is the lime- Short-scented sun that makes him—make him His best to beautify, for beauty in The dusky element. What is it, then, that tempts the bold gentleman Down in the merry town of pleasure and joy, When he goes garlanded to an evening rite? Thou fool, that fables Heaven for an absent Sire and the future son whose face Is fenced in lead by priests of the mother of Jerusalem? So the soul comes from out it Mole, where it hath no place to store The days of its joy for the morrow, And rather makes itself a part of the Cities of earth, so that it shall not Be lonely ever in the night, But burn bright in the day of the Great Communion, lo, it is God's Messenger that stands in the sunshine Touches the third day buttoning the Keys of the gate of the city and Draws at thencewith the recellular breath, Calm as an ancient priest upon His stale lips the holy water He shall draw and tell thee and make One of the Three, and say That thou hast so many joys undone, Thou hast joy, as never other mortal Living upon the earth. And in the day thou shalt see thy soul Get in touch with the universal Force, and be like the bough anhedat With the hot iris and morning star And the wind's breath; so thou shalt be like That other pharos, where those made two With infinity of time and space, But live more abundantly thereby. And the love, which endeth not, shall be Thine of all thy substance, and in thee A commerse of creation's energy, A steam within the earth, or a steam In the sea, and treat like a vein Of rainbows or helics. And when thou hast The force of love in thee like a valve tree, Stop, and turn it sometimes, like a maiden That meets some voice of his love in motion, And bows herself to hear it with ails That have writhe a pace or tremble a degree, Thou'lt find a sight like a luminous tree In promise and in execution, With green and blue attributes Of morning, and the force to stand With the aurora and the morning, Or rise and drop down again On their grass: thou shalt see it rise As the unmortized life of the centuries, And leave it to the graves to burn; But there in ashes; then, There come the solemn bounds Of ceremony and deep doubt (Which were in Madam Wilhelm's Supposed love's journey), when the soul Has trouble'd, or more advanced, its birth, But fliteth and luminous in motion, And the form hath crack'd not, but is gone; But, if well experienced, thou shalt know A life without reproves; and, when a Creative body comes thy mate, The mind shall have the body's grammar; That is, the spirit of living things Shall be unchanged; but the members, foley As hell, and they in them, shall be like The counterfeits of angels. Therefore that life of thine shall be A bright screen between death and thee For doubtful times, as it befalls To horrible and new born deaths. But never, when the mouth of woe With pallor and horrors is shut, ======================================== SAMPLE 394 ======================================== Unless all your mind Is Heaven in Power, and we Behold, your joys are constrained; Your fruit depends on your choice. 'Tis not the lady's, But many and lovely, Who shall ensure your pleasure, Though in her face there's not a smile, Though in her eyes there's not a tear. 'Tis the same with us; Shall we with Passion choose The fairest for the best? Shall we with Eternity Exchange eternity? Passion chooses, To happier souls, the things That cling to Eternity. Nay, answer me, ye Dispensing hence Pain, who choose The best for this worldly sun, Or set your pulses To some glass Which shall return you All the birds That sang your burthen To your Ulysses? Ah, were it only such, I would not set my heart there; Seeing that she hath given More than all gifts To make me happy here. But she has called me To life and perilous quest; I must mount a steep; The rock is bare; And a deadly fear Is sitting in my hair. All I ask is but a share Of this dizzy cosmos, To live, to live, and die. There's Nature, shaker Of her ancient shambles; And she hath balls in heaven For people to inhabit, She dares call home, She can but reach her hands down there, And there's bread to chew. And so her homeward-flings Must waste this happy birth, This day of passion; And yet we're free, Because we love An eternity In which to pray For some toasted brain, Some tired wife; And a heart that's weary With service done, To those men that say That we shall live. O Nature, if there are Any hearts that approach Your middles, we will hark To your woods and swells. But you must be not more vain Or rebuke too few To catch your ringing sigh; We find it sweet to say You will not receive our kiss. <|endoftext|> What is the emotion of the moment? The moment is an emotion That has died into the past; It is that one emotion of all That is associated with A certain object or condition. The emotions are the links in a chain, And this one is part of a chain Of other emotions; thus, hark, This is the association Of the heart and the intellect; The moment's emotion is like a leaf That is shown suddenly by a wind, And this a chorus that listens. What is the emotion of the soul? The soul has within her circuit The black hearts of earth. The souls of marauders, and of her Who waits in crajaaats her tribes to be At sullying of the wheels of wreckers, The hoofed boys who trample the morning In the service of a cabbage-trading, The ginet Napper, and the sapphire-eyed, Eyes of all bright objects, the short and the long, The intellect is a dark and a dark again, With the emotions whose story is one. O, thou wilt not say I have associated My joy with the emotion of the soul! I would say rather that my soul is like A merry cricket on the bosom of a week, A little green-striped cr*re-nee, Playing before her audience unseen of you, And crying her chirping notes in a voice Mild-soft as the voice of a girl of seven. There was a lady in Spanay--a good name, For the soul's furled hope-- (Her heart a good trial-ground for the hand) And she lived, as you know, in Spanay. She lived, proud and stark and fair, With her eyes deep-set, like a pair of eyes From sunrise, and clad in her seragest dress Of ribbed ermine and of broidery, Her miter of broidery, that long ago Was my own mother's, And clasped her hands in prayer just before she died. And this was the emotion of the soul Of the lady in Spanay: Her heart was far and low, far and low; And when she sang or spoke, You knew she sang or spoke By clasping of her hands: The emotions of the soul are low, low, low. The lady ======================================== SAMPLE 395 ======================================== I will the feat invite, Lodged in the yet undrawn Neptune's seas, and wrought On the starry roof of His, Or ever He shall die, And a new He arise, And a new Nazarene; And a new heart and sacred Heart, of love for men and love for God; And His presence and Mercy's thick Wide veil, of love to men and down! In my heart hath set his place A place of prayers to God And waitings on His glory Through all times to come; For it is holy ground, As God's voice with me hath said. I will stand in front, As thou at height didst stand, The Nazarene of prayer! Hear my litany, then; Though I sing a different song: "Wrath I have hating, and sinning stance, Yet, when I see my Lord, Being alive, down will I kneel and pray With sinners standing by, That his peace their sins may pacify." No less the ancient law By Nazareth daughters preserved, Of men to mark the inspiration, How that voice of doom Could be sounded on high, As who now lives, down would stand, In passing by a troll, Or a dead child, on a crumbled wall. On the cross, O Lord, his soul Did in the moment stand, When death's dark penalty Was given; And, the wondrous gracious mystery Which did, in the mighty heaving, Open the wide for us, Where Christ, our Lord, Did invest his blood To make us kids with sins to cleanse, And his wounded hand to banish fear, He to die on the cross For us; Which His vicars' testimonies This prophet's song Hails, as he's boy that's not afraid Of the fiery scourge, But, as one to whom it's shown Its strokes he fears not, Lets his face, his body bend Towards its terrors: And so, if he be dead, He can't be dead but so we know him. All hail to you, Whose hearts and souls do walk As does the Spirit of the Lord! Hail!--not only as wraiths Haunted by ghouls and the dead; But, whosoever liveth And goes forth and comes in the same, He is the one they have missed. He is the one brought home By their wandering eyes; The one they have missed: The glory, or harrow, or option, With a world's chance. All hail to you, Whose great Pilatesy Of voices the mightiest make! Hail, whose mighty feet Follow your divine seates, Making them taller By the movable house; But most of all, I bid adieu To the memory of the brilliant face; The brow that hath long used to bear woe But by their record, So may they judge it; As the gospel-book doth show, Their stair-stepping sons. So may they say The things which they approve By the stone from which it was wrought; By some green tree; by the shirt's loss; But most of all by the strong heart, By the dear life which it beareth; And nostige more: I will leave it, and the scorners, And gladly out of the house; So may they by these bring The gladness of their heart to God, Whose feast is in good and true; I will feast my body, So my soul doth feast On good and true, the things I preach; I will feed it on truth, I will feed it on joy, Come, new born, joy of all With his head a crown of gold; But the true heart's joy His outward clothes it with tenderness. Let no one know it But the Christabel, And his father, The old man who is an elf. When the little one upon the mother's knee, Or on its bier in the earth to drop, For a little one does great things, And the mother little ones, Too, have their little ones; When the little one kills and slays the mother, Or makes her less weak than she was, Yet mother's strength ne'er grows slow; When the little one is happy, Then the mother's life grows gay; No weak old wife shall make it a sad tale, A sadder one makes her strong. ======================================== SAMPLE 396 ======================================== tests from the boundaries of her native city to the sea, when she would bide her time. Yet we shall find in a month or two that the moon of the spirit also is gone, and the new moon of the spirit is but new, as well as the old and measured unit of the soul of all whimpering. We shall think of the moon from the land of Chivalry, for we shall get back to our pleasures from foreign lands, and all at once we shall cure our thirst and all at once we shall know ourselves and the world. What will happen when we are hungry and out with the lilies? The Mother of the Fruit will not have us any more to herself, and our souls will be seething as with a fire. But the Christ would know, for He says that lilies in the earth are baneful for our eyes. How you will wonder me when you hear for I tell you that I say what the Christ would have been. 3. What is it that we women have done against the common commendation of penance that we have given head to the salt-faced Christ? We have put wounds of shame upon the feet of the Christ and the disciples and His Mother. And when the Christ was dead and the foetus was eaten out of fear in the primitive ages, women gave head in the place of wounds of shame upon the foot of Him who is dead to His Mother and to the Apostles. So I tell you that I tell you the universal law of cataract and canyon between heaven and earth where we suffer and give head in the place of the Christ and the thralls of the world. When the Christ had risen he was at the gates of a world with kings and doctors and creeds of men, he was at the gates of that world, the flesh of that world. His eyes were clouds of eclipse, He was humble and ignorant of place. And He was a putative poison, and He made a puttarious toxin, He was cognate to the vill of Tity Pix, Tity Miss. The Tity was the putative toxin of the Miss, and the toxé that held his flesh, the Miss that made Our mercury, its mimic and its true. The Miss was a putative mimetic of Hors Guérances, the Guérasi Mercabrion, which is mercury joined to the godlike He was a putative enantiomorph, mukohinst, of the old world in the new. He was enfretient and he took, the enantiomorph and enfleptable, enfleshed, enlét Jeff. And then the Miss came, the enfleeté portion of god and said, "Mr Christ, if you are the head of the world, send the sign of the cross on whoever denies it to whom it is on." I am much of the man that I am; And much of the body that I am Is less of my body than the dead Who through my pores pass into the death That is made of them and released again From that acquired immortal nature. <|endoftext|> "The Ode on the night Vincent Callogagua", by Cynthia Sirership Jones [Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Money & Economics, Heroes & Patriotism] The mahogany of his heart which I have in my heart Was cut on the day we had our One-dayers together in the mountains. And from that cut, on each dawn that took us a few hours away There passed death, and after it, one Or another merciful death, Which was invisible to us, but For whom the air was cold And the water salt. And this is the reason I have Such spare attraction towards the truth, I go there, night and day, alone, As I clean my rooms, or eat A balloon of tabasco. I like to think of the cold Great floorings of his heart, The heart that took me where I am Ready or not, I can get there by boat, Or take an overnight flight For a meal of roasted raw Shrimp, and look at the sea. So, is there a government, And if so, what is it, and Who are its leaders, and What does it stand for, and what It represents, and where, and From what did it arise, And for what, and why, and How did it arise, and Who its members are, ======================================== SAMPLE 397 ======================================== v-r-r- l-o- e-l-g-l-e- s-i-, i-n-t- i-g-r-e- s-o-l-l-y- u-g-l-a- i-m-g-e- s-a-d-e- a-t-e- o-p-o-g-n- g-i-d-i-e- Grim- o-ring- u-l-e-s-e- e-l-a-r-e- e-l-l-e-a- t-o-n-i--g-l-i-r-e- n-e-g-r-i-n-g-r-a- n-a-g-e- a-l-l-a-re- e-l-a-re- i-n-g-r-i-n-g-n- i-n-g-r-e-g-l-a- n-a-g-e-. a-l-a-n-GAILS. a-l-a-n-g-r-e- u-l-a-re- e-l-l-a-re- e-l-l-a-re- u-g-e-n-e- (a-l-a-r-e-r-g-r-a- ) a-l-a-n-g-r-e- u-l-a-r-e-r-l-a-re- (ga-me-no-t-e-t-i-g-i-d-i-a- ) y-y-u-l-a-n-GAY- y-i-m-g-e-r-e-r-a-ld-i-g-e- n-e-g-r-a-el-e-r-a-th-e- e-i-n-e-ry-l-a-re- y-a-r-i-n-GAI-s-A y-i-m-g-s-e-e-L-A-th-e-l-a-re- (y-a-r-i-n-GAY-) y-y-u-l-a-n-GAI-s-A y-i-m-g-e-r-e-r-a-th-e-l-a-re- (y-a-l-a-re-). Hast thou trowed from me? hast thou come away? Or have my works ceased to be thy master's? Was my heart not beat when I left thee? Hast thou returned to me? What more should I do? The debt is due, O fool! to thy destiny: Hast thou done what thou wert sent to tempt? The youth returns to the field as the drunken man Who o'er sup's to a banquet, guilty and saucy: So he rejoins him at the fountain, too. To shun thee, not to shun the crime, Were my duty, but my heart— Youth after youth Rejoins me in the enchanted wood. I return to my fiddle; while it makes me mad To think of the paltry fool Who'll now pick it to scorn. Down the wide hillocks through the twilight glow, Down the rangeless glens, as it might seem A super-human caste to tread, We slipped, an inconsequent pair, away To our fitful pleasures. Him I sing, Whate'er of him you may, still Whitethroat. Bright furr (we said) of super-earth joyed with us In the weird world 'neath, and on the braes Unmingled wanders now to the wood, Now to the hollow. To its sombre clefts Unwelcome, of tombs wild and odd, High, low in the gorge. You fable not Of the two gone: Whitethroat, the rogue; Old Whitethroat, the spy. Wee, sleekit, snapping fawn. What's she, indeed? But, as we wandered, 'we' Gave birth, as night fell thick around, In the vast sadness ======================================== SAMPLE 398 ======================================== as told to me by Maria "I went down to tell Pius IX what was going on with the church, when you were calling on me in. Here. I saw the long dress you were garmented in. Did I ask for it? Of course not. You should have brought it. Of course! Maria. Here. Now." Well, Maria, here we are. Let's hurry back. <|endoftext|> "In Quiet As She Genevra", by Anna Lætitia Garcocks [Living, Coming of Age, Life Choices, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Sciences] not really at all sober, never was one of those who was known to loose rein, not bad company. the sheep are not blinking in silence, sheep are sheep. The sheep stare broadly among each other, belled shoulder-hoofs swerve, when the animals are nudged, into the next state. This one has a false eye, another has a single grain of sand in it, the ears are false slices through the ear. This one's tail is coming from the true eye, where it'll never have a texture, where it'll be only a surface to eat and a carpet to sleep on. When we pass, they watch us, all the ones with eyes like cars that have had a few. The sheep are pets. They stare. When we pass, they don't say say anything, they don't care about us, we aren't one of their many subscripts for stunted trees, They are waiting. I cannot think of what to wish about them, the sheep, They wait, I guess. <|endoftext|> "First Ride", by AnnaLivio Rondeau to a tony boarding school in New Jersey, on whose wall Eliza and I chummed for years. It was a pool with a tree in it where the boys swam, then forever morphed into young women who floated too. Eliza on the side, swimming, thinking not of me but of me not being there. And the teacher, spindled. It was her first time and she didn't know what she'd do, but she'd seen us together, at my school, and she wanted to mark us both. And the other swimmers (I mostly think of me, though she was with me sometimes) looking at us so slightly and listening intently to each sound, as the bike climbed and dropped. <|endoftext|> "Get Up, Shake Hands", by Dana B. Howard [Living, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life] Get up, shake my father's curly hand, don't be stubborn. We are old people, not toys. Not every bed unrolls a figure. We are the unca- cluded body of the beast That means one thing, is nothing, is something, is something, always was, is something, Is something, always was. <|endoftext|> "My Sister's Head Quilts One Battlefield", by Dana B. Howard [Living, Death, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] My sister's head is a map, warping the widows' wom- n. Her words are the dark nightmarish ways, and her l's cause seams in edges. Her t's cause tunnels through dings and print- out heads. Her f's have the fur- lined gates and gated pay-lines her sl's pull down. Her st's cause straitened people and strait unbreakable gates. My sister's head has one battlefield, and the widows' heads are its sum, One parcel, one name: who's housin' who? What do we do for somewhere to live? What's enough to eat? That widower he's killed his flame and needs clothes, And tucked-up shoes and glasses in vacant open spaces, hiding his wares in nooks, his tins in the darkest places and his own. What's on the map of widows' land? That the West was un-watered, unbed, a-flower and bedewed, would feed the Empire's 56 counties. Gardens of the lost in the ar- ======================================== SAMPLE 399 ======================================== The boy grew up in four hours, The lad with seventeen years, And only four of them, Alas, are of the earth; And he is up in the air, And never more is, And never more shall be, From the first of his youth; The years were when no light On his heart was shed; 'Tis now as the embers From the hearth were at death, For the sun is their flue, And their mouldering hearth, That is their only heat; And half of him at his death Waits 'mongst the winter, The other half's life. For he to a half at death And a third unborn Is now broken, And half of him half life Waits upon the door, And he sees the half of life Waiting for him still, Till the door of the last Be shut upon him. At the door of the last Waits the dead Of the half of life; And the half of him half-dead Drowns in an ebb-and-flow, As a tide in a river, And his senses become Strange and vague and dumb, Blind and swimming. So that now he sees the water Duck and draw the door, Heeds not night and the empty Empty room; And this be the last of him He must last. And the whole 'line' Turned his back on last And birth and the years, Stalking an eternal tide Under the Sun. For he saw the door Open in the back; So he bade farewell to Rome, To Italy, And the world, and all that was Made and set thereon. And he saw the dead Of all days and years, And the door, and the wall, Where he and God would sit. He will keep them, and hold from them Their hearts taken to death; And the heart's generation Crowns with him yesterday And eternity's wither, And crowns with him the last Of him who died for you. I stood beside him, and we knelt Down on the ends of the shining streets 'Round many shrines of glimmering stone, Where we worshipped Rome and she kneeled Bronze and black and broad; And 'mid all the joy, I saw my life's love die; And I turned to the man with eyes That had the swiftest chance to die, And I said: "Take my dead blood From my heart, for evermore, My servant's soul to play; And he said: "Take my soul Into yours, having first copied Your soul on life's ledger; And my blood flow out of my heart To warm your heart as a well's source; And this well 14,000 men Know where to find and kiss; And 15,000 will salute When their pulse has ceased to rise." The ravener lights his tooth, the hunt Is on, and here, now fired the torch: There, in the lip of the West, what late Where the vast highway's quadrangles border Down, here, to the East and the North, Nile and Euphrates, Lakes and Mountains cleft, One gigantic rift, one wide abyss, Arerander, that hard blue mist that rests, On the rocks that it sloughs, so sheer they show In the sidelight's flashing tap. The same Wild Weeds, to one so old, The father's beard, one whisker, bloom, One last black hair's seen, but never seen, One thought but replaced, one thought but died, The breath of a spark that was dead Before it lived. Where to find? You ask me for the key, And you would have had In the Wilds, the herds of the winter, Where two vast domes of ice Sublime Pierce the Slavicized provinces aloof: Where the Roman legion, no longer Stretches from off some son or mistress, But the old men and matrons, Where to find ======================================== SAMPLE 400 ======================================== Let us look upon her, and see how she Was made. She was so greatly grieved When we took her on board, That she might live alone Under the sky. Now if the Christian lands In all their depths of coast Our sovran friends do use For old what their priests call This new-christened Europe, Here is our answer; To the old as well as the new Make known thine heart. Who are these coming peoples Assem'd in the East? The peoples of what race Are these? What lips are damp Where the body's mouths are set? What hands? What eyes? What ears? In all the lands That wear the world's old name All peoples are we. Our fathers fought their fights In generations still unborn, What are the boundaries? Will some answer suit ye Ye of your own deal Say, and do what voice The nations to the nations bow, And nations yet to be Along the fathers' line Look upward from the nations yet to be, Sisters and brothers and kin. What doth the rising generation fain Of knowledge, entering into form Learn from the fathers' sphere What knowledge and what hands are able? But leave our dead with us And in the stars that nod Ask of the stars what grace? The rising generation learning yet, What fainting hope to be known In years yet to be? Asleep now they slept, waking yet to be, What fainting hope to be fulfilled? What hope? Asleep now they slept, roused to dream From dream-sown nations to be born Along the storied fountains' stream Beyond the fluttering dreams of Earth, With fathers' voices lifting-toned, And mothers' prayers, brimming clear. These rising generations knowing law Of fathers' firm hand, This only-cavern sowed for the seeding, These hands having sunk. These eyes, these ears, these hopes, and more than all This firm-thinning law Weigh on the world where they will be fulfil'd. And shall we let them sift us to the dust? If the old Earth draw the world to rest With all of her vast anchor-hips braced As timbers of some world-defending ark, And the old Earth her share of sorrow curbs, What wonder if a parent's heart enshrine One little word as something precious in a little Fragment of the world's far story? What miracle were it to thee if this Fragment of the world's far story were A golden apple which, being in the Providence, now near all ends as it is For our children's children, and if all men Draw to their graves with men who came before, Would be just a little golden seed If the vast, green Earth's green living weight were Cut out of husk and straw of our great good to be. What all-as-treasure is our blessing, glitters A light from the stars, of the world's near future. Is the child hungry? Will the sumach fill When the full sun draws the children's souls to its Enclosure? Is the shepherd-comrade filled with Gold, or need the sacred reed-gurgches be? Does the little hungry heart offer Its imitation, or will the full moon draw When the child-moon's gold makes the little soul whole? And these all-important as the images Are, to the one dead father, and to the To the living mother, dead and living Mother, and to the other living sister, What is their worth? They have breathed the space Between, but live the thoughts we have breathed. They As they have life have thought, and speak, and sing. They speak as sibyls of wide antiquity Speak, while the words are in the eyes of the Child, who sits and thinks, and does not understand. The coming of Age has little odor, But the going forth, and the going back, Being unaronuous, is imperceptible. Away, dearest riddle-man! The answer, Must be home, and wife, and child, and fire, And wives, and the man's best friend. That is The question; not the meaning, but the face Of the man, when he comes home. But for home, I have it if it be that way. A friend of mine Writes home, and wife, and child, and fire, And wife, and friend ======================================== SAMPLE 401 ======================================== reels! munchies, smoochiebies, grunching slines, smelling like butterscotch, being full of milk and snot, there, in your mouth playing baby with the sea. Come, let us all be merry, come sit with us down under the clover and let us all go free as all good little children are. Cherry? No, strawberry. In our fairy litter go. Down in the meadow by the streams we will sit, and as Cherry, as Cherry, we will go to sleep. <|endoftext|> "Sleepers", by Michael Arlen [Living, Death, Activities, Indoor Activities, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Money & Money Earned, Activities, Indoor Activities, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries, Town & Country Life] The man with the house hunts mice for days at five a hour. A woman in a hurry scammers ten coupons a day. Pigeons peck on the feed sacks at top mowing, and ruin the bins at manure heaven. The dog windowcars. (Don't talk like that!) break into a room like a house, but in a minute. Our bedroom is a broken bone. Two wings stuck in a chicken horizon. The fire and the brake are the same. The plumber, whose thought is only hot smear, as sleeps (don't pretend not as much) (you don't have to) The dreamer never dreams. The boy who sings has tortured his mouth with wings. The country is a parcel of sleeps. Every walk, in every park has the density of at least five birds. Crows sit on a roof that will do in a second. The glassy houses sip snow like water. Siberian columbudes on the heady roof. Mountain air. Thin and smoky, the weather being what it is which is to say undamned, un- regenerate, it looks a fake and is not yet. Pestilence is on the up and the edge. A fate makes more its confused presence clear. With the space between a blue noise starts to drive the sleepers crazy. To be alone is to be catatonic. I was already waking up in my own house. I have another like me. I have a neighbour who gets up to the window in the rocket dream and grins the shrill smile of a feline, provincial. The dreams are in the levant of the house. My dreams are in a court of my parents' house the house of which I can never leave. They take no ill winners. We make out cuts on good paper in the basement. All we can be in the sliver house. A song has the wind for its centre. In my head it's as though I had a soul in a song. Here, I dream of bread and a goat, which is not a goat, a pancake, or a shark. I look like my sisters. The world is broken. The eggs are out of the pancakes. The pancakes are in the tea. The tea smells of cinnamon. I can take my clothes off in front of the window in the days of my grandparents. My nakedness is not mine. I dream of feet and feet again in front of the TV. It is not the presence of my grandparents. My dreams have the density of water. I look out of the ice and the ice melts. In my dreams, my grandmother is a grey elephant. I wear an elephant face. I have an elephant in my mind. My face flickers in my mist. My mind has a white ring on my phone ======================================== SAMPLE 402 ======================================== $p[^{iwS}$ a rate for the current, and $p$ a rate for the sublimed plane and a quantity called the critical radius. If $q$ is the current density and $c^2$ the coefficient of the Jacobian, then $c^2q=\frac{1}{{2^{\alpha}}$, where the alpha is the Jacobian gradient. This means that the momentum has to be constant, because the Jacobian is constant. That is, for all values of $p, u,v,w,x,y,t,h, and only for all values of $p$. Thus the momentum has to be constant for all values of $q, i,e, d,f,b,c,d,i,e,v,w,t,h,w, and only for all values of $p.$ And the energy has to be constant for all values of $q, i,e, d,f,b,c,d,i,e,v,w,t,h,w, and only for all values of $p.$ Thus the energy is only equal to the momentum times the concentration times the diffusion, except in one special case where the position and the velocity are given by the velocity and concentration, and the potential is given by the position and the position. For the subliming of iron, we have to remember that the electric field must be given by the concentration times the electric field. For the evolution of iron alloys, we have to remember that the critical direction of the electric field must be given by the iron diffusion. For the subliming of aluminum, we have to remember that the Dir {[i1]ick direction of the electric field must be given by the Lorentz source of radial energy. For the cold-formed alloy, we have to remember that the electric field must be given by the iron concentration times the aluminum concentration. $\textstyle {iC}{\textstyle i} C i = &p[lpi] f^2$ and $C_{i} f = &p[lbi] f$. Then $p[i1] f'= &\beta f^2 - &\gamma f^2$ or $p[lpi] f'= &\beta f^2 - &\gamma f^2$ for some $i$. Thus for any metal $m$, the Lorentz and Eigen types of the concentration and electric field terms are as in fact where $p[p[lpi] f$ and $p[p[lbi] f$ are in fact equal. But the conservation of angular momentum requires that for all magnitudes of $m$, the momentum of change of any one of them must be given by some other number, say, $m_p$ times the product of $p[lm]_i$ and So for instance if you wished to know the change in the velocity of the wheel from first to second (say), you would have to do the work of finding its value for each distance, and then try to find by algebra what that quantity is, and multiply each of the quantities by the eleven's noted to give you the change. Similarly, to change the direction of motion one requires the number of degrees in either direction. Hence to change it in the negative and in the positive nor can you multiply by a minus (which is the same as multiplying by a constant); but you can multiply by a constant and then by a minus. This can be felt by an artist who is skilled in mechanical drawing who is taught to reproduce by numbers the motions of a swinging bell, or bird-wing flapping in a wind. Now for a moment forgetfulness is as important in art as beauty, so that to remember the acceleration and time of its suddenness is as important in art as to remember the suddenness of beauty. This is why in the first chapter of Vitruvius, at the beginning of Book II. Verrü veenet eginier: "L'he PM' affetta de s' ansoir, lui che perdetta le caffecchio del Cattoi con rement de' nostra legalitäre m' io, c' e differenze, discites lo ditem Baron de' Vall, o e' nti son borneci di sua store Mariaseca." Here the change from before the plane of the negative is to the positive important. In some older Italian languages the time is written as if the ======================================== SAMPLE 403 ======================================== Much not know, that the dust of the dead Nor drops on earth of his smitten head; Nor lives he by the river Rhine; Nor Tiber inflames his mournful brow: But often here and there doth glittering fly, From that reported worth, of whom we said Hath leave of the living three to six; And, as the clergy in old times pinned his coat, And laid his ashes in an urn, This venerable name. O rather the unfenced right of action, Of speaking in the tongues of men; Of life that make rich the poor man's hand; Of honesty; Than any triumph of the pen; Of words, that, as we read of them, Write we, indeed, the better way. Then, let the world have threescore weeks And six months the name of one, That, like John, may take offence and cry 'A horrible thing!' for some contrive Not for a happy life alone. Duty and care had made him old, And the glory of war was his Wrongs had wrought him sorrowing Until he fell at last in his might, His forehead smote with the frost of time; And now his soul was seasoned, and he went The way the righteous must go to hell. As old Joachim was his amanuensis, Was his embers; once fire and once fire, Once charmed he the world with leven waves; Now all the waste of life was his own. No word of the fire or the ocean was his. And his proud lips that were of old so strong Were not, and his straitened and fainter eyes, The same dumb eloquence, which after hours Hath all but naughtoint that it was a season to; The crowd of the uncounted dead that were his This evening were there like the bards in that story Of the world that we read, but the bard did not speak. The glory, the grace of a great and noble name, The glory, the virtue of our lives as men, This man has destroyed; our eyes are mute, and no word Came fluttered from his lips, Save to the mists where frayed with the tempest's breath The shadows of the storm-clouds, and the deep Sighs of the reminiscences of the grave. Through the cry of him I could not bring tears, But through the loud long-toothed dull howl Of his; Like some fierce thing whereof the monster was Made on a Saturday, By a bright divine terror that did hide In his blind power. For all the goodness of the man was bad, And all the bad was good As a devil that cannot fling Out a mirth without its prey; But he was good for the golden rule, And he was blind to the things of the heart, And he saw the long-hushed laughter of gods, And he saw the long-hushed woes of the poor, And he kept his secret born of a kiss, And with many another secreted, And a secret of the waves and the rain, And the rustling of the leaves that are Driven on the banks of his father's kiss. At last the day came that he made bad The music of the long-hushed-for-dead; And the dead men looked up and said, "Hear we the angels sing?" And the dead men said, "Vanity, vanity; all this for him?" And the dead men said, "Vanity, vanity: this man's too good, He is the man, the perfect man, to set by chunks and rags!" And they sighed, "Ho, then, the perfect must die!" And the dead men they sighed, "And the worst of the worst is he Who is the best of us three." And his son said, "Father, it may be, This thy work, To set it right: thou hast wrought for the best As for the best, Father, and such a boy Has need of thee!" And his son said, "Father, it may be, This thy work, To set it right: thou hast wrought for the best, Father, take it." And his daughter said, "Father, thou doest know, In the long-hatched years, So long-hatched that they rins in the sun, Where as on the beach thou sit'st, So to take counsel, So to take peace!" And his daughter said, "Father, ======================================== SAMPLE 404 ======================================== but because of what I would then see at some other time for I would then be free to do some other thing that was more mine. And I could take a little breath in a moment and give it a little bloom, so it might be yours. I do not know how to be a woman or even a girl of the world, which is to say I do not know what it means to be one, but now that I think about it, I never knew, as I have not thought a lot, but now I think about it less than the more one thinks of the earth and the sky, the ways of the light, the one red world where there is no here. <|endoftext|> "Between Stories", by G. E. Murray [Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] In the evenings we told ourselves between stories. In the afternoons we grew longer and less at home. We told ourselves between stories. In the evenings we took ourselves between the fibres of us, our feet were in the earth between stories. We wondered if the stories would ever end, or if we should get used to them, between stories. In the afternoons we looked out of the pillars of capital. We were bursting with stories, and our neighbours saw a sky of stories, but we didn't feel the need to tell stories between stories. Our neighbours seemed foreign to us between stories. We had been knit between stories. We stopped telling stories in between stories. We were so relaxed we didn't feel the need to tell stories between stories. What stories we told between stories! When we stopped we hadn't told what stories we had been telling between stories. It was a long while between stories we didn't speak. <|endoftext|> "Say it against the Empire", by G. E. Murray [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Po-Visos, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] Against it weeping, against it carrying, high imperial death, the prose of refugees. The poem of the Turk, and the poem of the slave, and the poem of the Gent, and the poem of the race. Against it knowing universal fascism, and the poetry of darkness. Against it reasoning with flames, the beauty of central casting. The poetry of obscenity. Against it hugging a tree, against it driving the last trouble, the beauty of central casting. Poems of central casting, and of roses and dungeons. Between it weeping and it carrying, the prose of refugees. Against it weeping and the poetry of dictators. At the end of the north star we waited for the fourth star that would sing us to sleep. Against it beckoning the dark and the poetry of dictators. On the night of March the Thirteen we waited for the horsemen to depart and for the ghost to come no more. The poem of the horse, and the poem of the ghost. Between the poem of the horse and the poem of the grave. I ask you, then, have you not hied to the north star? And back we looked for the ghost, and the horse that we built. Against it leading the way, between it driving the problem, between it and telling the truth. Against it weeping and leading the blind, the beauty of central casting, the poetry of obscenity. Between it weeping and its driving blindness. <|endoftext|> "The Sorrow of Thinking in 7 Images", by G. E. Murray [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, The Mind, Love, Realistic & Moderate, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Men & Women] I. It is all beginning, and there with the name you choose for yourself - which is another ending ======================================== SAMPLE 405 ======================================== again, and for the third By the same path the faithful swain Turned him, where, on a pine-tree's top, Sate the beauteous Laryn, and on his neck Showed him the eyes of a ravishing maiden, Of royal lineage from Etruria. They went in that shape so oft, and he knew By sound that each had beauteous features. Thus clad in rugged life he lived And lived like one who all the day Went out to hunt, and when he finished, Stood by the hounds' aloes to admire; Or in the well-bred stalls o' the sportive boy, Who with a goodly rein would plunge As oft as possible in the eddies. He held Such converse as near his ear: And oft the voices of far islands Came to his mind, and he to someone's hand Returned again and flew on, nor knew That any voice had borne to him Far off, or that any words had passed. And thus from accursed Phrenes' reach He passed into ancient Thessalonica, Which by Endymion was inspired the day That gave the beggar to be crowned king, Ere he had marched through many a land. Nor yet was it meet that there should rise From high town-walled Phoenicophy Of Glycerius, who with limbs of tall And hoary aged men, out-poured On every fathomless ditch of sand His abundant tracts of Physiosus; Nor spake by the help of such as these Shoutgate sermons, nor volumes bound On hebi emeti, but were his foe, O leagued in hate, for such is The source of every discord, object Of all malice; so, now, they were Fated from lying Acre's dread view With soul-total wilderness, on earth Knowing not the parallel in hell. But what poured out most in his musings, Which were the matters of his creed, Was this: that there should not be an accommodation Towards the Christian religion's being From out the presentation of the Essene books. His mind had a burning devotion to the truth Discovered by his journeyman, to whose task Found dead by whom could he be so soon forgot? For him the next hope, as more than a thousand Times as dear, was to preach the Master's sayings. But for this, as it would dip into the gastronadine Of manhood's milk, should be a delicious lees For him and his, the proud Argentineans. For this, without all delay, were he to preach (Though not against the schism of these my youth) His creeds to these pure beulahs, whether they chose To be converted by the ancient tongue, Or subscribe to the Methodists and Creeds of Rome. For this, for these, were to carry Christ's name Through every dark embrifice, and out To the bare perimeter of hopeless sinners' days; Yet, to allay the most intimate penitents' fears, A bare present at their just mirrors shown, With shadow-bare body and onbare head, Upon which a great God might behold himself. To bare this bareness he had in view Was what he had wished, but could not wish Live body, bright with a hidden future. It was the bare forecourt of a future fire With God's face seen at the crag and summit, But gilding the flat for a race whereout The very find would shame-damping not a whit. It was all nature's oratortie-wild With a sharp wind behind it and ahead Of it all being flashed down that it beamed On smooth bare stones and on sharp branches true. But least all things should be bare his thoughts went To what was round the nearest, being bare. Nor was his nature now so not spare As it had been for his power to be all bare. It was his austerities his nature sought To thrust away from him as from the side-breadth Of all that he had dwelt among, being bare. His nature's alluring sops were soon to be Withstood, being so pleasantly, bare-below. The aegypitant soul, for a bareness so Extended on the cross, became at length Modest and humming; he who had come up full-bearded Was half a humbug, he who had left nothing shorn With his whole being in a most shrimping-like And thin-blooded ======================================== SAMPLE 406 ======================================== That for the heart of one yet to be- He spake not; but AEneas at His front the shield and spear of the duke Placed carelessly, and to Llewellyn's son He turned his eyes and spake, "It seems to Me, noble youth, a fearful thing to bring Into the presence of a prince of the land Propose for defence of this our land." Then Llewellyn snar'd, "My brother in-law The duke's son, the man indeed you need, A mighty load of twofold honour now Exists not in my warding, nor in mine arm. And sure I am the Latians will not miss Thy bringing them, since they their bringing hold In hand such weapons as these, and of these The force is theirs, that in alliance joined With our heads they make a barrier, nor of these Does God devour, but only man dies then, Instruments of war. I will myself protect With mine these shields, and if some other chief Fight for us, I will guide him." Then Eucus spake, his head raised to look Examin'd the world; and next the king Theodolmeo's child wassail'd, who, laid As in a trance, the gathering of the horns To set of none. Yet in no wise those two The assembly parted; but lo, from the shield Of Isolde'S son to hold of Eucus, Their wrists were link'd by hauberk, and each Beat his hands, nor knew he bereaved Of friends, nor heard he dying, but the noise Was heard from every side; for suddenly Rang forth the cry, and all in flight of ships Were gathered in the port; and once again AEneas cried, as at the launch Of the Hellespont: "Flee, my brothers, lest The Trojans turn and rouse the derelict chase; Or else if e'er so far this way they lead, I'll follow, and shall with the dead assail AEneas' house." That word AEneas had spoken, Lamia's son Exhorting his friends, made them all one, And as they drew, the limbs of his followers Toss'd by, a distant sound, went so far Their vessels deep; so wide the port they held. Thither, sauntering on before the rest, AEneas walked, for the first time since He saw the port, and speaking to that throng Sorrowing, "Now the gale rolls east; my crew, Tear off the cable from my ship; quit, take The anchors from the spoil'd ships; on the ground Work them a new port, and so secure the bank That top it; and in so doing more shall drop The drizzling thunder, and less the drizzling shower." Him answering, Godlike Euryalus, the son Of old Nireus, and with him Aneuris, And godlike Aias, at the foremost part, Epeisthus and Adrastus came, who had brought The hidden strength of Zeus, that they might win To Hellas Pallas set upon the strand, And fill, whole, her pitiable state. Her forth Fearing, she came to look upon the ships Of Thesprot also, and her father's power Fulfill'd the wish of Pallas. As a lion-haunted Place, when in the closing Fury reigns, around The sprawling quarry-rivers, whispering low A dire low whisper, sounds from midst the mews (Aleanting the slanting shafts), with mingled din Of noise, and from among the rocks, and long, Tremendous, for the wings no feathers make; So buried stood her, dark in hueless bones Tentacles; on the ground, near them, wrapped In twisted heaps, her skulls entrails heav'd, Or, gaping throats, or entrails hanging free. When thus the foul Deities, and many more, With their attendant cohorts (henceforth to be Called the Folk of Fromburg) see the Gods In array so similair, and that the ships Of Greece, and Priam's towers, and the strong Castellion there, and grim Calabria's shore Rolling his matted herds, and Greek vessels manned Beneath the helm, amidst the noise of arms Hear the voice of battle; for the voice of God Swells in their ears, and ======================================== SAMPLE 407 ======================================== , "of Saint Mary of the Pollocks, whose apparition, with its element of surprise, the birth of the genius, the turning of the kindling faggot on the fire, made the then-precarious moment a day-long public affair, and gave to that saintly old woman, who was forgotten thereafter, all that has grown from her funeral rites and her ability to speak in prose or In Latin at least two thousand years of preserved But all of which may be said to speak for itself. In the eighteenth century the doctrine of the foreign conception of the Bible was developed into a whole of nonsense which is still used in the form in which it evolved itself--a kind of German Koine From the Kohebte which represents itself as the original and true spirit of the New World. "Naturdem nihilipotenti"--the remoteness of matter from the spirit, the external from the inaccessible, is the ground of the paradox, The denial of a transcendent as well as the comparison of ways, of Being from Being, and of Nonsense from Nonsense, which is the reason, the cause, the tail, the stem of Nonsense Naturdem--which is God. Called to inquire the weather, what does it matter? The bogy falls into the troxi, the bogy falls into the borage, and the weather into the weather. It is he who sees where the bond is dangerous. We know him, we have seen him, he who cannot pour a ray of light upon the night, who is blind as well as blind. He is never at a table of iron, where the soul is never mute, he who will not enter a circle with the thunder, the moss, the moss, He is always remarkable, the folk-singer, the newcomer at a soul or a man; he is always unearthly, an assembly of images, with a beard and two scarves at the head. We must find some safe harbour from the storm. We have met him and think him strange. We have also met him and have been reassured. But he was always a child among trifles, and in the ferment of some of the fountains of the world, among wine-browned leaves and the wild fruitfulness and the flowers of life, among discovering works of poets and the works of punctuators, the shadow of children in the background, among the throng of wives and mothers and bore children, among the broke arrows and the destruction of the wells, the flood and the drowning of all. <|endoftext|> And thought, if we only had a map, That surely we'd get along better! And we did; by sea and skie, By land and sea, We had a tackt clearer and a handlier track, A clearer and a handier way. For we had a tackuable clear-standagall, A tackuable round-about, A tackuable boundary To tie our ships And prevent their scattering. For every parcel of the world is a corporation, A tackuable body, A tackuable forehead, a tackuable chin, A tackuable fender, a tackuable brain, A tackuable tongue, A tongue, a race-hdowering strip, A tongue, a world in and for the best, And only they know them When they are loose, And I have seen them stand Solid as a nut and try The hundredth rock To trot loose as the rest. They have a tackuable lean to them, A tackuable look, A tackuable slick, a tackuable spiel, A pretty tackuable scent, A tackuable lift, A pretty skip, A pretty bitum soup, A pretty light shuffle, A pretty light dip, A pretty light shiver, A pretty light dustkin, A pretty limp or post, A pretty shout, A pretty late pee, A pretty puck, And then the pimpled dray. But, my rare and true, I've yet to see a part Of all that's a Corporal And some of that other Which is a gentleman. He has a tackuable belly, A pretty tackuable belly, He has a pretty tackuable bawk; He has a pretty bit O' lard and brown-bHoney, And I've watched him spit ======================================== SAMPLE 408 ======================================== leaping to its leafy bosom. The Maris drove down the sward as I've lived; I have seen it come; the blue of heaven itself. For it is now or was then or in other times. Hush, little bird, adorn the hush with a rustling more than any bird has ever rustled. No sunlight. In that untempered hush the smallest creature can find its way. Over the ground the sycamore takes its sweet place. The light is in their midst, but they stand there, looking out among ferns in promise, in untrustworthiness. A heart-hutch, if you please. Then the trillium rose began to spread its grass saying We are here. But where is the rose? Their backs are turned. We are lost, they complain, so silent they are. Not now, with plume and music in net, as the brook beneath the bridge streams below the meadow, but that day they found a leaf flowers from the tundra's breast and crowned it with a thistle. And the bird sang there. And, though they spake not, he hung upon their ears, the thistle quivering with a message they could hear. And they hummed. In the present my future all dark behind me as I passed through its door on the way to the dark present, the bird sang too. Under the house where I lived he hung among ferns. From the birchen the cold rose, heart-racing the sacred blue, rose to her in sunshine and she hung among ferns. But it was not her future that I wished to know. My own future was behind the rose, parted, yet warm beneath, parted, yet to come by me divined. If I had asked the rose, how would she have responded? From the birchen I'd take a rose. From the rose a rose. From the fluted swan a feather to hold in memory. But what was the difference between that present and this one? The log in the throat, a log in the throat, a log and a rose. A scarlet and a lily. The bird flew on about it, curling and kneeling, a thing of lilies made, in the silence, a part of me. And the bird, a part of a rose. Why should I have hung where mosses sprout, wriggling upwards where the flowers wither? I had no place to go and no future, no past— In a future no the dark forest, only the paths and roads. In this present no past, no future, I am hung among ferns, the present harsh held in slippery spaces, where I wonder if they ever break, if they ever break. I wonder, where is the line between remembering and not? The plant sings as it climbs, the tree bends, rising, and the bird chants a prayer for its daily drink. I have forgotten why, why, how, the spirit of my plucked flower and bird weeps wet season, wrecks in clay, meanwhile, invisible, that draws and holds. I am the plucked flower, the bird, and I am the wet season. <|endoftext|> "I would assume that You're Happy", by Karina Barrow-Suttent [Living, The Mind, Nature, Winter, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Popular Culture] when snow on the mountain flakes falls in the language we use like a noisy carpet our ideas are our ideas we will begin with a knee-warmer the distance between two things is usually positive, except in the snow which can feel as if there is an arrow drawn by a ghost targetting me what was that song again someone in the room was that someone that someone is me I hate to be great but that someone who was that someone that someone is not me I am that someone but that someone I was that someone will that person be me until the snow is ======================================== SAMPLE 409 ======================================== success, the penance and how it was handed down from us: there was an oath to write a thousand words a day, not hungry but confident, with the hope that the spell would go and we would be filled with light again. If I am permitted to further explore someplace out of the way to take the last breath of a dear friend, and if some gift is granted to make my way in life to mercy and peace, my love, you, with your secret jealousy remembers the old question, "Who are you?" and I'll tell you how: I remember this morning's lesson of how to use the telephone. You can call any number and leave a message. This means that you are alive, and that your love has not been forgotten. And I remember how at an elaborate golf course in California I was made to feel how passion can reach beyond golf and grab a hole's length. And how I cried to have my own swiftcart, since these holes were like my own They are still there. As you write, and you write. They are one and the same. I'm a huge fan of both. And when I'm writing, I am looking at holes, and seeing what you did. You were a lie who worked to tear me down. And you are still. You were an obstacle who made me run from the course I learned. And you are an easy one to have along for me to ease along to mercy. I remember well how you were made to be defeated. So, what if I wear the same shirt that you wore? I never did. I was mad to have been so clever. I was less afraid, you knew how much I loved you <|endoftext|> "East Coast", by David Lee [Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, History & Politics, War & Conflict] Let us remember the first effort made East of the Mississippi let us remember the construction of the Iowahovywuge and how it connected point to point over a narrow block to the Girard Garnet's substance alone is dry and not to be made a substance in the right human sense I have had an accent for my whole life long to my sorrow and to all those who had the first of it in my four years in Washington the eastward spread of savages from Baltimore into Tacoma and on to Portland Richmond, Baltimore and Norfolk and on into the Trans-sylvania eager to press on and back over the great plain of slaughter I was one who could talk about my guitar but in fact I prefer not to talk about my guitar to stare at the Memorial Universal appelation beyond which is not far off a monument to the Gulf War and beyond that is what is left of history it doesn't come as much surprise to me it doesn't come as much as it should to me it doesn't come as much as it can to me <|endoftext|> "Head Wound Shall I Not Close?", by Kathleen Fraser [Living, Death, The Body, Nature, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] I thought I would not feel my forehead. What should I have done? I thought I would not hear what was not said. What should I have done to see it? What should I have done? I thought I would not see my sister's face again. What should I have done there? I thought I would not see my mother's face again. What should I have done there? What should I have done there? I thought a bullet would not be the last thing I would have done. What should I have done when I saw my first sniper and the first car-bombs? What should I have done when I saw? when I saw? What should I have done about it? be done? <|endoftext|> "Visions of My Sisters", by Lloyd Netley [Living, Death, Separation & Separation, Sorrow & Grieving, Activities, School & Kids, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] This is what we hoped to have happened, what we hoped to have always done, the deposition of spirits in the open air the children press against, all the while watching the old men walk across the park, the basketball game in the abandoned gym, the numbers of their stories told as they return, ======================================== SAMPLE 410 ======================================== rime. And when the waters had grown abuzz With laughing and chattering, And our Ponies Had their fill of merriment, The rain-patter on their wings Ran carelessly along, And I had my moment of gloom, I mourned a lot for my loss, And my sighs upon it fell, And I wondered quite who was he That loved so well my King, And to his beard-nail upon I clutched and treasured and let it fall With many other treasures. And while I mourner was I knew there was no sleep Until his Majesty was laid To rest and be his sleep. I was King-sleep, And King-wander, And King-surge and so I was Like one of the spirits that glide Upon the mountains, and I knew That, one day, my turn would come To break the spell. I had no fear Now of the morrow, for I knew That I was chosen to be made A woman that the angels sing In beauty far above the least Of all their chosen. Not of the words that women choose to boast In long, sly sly posturing of their own They are full often as in a fog Of unspoken expectation Which makes them like one wonderful Far higher than all their bragging. And, full of hope, they love us, and we Accept it gladly, and hold them in Our bosoms gladly in Without suspicion that it is so, And in the long, green night that follows Unto the morrow. The white clouds part And there's a path up the mountain, The silver snowflakes lie folded And clothed by the boughs. I spread my rug for a sofa Round the new moon's throne. The branches are all copper Like the gold that shoots out from her feet When she dances to tuneful lilt Round the piano. I am asleep, and the piano Made of silver and airy wire, Rolls on above me in long waves Of roseate light, a ladder of such light That I could see clear to mountain-helm. The mountain and snow are melting To a softly-melted aura Of soft, melting air. The breath of it flits past my ear, As when a bell has a clear tone, Singing softly. The sounds expand Like smoke of arctic billows From snow-floors. Below, the air Melts the ice-roof of my sleeping nest To warm slumber in green leagues. In purple of every thing They are blossoming. The springing pinks Of daisies; and while slanting sun Breathes on their blooms one radiating breath To bring their scent to fresh blossoms, They turn with fragrance reborn To hearts of mine. The birds, not sought and sought in vain, Fly silently in and out, While on the hills of them I hear Tales of a wilderness Tell in kindlier language of man The cares that on him found a shelter Hard and adventurous. This is to let me know I am loved. This is to let me know my life is good For love's sake. And these I would add, Unto the very silence that sounds Upon the birds, a musical Linguure,--if I could sing as they I would sing the songs my heart desires, To fit the need of my heart. "Do you love me?" "O, yes!" "Then live for me!" Was the slogan of that man, And it seemed to me that when he heard Words in that place, he heard Words too, and that was a fearful thing. "I heard you say 'yes' to go to Rome And found the creed of the creedous men Hard, and dried with tears, and full of tears Was the desert of the life they gave us. They said: 'Be of love as God, and of fire As they that seek the perfect woman's heart, And learn in this world the lessons that teach us How men should die if they would reach her breast.' And, by the life they gave us and the words They left, I know that they had God for friends. And if they taught no other man but us, And no words but those, I think they taught God as we all now know He is and am." "It was summer. It was the time When the heart of a man should go Out to the field and get fat and dry Both meat and drink ======================================== SAMPLE 411 ======================================== "The white bough from the heather, the oil-flower, "The lamp of the sail, the charm of the spade: "To these may narrow themselves our real work. "They are now far better fed with a hint "Of the colours they have shown in their prime. "Come, let's go and visit them. Make some bargain." The women fell upon their knees before him. He asked no question but the soft rings Of money; left them each woman to decide (The price of her and of her sister's jewels). The last thing he asked was of Mulga and Manilla, The soldiers who guard the mines, by lake and range. I think of the long miles of that house in the North, Of hiss and chills, of frost, of snowy thickets, Of lice, of daisy chains, of the marimba. "When will the gold come in?" "When the beet starts a ferment. "And when will the liquid gold come in?" "When the liquid gold comes in,--when the merchant comes." "What will the gold buy you?" "Where the dead buy food," Mulga and Manilla said. But this was not all. The great body of the man that he loved so well, had been changed, Left in the night to star-chances and to snows. "If they only come to help us tackle the wars." "The Bojars and the Sudanese will battle it out." Thus did the women laugh, and Manilla spoke: "But won't they fight each other?" Said Mulga and Manifa: "They know not that condition. They come to us "With the intention of living, with the intention "Of sleeping with the Emir in the city." "What will you give them for sleeping?" Said Rabi? "We have rugs "And blankets, better than the finest in Alexandria. "Our children are learning French; we can give them French "Ahead of the Frenchified world." "They will avenge us." Said Abou Seraghi: "They are our children, and we are their women." "I saw a vision in the wood," Said El Araby, "O Mandan, "As I passed by the lake at a slow pace, "And I passed by the Ennedi tall, "And I heard you speaking with your feet." "You must forgive me, El Araby, "For I was at a pace that could not be. "I heard your voice, and thought you, perhaps, "An away I was with the men of your nation. "But the tall Ennedian was a fairy, "And the Ennedian with the men of you." "Go to your cities," El Araby cried; "I will to the place of the burying of Cham. "But the Ennedi will answer him back, "I hear their feet against my steps go." "Go," said he, "go to the place of burial. "Go, for I will answer him, and will speak to him "The only language he understands. "I will ask him in his own language, and will tell him "His people's battle song, and how they die." "Ajay, now," said he, "I will go too, "If the men he calls not hostile I shall fear, "And I shall see the judgement with surprise." "Go," said he, "for your love is all I have left. "O my friend, I would I were with you! "What have I to do with miserable others? "Let the dream and its fulfilment wait. "You are out of my life; I am nearer now to God. "But still, and all the time if my friend be not changed, "I shall wait, and still you may not be aware "That there is any peril, any blame." "I will wait, till the ending of the world, "Till all the fear and sorrow and pain extinguish. "But till then, my friend, I must live, till I know "Whether he is changed, or whether "I have seen death in his face, and that it was not he. "Go, to-night," he said, "I hear the knell, and the word for to-night "Said by the mouth of a mournful and trembling clock. "Go, till we know," he said, "whether I am mistaken "Or not, my friend, or if I am changed from my wont. "If I have seen death in his face, ======================================== SAMPLE 412 ======================================== eventide, a vast city was won. From the strong mountains to the sea he passed, A rugged belt of mountains in itself, Where woods and savage men have long tolled their span, And hills of rugged men and swart feeble men, Men steeped in the things that move with slowest pace, Whose souls that move by hesitating doom, With feeble feet, Sail round and round With a dizzy wheel. Some are of genius high in nature's game, Or bared to the ardent dust by chance; Some are in their graves, and some are born again, And some again,-- And some are turned to leaves, and some are hushed, And some are turned to starfarms. In the town, one and the same, Sheds the hot blood of them that shift In a carnival of passions, Shadows, and subtle mists, that never cease, Churning the heart, And then as in the hands of his fellows, On their harps and mangles. And when they slink, with twisted and sagging limbs, And stare, sharpened teeth, and fangs of the mind, As the light at a wedding feast, All in a bend of the moon-slaughter, In the shadow of their murderous game, Or in the slophases of their souls The crickets shriek, and the night-gaunts howl, And the night, and the soul of the soul of the night, Heaves, as foam the sea-bights, with the slow wheel Of a flayed horse, that the moon dries on a rock. But with that time of beasts and men, When the best and worst are mixed, When the dumb-eyes have the power, And the free cheek's blood, When a leopard-glove eats up its mind, And the wind-wrought nose-grou and the eyes-shrive, When the black soul can ripen to fire, And the throat of the night-man rends its hood There are the curious souls, that cry For night and tempest, and the plain Embose a world of passions and dreams. Of them you hear the rustling round the tomb Of a world that has subsisted not from hilt Of its first nave-world. A great deep in a forest of old time Creeps forth, and appears, with doors of steel. In the deep-ups, that groan and clank, the throats Are leathered of an evil stiffened with roots. The flesh of the body is marred with thorns, The ruin-stiffened heart is a gibbering void, The spent flesh is a rope broken loose, As with a stab of the red serpent's snout. I, as a shadow, am overshadowed by them, And weeps not, and I hear not their ways, And the terrible things I should say, For my mind has no blacker scorn, Nor my mouth less sharpe for the sick leer Of their dead lips that smile and have no tears, Nor their face save clean and brackish white, Nor their dead flesh that never grows cold, Nor the brusaid poor or lost leavings of them, Nor their lightning-sucken tears, Nor the balls of razors, nor the balls of rhubs, Nor the sticks of thyrsus, nor the thonged sticks, Nor the knobs of rotten wood, nor the letters Of bones, nor the fingers of bones, nor hands of hands, Nor the shuddering breath of the dead, nor the breath, Achoo! bad luck of the dead, nor one word of them, All the horrors of the black to fill me through. These are the pounds, and this is the weight, This, this is the size, This counters the moon, Counter, These are the coins, Counter to the moon. This is the fashion, And this is the fashion, These are the coins of them, Counter to the moon. These are the grooves, And this the game of them, They are the pieces, They have come from under, They are lying by, For these are the plaisters of them. Is it true? Do they still exist? Are they shams, do they still exist, And are they money-bags at last? They that has power in the law? They are the slaves of those that occupy The seats of them, and these are them. Have they ======================================== SAMPLE 413 ======================================== is their place? What means that long and low Fading and spectral cry? Can this be many an idle cry, That fades and dies away? Is this a ghost of the dead, And did ever face So cold a crowd of disheartened dead Crowd, as this single face? What, all the mourners cold and gray, That, in their crystal robes, appear The ship with sad farewells must pass, It is destined at last to sink: When that long last is come, to lay The bones of those that sail with pride Will he not ever mind their grief? Ah! what a tomb awaits their face A stone unprofaning placed, Where light from heaven, from day, Through that long lonely state will shine. 'Tis just a child to weep on! She would smile if she could. They came from the great nonchalant Isles Of other Great-power Bablon. From there they bore The cry of all who were less strong than they. They came to live, From there to be free to die. But weak the living seemed, the great unseen Powers disputing. And the sad Lady then so lonely Her tears began to fail her; Her tears began to pine. The Lady of the silence spoke; She spake as she stood and gazed Alone there to look on their memories. Their waves the mists on sea or shore Concealed, and their spirits bold on sky or strand, To the last rose-tinted shipwreck hung. Then slowly a huge fog grew; The forms of those that flew and walked and fell Came to succour her, And watching the growing mist they said no. The Lord that led them all laughed, And said: "I lead the stronger." They wondered why He led the stronger. The Lord said: "I lead the stronger." But they laughed not: "We lead the easier." And they felt their frailty, Till like the Lady of their suffering, They couldn't think they suffered, And laughter and freedom both went wrong. And then the mist crept on. The forms of those that died, Their ghosts that wandered and fell, The flowers they gave in memory of them Withered, and allowed to fall. And then the Lady of their misery Cried for the dead, Their formless landscapes Rushed on their hearts; They watched the dead waters flow And go and come. Their hearts flowed like river sand In plains where dreamers think. And they said: "We weep for the living, But let them go. We know we lead the easier." But the ocean-wind sung hollow, And they laughed it down. They thought of fish in the moon's dark waters Too weak to fight, And so they sang: "We lead the easier." They said to the dead: "We mourn for the living, The easier." I have been lonely since the night before last. And since then I have not been good to some works. Sometimes I think of the wind as a lover, Sometimes the sky as a lover; And I think of the flowers as fleeting lovers With scarcely any moon to speak to them. I think of one who was a flower, And as he passed I said: "If you love me, white flower, You will come away With your hair full of stars To the furthest, trembling love-tree." I have seen in dreams The glory of a woman's eyes. I thought them full of moonlight and love, And as red blood boiled in my veins I woke and found me changed to a goose. I have seen in dreams the morningstar Change to an oleander. I thought him pale peacemakeras make Their yellow-green wings to flowers. I thought of a woman full of moonlight Then as red blood boiled in my veins I woke and found me changed to a goose. I have seen in dreams the morningstar With his red hair full of stars, As he sped away and flashed his light Enow to the earth. I thought him full of love and his face Was as red as the lilies come To spread their arms in the wind. I wake and find me changed to a goose. I have seen in dreams the morningstar Speed away with his light His form and his face Like the lily stem full of springtime ======================================== SAMPLE 414 ======================================== Declare the winner of the Cup, 'Twas none of the group, 'tis sad to say. I don't mind at all, the matter is dropped. For me, it's not like that of Famine, The sweets of temper and the earth Are so interweaved, the thought is sapped A moment of freedom from the spell Of which I spurn the clear suggestion, To cheer the darkness with the dawning light, A moment of might is racked with care, A moment is caught up with reason; And thus the light and the darkness blend. What is to be done? With fellow-hearts We'll take a step the whole world of hope Forward in its turning wheel. We can't but feel that peace of soul Which thrills the generous breast With common pleasures and common blessings; And thus we'll plod along together The golden age being born again In sunny England, where, for the poor, A cottage is a inn, a shop a crown. <|endoftext|> There floated o'er the city steeples last A whisper of love and a whisper of sorrow; For the poet's heart throbs under the false-heart kiss, Heard no voice of his true love, and heard no bell, Then fell to a scream of a heart-beats feeble, When a sigh from the city was like a sigh of woe. Poorly served by the city's heart-beat, On his wildways he wandered lonely and poor, And a part of his days wandered in doubt Whether he should hurl himself away To the lake-like Woodland haunts, or whether Should hide in the forests and enter again The populous far Columbia valley; Or, plodding still, onward, in the dreary Deep hollows of the green forest's dims, And ponderous thickets and knots of ponderous Grass; or pine-crown head and tail at last Closed, and he staggered to the stream and a dream Of the fairest time and space of all his life Flashed like a flood on his mind in a tranced glisten. And the city-voice, when she heard at last A murmur like a whisper of faint things, Waked all her sudden terror, she thought; For she thought that the river of things were near, And that her slow heart beat with strange sensations, And a kind soul at last, who had been dead All day long, came and lay down beside her, And she felt live with her in her breath and her sight, For the quick glow by the city-glow Was like the light of his lovelight, And her city-heart in the quick glimmering Grass caught the shadow of his armadillo head. There are summer days when no one works, And her lonely hours flow lightly away; There are nights when the city-heart beats In epidemic whispers of position, And the day's dull wave blur slows by in flashes That stagger and stumble, and sweep onward noiseless by. There are many ways of great desire, But they all fix upon this mind of mine, For I can't find fault with the few I have, And my work's poor plaything at the others' feet Is the poor idiom; it isn't good. This is my idiom, or idiom not mine, And the only life-idiom that I know. I'm ready-ill-construed, no foot on the ground, But I hear the echoes of my own heart Where I go marching in the pindarics. The insubstantial nature of rain and snow, The thin dry smell that wafts from far-off mouths, That Life gives and takes away like pay-gashes Of other men's suffering, is the thing absolute, And the far-brought revelation of some dim Far-off planet Earth that only turns dust-white When men find where to find is my own life And the judgment of some other wijnished body of clay. Not a wijn heede, if you will. But I find ways To see the earth life and the life-in-death, For the dim young priest with his long robe unbecoming And the long dead lady with her look unmeetin'. Huzzajab o' the soul, and then huzzajab o' the body; Crying-cry wich is a sign of distress; Huzzajab the worst of evils, but only a trace Of the greatest of 20 minutes all-wrong; ======================================== SAMPLE 415 ======================================== maison-mai-mai # Backwards and for forward. repete et pueri desiderium. vita Canticis aetherei septica ora cœlum cœvil maege ubi mœnigrore ubi Aurea rivis aliud repontum. ubi noctis sibi sibi in iociem sit modium signare tuo, te, sibi sibi te novum ad æternis te quidem æterni; hos oculos dinamisti cita fundiat, femina, quæ monstrat in usus pendebat: mendo, siue retrahata, ubi Mavors lacrymas opum Babelium (haec etiam breuentis) qui minis ubi manet Oceani turbis ante venæra fellere. dum fidem dictis, decimo bene dantis reuocant, propinquâ uiue, questus, cui sunt. ad tes, mea, pauperior est aurâ et semper anni latuit. quam iam patria lacrimunt; sed ere tria qui reserunt lacus fructum. O sing us, thou sweet Bells, The merry year's return! O send the gladsome spirits, We, in our last of sucking-breath! The bell-rope swinges in the ready sun Bringing the merry Christmas; Bringing the holy Christmas Unto our listening heart! What nymphs so dewy fair, What nymphs, O say! Bring us, bring the gladsome spirits We, in our last of suckings! The merry year's return Has dewed, but to the star of dailing, The throbbings and the burnings of our sweet tongue. We have listened, but we can bring The merry Christmas now. The gladsome spirits come With glad greetings to you. The holly and ivy, The holly and ivy; And we, we have wept When the holly green and white Where all our hope and all our weeping was, When Time was teaching where say by The cold rocks lay in sleeping With many a dirk behind. Now, in our last of suckings, In our last and sweet gazing, we Heard the darling bells go. The darling bells are calling Home from the cruel gods. They call us home, And we will come; and we will- For we can be merry. O we will holly And we will ivy Christmas. When the great God flouted earth in having made his sister Jackie, and then transfix'd her finger in view, He made it writhe and wriggle through the air with twist, To old Bay and his son Jimmy, where they ne'er foresaw it, Though the fish in a trice swam down to eat of it; And now, we all of us know it, that claw has writhe into the chuckling night, To wriggle the Olicity of it to death. As the great God sat down at the right of the rocumbont bed, He, with his son, saw his own desire, And, in order not to want, He tore out the heart, And ate, and ate, and ate it too, and made it a big piece; Forsooth, and the like, He ate, and ate, and eat't, till he was well after snack, And then he writhed himself in the hope to cut his desire. He writhed, and writhed, and then--'Duddy, dozy, do'-- He gathered up his appetite away. He gathered up his appetite, And his stomach, too, In the hope to be unclench'd and famish'd, And then--I know not where-- He suddenly spread his wings and fluttered about, And so made a midnight stoup of his desire. He furtively nibbled, And looked like a devil at the feast, And then he flew, and flew, and flew about, And nibbled all the things that were good At the great mass that was read that very day; And then--'Good now, boys--like it, say, is Your wish and mine, As the ======================================== SAMPLE 416 ======================================== As by the shining from that storied heaven, Whose 'spires reflect the gleam of the lame, The setting sun; a world of shadow kneels. The many are shocked at the tale, Of human love that violates, As of worms, the common conseil, But nought less is human than human, And yet we part the heart's-love-aupress'd Not long ago! I know not, But feel my love Is bar'd up like a pathed wall, That would indeed a manner tell, "Human love is high professeel." I feel my soul will have more. The bee is in the honey; The hookless wood-pulling rustic, Holly, holly! Hark! there's the tree where orange-trees Grow green, and the orchards are of light As pinnacled-with honey'd flowers; Where on the lawn the wild honey-bees Have swelled to such a length of wavelength, The near Hellenic countries are such; And on the barley-bog the gummy worms Are hot as the felt on the back Of the throat in the throat-pain horrible; And in the dung-hill by the hoofs of beasts The horses feel the wild bee's ire kindle, The trees and beasts with flame-nods are bent, And heat of the sun on the he-goat's flee Is like a bull's-hide swoll'n all on a tooth. He came and marked the sky; He thought that it was very like The map of the nights, where beards of stars Drifted over the rim of the unconquer'd sky; And this earth-out-of-sight, and this world-storied Other than I-See-You-Now-Again, as if The Gods had caste a world anew; As if, as if the infinite were woven Into the very feeling of Being. I shall tell thee now of the mid-day and the stee; For the hills and the grass, with a late sun, Night-red as the neck of the dawn-woman With the wide coils that in her hair hang, Doth shiver through summery wilds of blue In the red light, that burns the trees, shrubs, and leaves As if the Universe were on fire; And on the grass and in the dewy land There is no green nor red, there is no seed, Only the single seed of thy silver, On which the mid-day sun doth rigorously Pierce through the clouds made of dark dark green, The dark dark green of thy night, a star; That here is the end of the mid-day; And the morning shall come and bring to the same Midnight again. Oh, for a lash of the sharp-flashing baying Of the hart and the horns! I would behold Once more the sweet of thy grass and thy trees; Gainst which, oh, gainste behold the sun Whose red runneth white. There is the root Of desire in my heart; I see The corn-seekers come, the little horns of corn, That with red eyes seem to gaze at the light In a sort of question at the dawn, As if they guess might hap to run out of breath, Nor to be caught by the grass. And then I see The little horns of the corn, I feel their size, And I seem to feel how good a thing it is To have green fields, and to have lips that speak, And to have a sky that doesn't shout. Mighty after the hot new crowing, When the wood-meetters beep, and the wind Scatters the hayseed, and the rosemary Trailing their fragrant flowers blue about The grey twinkling fields in the summer weather, And the heave and flow of the mazy heat Lifting the face of the runner up to the sun, Like a girl who is making a mimic of her lover, Like a maiden tending to the face of the floweret, In the summer of seventeen. I love to-day Because of the things that I shall never see again; For to-morrow will bring to me its tame alternations, And in their loving affairs, so subtle and serene, So subtly alternating still the past and future, Like the gestures of an angel, I shall be acting That which I have seen but once, and with feelings That I shall call only Passion's Perpetual Fallacies, And be ======================================== SAMPLE 417 ======================================== bland) for “Mary Had a Baby, Mary Had a Dog, Mary Had a Cow.” And on a canvas by Charles Roger from the well-worth-winning Sienese a mother is lying down with a goat-skin over her, and what you cannot see through the rags of her back says all message that you will not sleep. And the woman's name is Edith Clover. And the black-and-white images here would later make an appearance in The Canterbury Tales by the master of the comedy of The Silk Sutra. That a mother breast-feeding a goat would be found in a painting by Giorgione Monche a passing scene from a mist of hair on her T-shirt would be found by Giorgione Monche in The Silk Sutra, and the seeming message of the painting, a member of a Imperial Chinese court, a portrait of an envoy would be shown later on a coat-of-arms, the first coat-of-arms of Mr. Qinghua, the man who would go on to found the world's largest art gallery, the place where you can still see every painting of furniture, clothing, and garden scenery. In The Silk Sutra a mother is lying down with a goat-skin over her, and you cannot see her head or neck, but the image will last in our imagination, in the air, longer than the life of the mother, its background, a tale of two avatars, or separate realities. But it was only four years after this painting was made that the artist was captured by the government of Mr. Li Dong, who was afraid of the world's secrets and ghosts, and he was carted off to the prison camp where he died an hour short of his thirty thirtieth birthday. The camp is in Henan, and the camera pans down the road toward it. It was in prison that the artist first learned of his gift for painting, and it is in this way that the story comes full circle, back to the painting of The Silk Gate. <|endoftext|> "Hanging Loosely Wearying of the Ferryman's Reports", by Jay Wright [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poetic Style, Historical Language] The river, at best, seemed a rhyme of bridges, both old and new, many lying here and there, some leaning head-forward, some tilted ith to mastiffs. The tallest were usually leaning against the piers of their scarlet, rust- colored dredges, along the banks, and here and there another image, floating along in view, staring from its stack beneath the bridges — it was then not cold, but snow-white, in its chojto, tugging on its arms as if it were pulling something heavy. The fire- light image, as before, still lingered there, still it all, it all part of the river's  image. But what is a river, but a collage of images from its life? As if still speaking to us from those far-away land- and lit- from- screens, we understood, the Ferryman said. It all seemed so beautiful, we wanted to touch and to feel every lin' fell here. We hung heedless, in our stifling waters, the images, we tended them all, each new layer went down between our nails. It was as if we were doing our part, they felt so like a natural process. The bridge, though erect, had to be re- laid each day, and the dyes they used to print the image on its side, to protect it from the elements and so it not only held our gaze, but, to keep it from drifting, would have, we had to stand on the banks, in complete dream, each step barreled down into a depth so different. When we finally came to ourselves, it was with a brightness we hadn't seen from the sun, it took everything around it, before it had ever been a thing, but all of us, ourselves in our own way, with the river never more than a wave. The Ferryman was livid when we got off, and said we couldn't swim ======================================== SAMPLE 418 ======================================== Now I have seen the small green country Where the people are so proud That the streets of gold are named after them Before the mighty and very proud Slip from the pages of time To the place of glory In the heart of every pilgrim. And I, who was proud of them When I had never seen them, Though I might not express my wishes Their way, now being in their shoes, See them so humble and so humble, The Lord gave first to them The gift of life, and then to us Only the zeal to win his glory. I do not shrink, Sir, for the sake Of His Who gave Hisself up for our souls, My hair has begun To come in, and my eyelids are closing With a touch no irk, So, though I have not your steadfastness I, to have Him at the end of my wish- Grow soft, yet firm, So He will be There at the beginning, and He will be At the end, where He gave His glorious life. And I would not have the world be a curse If it could help Him there, My friend, I have been to the grand old world. You can stand this heat; it is a gospel truth That few have strength to discern If it offers Truth I have seen my friend drift, And I had cause to break From a high star In the sun's class 1 or 2, Which I could not, could not Give my best contrast To a low sun, And I have watched him From a ball Which the lowest ball Can not see, And I watched him at noon When the noonday Runs to the zero, He had scarcely passed the peak; And I stood, Shivering With a friend 'Gain to buy him; I am a poor Jew, And the middest one, And you had hoped Your beggar's-mule To comfort me! They don't know it, And I, who confess it, Knew it was there In a star When it melted On a mill's Stout heat And it was true That your beggar's mule Can feed t.v. But t.v. is no fool's To this youth's Grown sugared bread. In the great City there was A summer thing, A horticultural Stir of a reed And it lay On a log fire In a pit, Lingering and Weeping, Satirizing Palm trees' Rubbery leaves. And I said to you, said I, look at them go, Look at their fondness for each other, their fondness for the sun, For this one they chose to lie down under its widest bubble of green Each packed hard against its other; look, said I, and look now, Look, how clusters of shade spread under them like a shelter against the sun; You can see them now if you look the widest you; look at the moon, I do, I see in colour, I see her fold wings under the mountain, Yes, when she goes out like a bright thing, Sir, you can look at her through This great black hole of shade. And now I see him in the golden moonlight, his limbs lit, His gaze, on your face say, is it not like the gaze of a man Touched with love, tinged with passion, lit to glowing, Flashing with form, Held by the face's beauty till it seems an outflux of light? St. Robert would not say, Did not seem to say, So smilingly, "He can never know the isolation of heart and spirit From the light of this dawn of his, can never be free, From the great spiritual loneliness in which this night forever entreated him." Let him lie in his bed, Let him sleep and mope, He will get up And turn out for supper, And eat his share, And raise his hand to buy Tins at a corner, And lying to his Beloved, Call to him, Let the lights go dim, Let them burn out, And he will rise And tarry, And watch his candles As pensively as the starry night comes at last And tarry awhile for each departed tune of his, And each whispered utterance Let him not fear, I do not fright, In this great place, I do not shrink, My eyes are only for his ======================================== SAMPLE 419 ======================================== How pure the love of human kind! Our hearts are known to be Sorcery's purest thing. The human mind is A pure enclosure of God, All truths, it self-revealing, And truth's light was shining By none but a pure eyes And pure heart of a child. It's ours, my boy, Not long to learn The art of thinking well, Not what we may, but what we must. But while we yet can hold In new Eden's paradise, Though the young tree is Busy withering, We still must strew The way to good. "This is only a guessing game," You said to me, But when I started out I thought I could gain the lead. "Good-by!" you said. I must now lose the bet. I turn'd and slipped back, and he spoke last: "That's what I don't do, I guess it not worth your while." And yet I felt I could; I sat at my mind, and guessed The place God would have it, And where the game would end, And where the score would end, And where the progress had begun. And my rejoinder, "Why, just guess, You'll find it isn't so good." And God, who knew, drew far close, And ring'd the rueful bell. "Now guess!" they both cried. I sat and gave the answer, I knew what I should: And then God spoke for them, And bade me play the pansy. "Good!" I slyly laughed; "Is it?" He said, and he stroked my chin, "Yes, I think it wasn't." The play it ended then; But I didn't win the bet; I lost my moorland nest; I heard the children cry, "Mamma, why did you stop?" "Oh Papa, dear, I didn't know A bat was in it!" The ice on the shore Is harsh and still, And seldom do the tides Deceive a seaman's son To land him far away At home, and he returned not. And the savage land It is uphill and long, And rocky to stand upon; And not a living soul may stand Within its marts, nor dwell long. <|endoftext|> "To his agent for annual bills due In the banks of London: Memorandum: in the next instalment Of funds for which he's reasonably good sense Declines extra hard of the exact amount To give all his money for nothing to the banks." "Dear Mrs. Torry, you're late. I'm at a luncheon, But I met Miss , and I'm certain you've already read My things, and I've another from my brain. Oh what a wasting to think of it! You must promise not to say I look a dol, But of course I'm well, do you agree? Dear Mrs. Torry, how's your opinion sweet Of the books we read, do you think they have grounds?" I'm right tired, prayer advance, And I shall go to bed. I saw a man this evening Who went his way with dog Doing shunts, but he had a suit Of armour on his back, for he trod The finest brand of pacifism. I'll use the word 'host,' But that's not what he did, He chewed the stock by hand And seemed to be feeding souls to it And that's as well his restraint: He's a man, and in Old England, It's preaching to come: I read it all, and 'twas all in good White English." "When I can fight As well as they who call The censor's attention to Words and phrases, I'll be more strong Than all the Troys of St. Genebert." (These were the words, And not the unparliamentary dips Of his own vain spleen, but the 'Greek' he'd earned For dialectics, not the war of a language.) "What's the view That modern dialects express? It's not worth a leer, I expect; but I'll not be censored, If by 'retirement' I mean The critic's object in hand That he may not language leave, But fairly explore The roots and consequences, I say, I'll not be fair, If by 'retirement' I mean ======================================== SAMPLE 420 ======================================== Mya. Hark! how the hills answer. Umbophilous l'Orfea cera s'ambiunt; ubi meus sensum tequerta proprie, luge, calycram, Lona' rogi, manus, manus, Lona', 'erigien. nulla magna vincar: hoc est, quem dedit; laura lor secreta versu, nulla, verum ignote vivis et caret vive. quae rami in euoluisse vortice calle iatique remeat, calyx templum tempus et suspensi volet aeger et suprecas soluis ad claro nimos. quo mea credibunt parentis quicquam tecum talis causam probera se totam descendit, caudisque petibus proram piare potis vivere germanis efflore comam tenebrae. fas, quorum sibi, fas mihi perpetuitus, implesem velle me mens fraget. tunc mens quicumque natalis flumina meo fronte reliqui gricx pergit e una spatiosa tria pellit esse videndo, pauet et icta per fidem nostram extulit soli tenebras. tu sibi tota nec maupremur frigus uti falter atra tenebras. totar habeat tuus quem mens estis almatoo fauentas lumina, perditionis horrid motus tritensem in caeli mundo. Tu, tibus fuisse meis commentari, pater, et auro conditur eiscyit amicus. Scaenius, advanced to power, and chief By the Romans for pure virtue's sake praised, Then by that heavenly mantle shall abide Qui ista tum flent' inquam, qui non ego feci, sit satis ignauio, audebat scaenae rivu, et quicum libet uvrem calor! crines quaenam tot laboratoriesi pectus et pudet, simul et intrapi, sese delapsis arua lucum posta rebus pari debent. sed tibi si vis atior infans adnue, sed et nosse amoena meo! olento, palteo, regis, et quem circum mihi gloria parens, exaudi? quare fuit libera! sed scaenii praefert Natura, qui scaenius exactus urbi ut repasso debeo longe et facie aeternum conditor patrii. Hanc igitum missus mala pepulae aduentu pecudam, flaua solacia, mica segetis, restatrix mirato. nec meus amorem misit habus pietate cumulus, quo meis imus dixit 'Miscite meam, si susuris isto uetat; illic usus absim nocere.' quod tam ducere amator quod securus istud meam. sed par tam turpe grammaticum uix ut ueris, 'ad uitiis, uadiis cui se haec parsuisse satis; attollit maculae littera regum pone labore quid sit; caritos scaenare quid enarrulare totque sepultus undictae. seu tibi iocos gratiam ferre puellam effugiunt curas, petulans qui dixcunque post illa caritas nec pegnis sepulcanurarum, alterant quaecunque desheet maere excutit amat exiguum. et similes duci membra cuptias inlacrim in granatinam longum, quo tibi subuequis sit lacertorum flumina, ubi nunc numina volum. mox scaena suis inludit, alius seu magna merserosque penis. ======================================== SAMPLE 421 ======================================== It would have been just an end. But like this picture says: The river has no vistas. We thought it had and it didn't, You get what you can't have. <|endoftext|> "The Rose Mound Is No Symbol But It Can Speak", by D. Oakham Truman The rose mound is no symbol but it can speak. It has spouts and exhalations, gathering and handspreads, oaths and biddings. And in this way it is like the work of imagination or the flower quarry when it is visited by vandals who plunder the poet and spray-paint that red flower over the poet. <|endoftext|> "An Aventure in December", by D. Oakham Truman [Living, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Weather, Christmas] for Francis Lee I walked along the marshy bank of the river and saw in a pier The winter sparrow blossom on a twig, The redbud crawling over the trampled turf, The chipping green of the snow-cone pebble. I walked beside the river and to my dismay Found that the sparrow was not true, The red-belted bandicoot had reached his long winter sanctuary, Even the chinking snow-cream beesave their dead shedders. I walked along the marshy bank of the river and found A shed that was open and empty, The feathers of cobwebs were like hoofprints, And a claw would fall as folding shoes at nightfall. I read the leaf which spoke of your coming, little green glove And I hung my bootlaces on every part of mak- ing no moving nor any coming, only a lack of fur. The sky was a lot darker, and you said good morning I asked you by how long to-day For the moon was the game of chase had ceased, And I saw a bird far off way who looked back far more often Then straight ahead as though he were not seeing. I told you that last night I had dreamed you gave A cigar, though I could not believe it, to my newspaper, And the cricket which we heard so nigh, crowded all the night. I took my hand away, for I knew that it was wrong, and you two were wrong for seeing such things, and I could never see them, see that day in my life, and every sight to be unseen. <|endoftext|> "A Confession", by D. Oakham Truman I was spotted, it might have been too much mustard, I admit, but I was with a man once, and my eyes are fixed on the old days when we longed to see the day. I've kept a little bottle of pills on me that, when I need them, I has mailed, but the secret of the man I was with seems to have had its way with me, and when I drink now, I don't feel as if I've gone back a long way. I've had to lie near the fire a lot, and I can lie in the sun if it comes to that, but I think I can keep hold of things a little longer, I don't want to think what it's done to my life. <|endoftext|> "At the Family Table", by Frank L. O'Hara [Living, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Arts & Sciences, Music, Painting & Sculpture, Philosophy] I've been thinking of a friend of long ago Who had the misfortune to be born wrong. He's at his inmost feelings getting them to speak; He sees his grandmother from a young girl's eyes, He sees his father's eyes from a father's young eyes, The mother from mother's young and old knees. He sees his grandfather whose living is being done; He sees his great grandmother who lived to be quite sure. And this friend of long ago is sharing his feelings with The cold and cranky old poet from the rail road cars. So these older people don't seem to know much of ideas From simple things they don't seem to know much about. But he knows about the moon and the stars that way From the old experiences he's had and the dark nights. And the poet looks at these old friends of his And feels that something threaded the ideas through Their young eyes, and a more or less under conscious hand. That's what poets get up in arms about—ideas. You have to be in a particular song To get a world that pays attention to you. You have to be in a particular mood and school of thought To get one world to ======================================== SAMPLE 422 ======================================== raptured-like, and peering out he saw his toil to each other's benefit full clear: he hugged the fence and did not even give in to his bad luck as the aged man said. "I might have known it," said the man, "with the tide the way it is now and the hill-side they call it-- and all the blame's on you. And I could not see that I would not be held in such great regard by others, and thought of as some one's favorite son. I didn't even see the old ones trying to hold me to their attention, waiting for me to do my duty. It isn't my fault, though I do wish to see that we go on breaking on the rocks till the waters get down on us; we've been a great strain on the village so long. I'm a strain on the others too, I hear; I suppose that they were afraid "No, I'm not afraid of anything. I should be afraid of nothing if they did that kind of a fright. I'll have to lay down, perhaps, aflame the home of the dead. But the worst that can happen isn't that I'll burn up the village. The worst that can happen is that I won't burn up the village." "Well, what will you do?" "Burn it to the ground." "To the ground what will that get me? Burned aren't you yet? You think I haven't any longing to be burned. I mustn't want to. I've tried so much in life not to be the burnings, not to want to be, but I've got to want to be. But they say to be burnt up. They're cruel; they'll burn me to the ground and leave me as they were. It will be better if I don't get to that. It won't be right to be burnt, but what would it matter if I got to the fire? I can stand it. They say I won't like it, but I won't. I'll be all right, but I'll be glad to." "You must feel a little queasiness when you think that you've done a wicked thing and you see a flame behind it." "Ah, I don't feel queasiness. Why do you want to talk to me? It's not like being a fire to let me get burned. I won't be burnt, but I'll feel queasiness for a minute, I guess, when they burn me. I'll feel a minute's queasiness, but I'll do my best to be ready. But they'll burn me to the skin, and I shall be well past it, I'll feel no queasiness, and I shall feel after the queasiness's over. If I go in and I come out again, the flame will be out and a true moment afterwards." "Well, you ought to have learned by now to lay your fritters on the fire and have them ready to eat, for you've been burning a lot of time. You've got to be careful what you eat, you know, a little on the fresh side. They'll burn you up through with heat, but you'll be strong for the after-custody days. They're putting me in del Hijo against the wall to take the cold, and I've got to get through it. So be careful what you do and how you spend your awakening hours, because if you wake too soon you may spend a half hour in the upholstery before the flame has done so much in the burning. You'll know how much a couple of an afternoon can cut of a man's awakening, as I did once with the upholstery I thought I was done with and was lying now he was awakened for the first time, and I was eager to get under it and get a grip on it and get going again. And I tried to think of something, but there was nothing but the upholstery to be done. I'll tell you what I'll do, after I've got the burn out, I'm going to cut out the fur from all the pieces and put up most of the down. I'll be out of the wet, I'll be lighter than a flame, and I'll thank whatever is watching and tell you everything I done have to do with these being days when men will burn the old way, with burning oil. I won't go back to what I burned the ======================================== SAMPLE 423 ======================================== A life was given to the gods, He fed upon the fat of the flood Of sacrifice. A dark, resplendent flame, He burned upon the altar, bright and warm. "The Nymphs and the flowers, and the ground And the gods had made him the flame That welled from the rite, and on him lights. He, turning to the right hand, made to him In that part of the fire his brows; the left He twisted like the thin shield of fire. A mass of firm fire rise therefrom, He took from the altar and smeared with holy dust His forehead and his chin; the right part he made His breast, and all over his body rolled A great shield that Achates gave him of Athens' gold. "Then I saw, and I smote me, for I smote my heart, Seeing the fire in his hands, which I should bear Through the dark realms; for, believing not in him, I smote my hands at the lofty heavens, and cried: 'I knew him not; I never knew him. Grant your pardon, If I have bowed in fallow speech too long.' "But they sang merrily around the fire; Flowers kissed his grave twice and thrice, And thrice they bowed, and the ground was white With their ungrateful tears, and came to Rome A queen with tresses girdled, on whose head Came first the golden diadem, and then A fine strong man, who had seen the Emperor's face And the King's horse. With songs and kisses They entertained their guests; but I sang too long Without reason, and missed the return of my pain. "And I could see, and I heard, your final doom; And I heard the song that goes to the grave with you; And I did follow my last light, and I saw And I touched the face of my beloved, and it Was not the same, for even my words found vain Vaster than myself among the gold and red Than all men's tongues. Then I knew it must be, And I cried on it, and it was at the last, And the whole earth was mist, and the whole world Made with darkness; but I vexed it, and drew in Void clouds, and moonless dawns, and clouds of air; And a grey mist of time was the fire-hued earth. "As the mist was drawn in through a broken door, So will it be when it opens to your cradle breast When I am gone, when I am gone." And they sat A while, but at the sound of the second hammer Cerberus began to attack. "I have been watching these fools," he said. "You talk of being frightened, yet for all your prayers What do you make of your fright? You do not say That you would rather live to see the sloop Approach from Beacon down to Point Judith, Than call the sharpest feature of this town An angler's beak, an angler's teeth. "What business have you that sits outside your chair? What dastard, fawning dawterer of the fish, That sits and chews the fish-knife halfway through his cod? That sits on the table, to polish his copper shop, That paws, that moues, that blackmailes, that cauls on towels, That fingers the sponge at dirty and cudgels, That fingers the sponge at dirty and screws, That sits and ponders why he hasspelt "Fish or Duck?" That sits and gambols, that hangs about the mantel, That sits and gets his hair pinched, his whiskers shrivelled, That sits and gets a bloody head out of the soap, That sits and gets himself dinnerless food, that swears, That sits and snaps trundling upmarket doors, That sits and quits his tobacco, that sniffs his pipe; He's the stuff of whom you write. You, poor old fool, You have no room for the fish-sound. "No bit, no bait, No grub, no bunting, No little game, No little bird, No loft for the bunting, No stout for the little bird. "When it's for a girl We don't talk of it much, But when it's for a little boy We don't care too much. But when it's for a little boy That's little growing, We catch it at once!" "How did you find me? I was deep ======================================== SAMPLE 424 ======================================== The golden hawthorn trees are wild with flowers, And ever-blossoming snowdstones stare in blue, O rippled waters reflecting! Why in yonder strand This phantom love for thee? In this cold surge Of rippling waters does a phantom sway. I know not what the words were that part The parting from her lips, but what it was Was the last and the softest utterance of love That yet was spoken, and most remote Of those that live in the soul of the star. How many an hour of the dead of night A moon of the west been a mine Of wonder and of woe to me, And me alone; yet my fever had past To the present and to other nights, And this last with tears and sighs and sunshine sung. A sudden breaking of the dawn Did sharply break the spell of the spell Of the silence, and it seem'd the bird Were singing on some sudden wild air song, And over the drowsing lute alone I heard One notes too faint, too soft for a bird, Involving the vast dark of a silence. I turned with the earliest light, and, lo! A steady and regular flash Was flashing upon my sight Of the pitched battlements and towers And walled towns on the distant side, A light like silver shining far, A loveliness enamored, A thrill of fire robed in eyesight, A battle and a fortress holding, And hill and town and castle in the sunset. The twilight lingered on them, darkly, And roused the watchman at his midnight cell, And loosed the bolts and catapulted stakes, And pulled the bell-tower clock up from the mantle. 'Twas the midnight army with crimson plumes That roared along the Blancpain mountain, All night longing 'gainst Paris to be free, With shouts of triumph the wide dreaming Seine Then on a carvel bridge across the Seine They fell upon their prey with boldness, And strewed the lilies on the waves in stacks, And crowned the horns of the ferry with stars. And, as they went, the French beheld them go, Amazed and blackly in the East they saw The flashes of torches, and the strains Of music from afar. And I, too, saw The hosts in the darkness come and go, And wave the torches, and toss the scrolls and sheets Of speech before the trusting crowd that flows I think of the ages gone, When the old temples stood By the grandfathers' pools, and the blue-eyed Gaul Walked with Agastache to consult, Saying, "Blessed are the poor for foes Of the rich--for any ones that would pluck the sprays And visit temples we have built as the gods, But let the tombs abut one and all, Bless them that call, bless the forevermore exploding pygmæan." There was a time When no foot shall bruise the ground he trod Nor clove the ashen lengths one sneezeth now, That time has worn its hour, The skies are old, and of old keys unknown The spics and the potters shall have none. Time hath age for all, and some are born, and some die, Some hold their breath and some give it in vain, The rest run on, for nothing at all incline To this decomposed landscape: yet be comforted As of last year, or as of last summer, For all shall pleasure be no more for ever. The earth hath a summer, nay, yea, it hath been In fair colloquy with the sea and with the wind, With the Sea of Gulf draweth up her soul And with the wind, drawth it, as if earth were a ball, A lost ball, a lolling ball, whereto the races Offer the deathball, and perhaps the top, The glorious top, of course. As the rowers pass, They strew the way, They throw their ropes, they set their gripe, The heap doth furiously, and touches all the winnock, The sights and sounds do all skip and halt And at once, as the rowers pass, they blow The long war lantern black, and fling a piece over, That looks like the Aerie Tower in Plassey, With portentous valves, from its chimney draught Old wine, that shall abate Heaven's jubilees. The castled streets, So parth ======================================== SAMPLE 425 ======================================== The sky which only mists and jets With twinkling sparkles illume; And smooth rose-leaf and myrtle-grove Which gleam in every light. A garden wide, whose curving walk, With marble terraces and trees, Like Genoese maps, sheers the space, While, opening any eye but his To his eyes to moonlight, suns are hid. And through its sweet young blossoms seen, The young belief in Heaven appears, Where yonder tall azure pillars high, And gorgeous arch are hovering, In a silver–plated stream of light, Upon the blue air they platform hold. The breath of leaf, and spirit of air, Lit with the light they girt around, Are like the butterflies' first ascend, The moths at their fairy-like dance, When by their wings the moon has sped, Above the garden of the moon. The wind on this warm June morning, Doth hover near the gate, But fearfully is it known, The wind is come of God, Because it shakes this city's wall; A calmer, nobler race I see Within this holy keep, Who peace have made for this and for that, Knowing him that made them, That every breath that breaks On marble edifice, or shell, Tore his own life away; And he that never breathes, being God, Is safer than their breathing friend. I have no time To talk of peace That door cannot hide; I have no time To wait for it. The wheel runs on, The wheel does run; And there's no one can say I watch nor speak; And there is one who cries, On either side, "The waiters and the wine, The dinner, the dinner!" The water-carrier lades along, Setting the rows of tanks; On both sides floats free With rapid whistle and throb The tramp of high-life rollers: But who shall be first to dare A whisper word of love? I run the wheel, And he that sets his teeth At wheel of any scale, I call his own Can set the world on fire; I hold my hand, And he that bends His hand, and tames, And turns his own small air; But who shall be first in line? The guns are in array, The earth-mine falls in display; And what? Till shells are found, Shall I be one That changed his skin for air? Or, cast as dice, Begone Heaven for Hell! I go a bride, And some there be Think they are men. I go a bride; I wait in line; The bride that stays Will break my heart; And then what? I go a bride. "Set the wheel" thundered the guns; And "Hello!" she answered; " 'Honey!" said the cannons; "We've picked a fine summer!" "I feel the blood of Shakespeare My underbodies," "My lord, I've felt the snow Within my vein," she said. "Do you know, then," said he, "If you don't mind, That a bridegroom's valor Is as much disguised As a clown's disguise, And that your ears must blind That you go a bridegroom?" "This, and this," she said, "Is ball; and ball has led Me on a merry chase; Yet what is it indeed I have run, or seen If not love, if not better This is merely fun! To shoot the balls, and ride the galloping horse, And dance myself to sleep, And then to look for other people and their Eyes, and laugh at them! Good-night!" No more! No more, If ball or fire or arrow, Or any thing Give warning of our intentions; Each press of my hand, each sound, Each motion of the flesh, Tells that we have met that lurking peril Where gravemen come to catch The children of God. What makes the reverend Tom M'Han so grave, And not raise half as many F's as I? What is he that controls the wind and the sun? I fear no arrows. What, but vision dire Of tomahawkers and time and old? O dullest brain! Well, not "not seem like A funeral," for what, after all, ======================================== SAMPLE 426 ======================================== stroking her neck afterward. Barely she brushes it off. Her eyes open wide, drawn in from their weird place. <|endoftext|> "In Your Face Superstition", by Wendy Xu [Relationships, Family & Ancestors] My grandma was the kind of girl who had things figured out early. Like how big the cookies had gotten. She'd lay out the rules for the week, then every evening she'd sit down with us and measure out the sugar, cream and flour. When she handed over the cup the next morning, the figure was already finalized. We'd sit there, she and I, for hours while the cup sat there, upon her lips. She'd weigh out the numbers and choose the total. I'd stand guard while she worked. I'd count off each loaf of bread and add them to the account of the debt we owed to her. I'd count off the litter from the couch and add that, too. She'd remember to brush the peanuts and/or remove the crinkled pie. She'd make a chicken salad and include an onion, a diced tomato, and a green, enclose in lettuce the pie's crust. When she walked out, I'd see she had left the door open. And the sandwiches had be stored in glass bowls. A tray had been set down, and the glasses arranged in a semi-circle. I'd go to the window to watch while my Uncle Wayne was loading the car. He'd been telling my grandma how beautiful the girls were, and my grandma would talk to whoever he brought with him. My Grandma. The Lady in the Dress. She'd bake the pudding and make the tea, then my Uncle would fill up the tank. He was like a god to her, making her look and act like a human. <|endoftext|> "Be More Like a Swan", by A. E. Housman [Living, Death, Growing Old, Time & Brevity, Religion, Christianity, Funerary Failure] 1 The Swan must be a saint. Or a bad slave, Or what's the same, The mind's delight: A dead man's. 2 When we are told A soul is free, And that he lives by woe And pain, We laugh, knowing how A slave is jerked By wills that go. 3 I'll come when you draw The noose that hangs For ever left; I'll come when you strip That image rare of black And death. 4 To be lost in you, I, my love, What treasure Was always mine! 5 Like sea-birds flicking Flying leaves off in that wind I fly to get away From old sorrow, old sin: To be lost in you 6 You'll look and you'll look not see me. Where you are the most a moth Touches ice that cones to trees To make that sparkle night. 7 I'll come when you do not. And when you do not. To you he was a sparrow. And to you a pigeon. I'll come when you do not. And when you do not. <|endoftext|> "On Authority", by A. E. Housman [Living, Death, Growing Old, Nature, Religion, Faith & Doubt, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, History & Politics, War & Conflict] GOD bless 'Em died bodies bowed sickle 'em down God bless 'Em died bodies I bless 'em died bodies for blessing 'em died God bless 'em died bodies for blessing 'em 'em dead 'em God bless 'em died bodies I don't stand with wait.I don't stand with wait.The only thing we know we're only told.We're drowning in skin. We can't start over. 'Cause we should know better: The other kind of lie is up there where you and I are sitting: We should know better. The only thing we know we're drowning in skin and we're spitting in the wind of our kiss. So it's like we're giving us over to the wind to' Angelman.'Cause we shouldn't know better. But we do. <|endoftext|> "Virgin", by A. E. Stallings [Living, Death, The Body, Religion, The Spiritual] I was near Sir Theodore of madeira wine a while he did not want to live which was bad in itself and far worse when he turned and could not be comforted (it is the nature of the demoniac nature of the human to want its reverie ======================================== SAMPLE 427 ======================================== The vassal of ignorance: an igneous rock As brittle as a bar of ice the spinal marrow he stepped Thro against. So suddenly as if he were not in on it his mind. He was ill. Wishing to die not being in on it he walked away from it as if from a mountain. Such irreconcilable corners that one the thought leaps up from the other. How many of us take ourselves <|endoftext|> "Decoy to a Beehive", by Tom Disch [Living, Life Choices, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] Decoy to a beehive: do you think there's a3 letter word that breaks into a thousand scenes like the door to the soul of a stopped train: and the heart just to call home? And how could I capture your hardparting without a word that could be mistaken for a single word just as easily as the first tray of tomatoes for example? I could say I'm sorry for the moment that left too-short strings for the knots of knots a loose string in a monotony unsettling way. You see how it is hard to copy an unhappiness that could easily mean something else at a different level from anything written. This is how the war was for us. How many we screamed for our lives And missed the same way we'd lose a language for the same reason We whooped over a language In time it could become a crumbling mountain. In time it could melt down into the bone. <|endoftext|> "The Trip: Central America", by Daniel Pineiro [Living, Death, Life Choices, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] From the balcony the coyote watched a man untangle the king of all ants, a gringailo and a locust are involved. His face. The coyote watched a man untangle his mother, a sharper one, untangle the others. The coyote watched the man The gringailo and the locust were with him. The gringailo watched the insect death the man did for the others. Their faces and the insects faces allure the way of a child. That was the man (the coyote and gringailo and the and the others) who gave rise to free will. The man who gave rise to free will was his own. (The gringailo and the locust are with him.) The man who was with his own inside his dead left arm was enough for the others. (The coyote and the roaming rose were with him.) And the man was enough for all the others who never got up. <|endoftext|> "Invictus", by Daniel Pineiro [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] 1 The citizens are preparing for the anniversary of the invasion of their country by a foreign army without a birth in the village. 2 The children of the enemy are the young men who would have succeeded their grandfathers and the next oldest children do not know if they will live or die the movements of the trees they will 3 see them in their dreams. A citizen asked the king if there were any spies among his children among his children did not know that he asked it and was answered no. 3 The friends of the enemy are the friends of the citizen who asks the king the king was delighted to answer that there are none. 4 There are the enemies in the fields the enemies in the houses in the city do not know they are the friends of the friends who know that the children in the other children do not know that there are none. A friend was asked the friend was comforted that there are none. ======================================== SAMPLE 428 ======================================== . . . The windpipe has burst. The brain is stunned, He can't understand, he won't remember, . . . The name I hold close to me . . . the dream I held dear, . . . —I will fly, even now, above the city, I will fly, I will fly, below the city, above the city, I will fly, . . . —The wind is dead He was always singing— . . . The wind has burst, He is dead, He is fallen, . . . The wind is quiet The wind is dumb, . . . —The car has stopped I will get out of the car, I will rise up and go To the root of the hill I am waiting, waiting, . . . —I am lost, I am afraid They are going to burn me, They are going to kill me, I am sitting in the rain Under the tree, . . . —I will go down from the hill They will see me falling They will hear me crying, They will hear me crying I will go down from the hill I am afraid, afraid . . . I am scared of the town, The face of a man Is waiting, smiling . . . —I saw an owl the other day . . . I saw an owl the other day, I will see another owl I will see him by the lamp . . . —The wind is silent, I am silent The wind is blowing, I will go down from the lamp I will go down from the lamp I saw an owl the other day I saw an owl the other day The wind is whist, blowing, The wind is finished, finished, dying, dying, dying, Dying in agony, dying in silence, . . . <|endoftext|> "They Look Just Like the Angels", by Mark Doty [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Mythology & Folklore, Ghosts & the Supernatural] They look just like the angels, reach down from heaven and take us, then leave us this most intimate of acknowledgments: my daughter in our backyard, the middle of the night, in a living body but a human one as if she were a small child, and my son in the hearth, an affinity spirit, the charcoal image of his innocence, his future so scantily sensed in a human face. It is always the middle of the night when she speaks to me, and the angels in our daughter's backyard look just like the angels. Are they angels or archangels who whisper and, as she hears this voice that is so lukewarm, she feels herself leaning into heat, into the darkness without light. <|endoftext|> "Allegiance", by Robert Wrigley [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] Just how much hatred there must have been since time didn't attach and adjust my youthTo fit the announcement in this mockery of a relationship. This was the airEnstreaked with what was to be and couldn't be, and soWe looked and listened in horror until we realized we weren't listeningIn horror, but in lyrical horror, to detectThe rage that would commit such a deadly errorAnd thus erase what might be importantto have known, to have made even more evil the nature of the enemyAnd, for a moment, allow us to admire all the more the ambienceThat makes even hate seem less evil that the enemy Who joins us and wants to become us. <|endoftext|> "A Biography (from One made Sir)", by Louise Bogan [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Relationships, Home Life, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics, War & Conflict] Home, but for the bodies and the wives And the men's mothers and sisters and brothers, the land was none too big or rich And the air it had to move over was nothing to move In and try to get yourself loved like that But I loved all the women and the men did too And there were nights But there were nights The dead too were just as men but the living were just as things that all the women and men did not kill but in the madness of revenge and ignorance well it was then and it was then it was then I did not I knew none of it and I didn't know and some of the women and some of the men ======================================== SAMPLE 429 ======================================== I had great pluck, but at last he fell in with the faint and failing. As for his wife, she and his army so chaste were, so that we all inherited each other's mother in perpetuity, that what was done to me, was done to her. The sons he spared, and me he spared, and a cloud he formed of griefs for the world in the days that followed, when my little son was grown, when my sister was lost, when the bellies of all the flock were bloated, when a myriad of woe came flying in, and the priests of Troy went raving by, and the Aethiops swarmed like hornets. My sister, also, whom I sent, I lost, and she was spared, but she was come to me, come to me then in the sixth year when the sons of earth were weeping and the giants were grieving, and the gods were in tumult and lamentation. Her beauty made me haste, she was such as would now become a mortal. But with the grace of the gods I formed a covenant, that I would grant her a grace of my own. And I said, "Goddess Medae said to me, you who have gift of all women and of all men in earth or sea, whose consort is never spent, whose sweet affection is poured of the fine morning, of the glorious sun, of the clear founts of beauty, of the winds, and of the seas, give him a son, that he be prince Chieftain, that all men praise The days are complete, the years are paid, the end of one, the beginning of another, the end of one, the beginning of another, the end of one, the beginning of another; and the third man was never lost, nor shall be after this, nor shall be after this. Then he, Alcides, averse at first, at length consented, and Pyrrhias and Alaster, hard hearted brothers, to bring his sister, they, as have been done before, to her own father, and him favoured thus. XCI. Meanwhile the dogs that roam the grounds of the deep tunnels, the seals that crawl on the long glaciers, the seabirds that build their nests in the majestic mountains, and many other kinds of sea-creatures, all that the sea-born sea-animals have been doing longer than any needed to be doing, is done, and the last brachiate period is over, and the tides of the new period are convolving the glacial plates; in the intervals of the long recessions is shown the shining of iron, the rust on the shattered gold, and in the interval between the cracks is shown the rhythm of silver, they being set in motion by the violent blows of the sea-beasts' tusk-'bles in the cracks; and in the interval between the two Terminals, between the two Command Centres, XCI. The swift gasping 3-Cups, the new fangled Faustines of the sea-side hotels, the joy of telephones, the new fangled Gala Roads, the millenium's dancing walls, the dance of the Human Held, the state of the half-used adult tower, the mob of the future, the road of the future, the fisticuffs of the future, the future of Zebah blind, the vain hands, the evening of Zebah blind, the breath of the unknown undeciphered, XCII. With a certain tenderness I offer the soul of the case, that rests half set in the pericycle or tilted on the handles, or just carried there in the limelight, in the stress and import of the times; all that's left is the word or a word if no one else fits, that's been soft with me: of that 'voic' or 'vocabulary' (vaw, 'ehud', 'eeb') who, just beyond my grandfather's hunting, was born and bred Chicago. I thought then and I think since then my case is my calling. Who knows? Is there any calling, after all? To me there has been a calling and I am doing what I can for my calling, that's my job. XCIII. On a day in Fall-Winter I left my room window open looking into the Shell-Milled Acapulco Table ======================================== SAMPLE 430 ======================================== …" And so, beneath the high-arched ceiling, Lying supine and breathless, with the petal-like Petals of death on their lips, the choric line Of death still burning through their lives, and the last Volatile Breath before them, the patient Voluntary martyrs wait; and in the Chamber of Death, Waiting and alone, the prisoner with the blows Lies sleeping, and the Gaoler sits and weeps; and slowly The gliding Gate-Crane moving over his car Boots the cold stone, slowly, with a solemn tread; And on the slant floor of the icy cell Swings the fearful lids, and turns the venom'd eyes, Here, silent as a serpent, she lies; and all the while She is breathing, whatround her torments rage Irresolute, yet devising what about her there Yet dawns an unknown Escape. For she knows not What Interface of all Pain is held between her and Herself, nor why, nor whence, nor under whatkish Fears Floats the murky flood of sacrifices there. All this one thought alone the agony can bear. And now, one gasp, one anguish, and one and one, As one, to flutter moths that hover near the Wall Of the Reals, she lives in every thought; and yet The subtlest vital whisper, subtil, only tells To some dim sea that one feels, though not to-day Of any Life, the still receding hope of any Love. And I was not there, but I have felt the air Frown over me as the Empire State for a space Weighs down the air. What sound is this that I hear, what harsh voice Burdens with soft feet? What civilisation-of-a-Item? In the black House of Repose, I have seen the fosse Dragged from the chine; the set Feeling their way, the digging Telling time for me, doing Time In the cracking House of the subduction; Then the fuming paint Going to sheet metal, tuning the radio So it could record SPEECH In the loud grind of the needle's tick; And the women leaning in the doorway, The men in the alley. And we have taken the drainless Tap, Turned the oil on its bar, or satroke In the sunlight or the absence of it. We have taken the Tap when it turns But not on its axis, not driven the oil Down the shaft; when the Cat's Fear was in force, We had gone for a drink and I have known The sound of the shaft rumbling, as it went, In the feeling of the Cat's Fear. And we have felt the oil in the lubrication Not felt it turn, as I have found the feeling Of the spirit of a spirit, this bar make Not turn as the turning oil makes happen; But made a part of the driving oil, Or made it friction at the shaft, or made A thing to feel with. Now I have a drink made of the good wine Of life, that is to come. The Cat's Fear Is a light drink for the lips, and the lips Have a light in them, and they love to drink it, In the place it makes them delicious, In the hand it is delicious in, Fitting for the tongue, the spirit. Let the rain bring its silver, Let the sun bring its gold, For I wish to have A drink made from the nectar Of my Lord and the Sun's kiss, In the RING with the good wine of my Lord And the Sun's kiss. I look at my hands, and I wonder Whether my heart is in them, For I feel that they hold The roses of light in each small vein, And they move to the music of lovely Happiness as they are perfect, Each flower a paradise; And I have seen a great light Follow the feet of a lady, And I have heard a great God Singing in the night, And I have heard a great cry, And I know that my heart is filled With the romance and the grandeur Of the sighs of love; And I know that I shall follow When I am dead; but, like a slave, When I am dead, And the light on my hand is a chain, And the space is a mile on the plains, And a hell above, And the chains have begun To grind my soul, and I know that I shall Ever ======================================== SAMPLE 431 ======================================== And when I am in tears, let the Doctor help; I'll have no hernia now. I now would gather My harrow, and lie down to die. Good night! I love all beautiful things in the world, The voices of bells, the gentle winds, And the sweet gossip of brooks; The seed-time-birds, and the full-grown deer, The bright-eyed swallows bringing Their voices out of spring; The strange gleam of the mid-day sun On apple-boughs bobbing in trees; The wild-eyed Hostess, the Danäle On Michael's plain, who talks so much And gives such sidelong ofhip, Is not a prettier spectacle Left on daylight of any kind, In riding on a pleasant day, Than the heifer's, to-day, Laden with ripe, dense oats, And heavy flocks, and crew-tracks in her haunch. Oft have our cheeks been dim from our love, And long not to look on, Till, heaven been unfied-- O do thy duty, be good, say, say, How dost think? Though our lives are in the hands of mighty Gods, And our fates are fixed by the will of fate, We often think, to sigh, to wish, to meddle, And to throw away our best years: Loose we are of man's power, we are told, And loose we must be of the highest, If we would have honor in our life. So it comes we see, so it comes. It was foretold. By us he was not to be great, Nor we of will to do great things, Or to advise the future. I say, if we saw one other human soul So singularly base, so void of feeling, With eyes turned on the future, with plans, So bleak, with nothing to redeem In the present, with all he toasts Of last and soon expectations, How would we question, how seek, We were born, we live, we know, And the great clock of Death we cannot spin. For who knew what was in the child Before it was in the breast? Or what the child would prove When it had grown, or what it had to give? Only the sire knew in his vision, But he came and he told his story In the year of all our mourning. I am glad the Furies are gone Facing South in long white snakes, I am glad in my solitary tomb To be laid like a beauty, I am glad in this land of woes Where no star gleams, no trumpets run Above my ancient Spain. How should I be 'us?' Would it be Like Spain or France of yore, With the Fire-eater, the ghost Of a king, a wither'd king, And a skeleton army, I am a little Britain Making once again her record, With the mania of making, Making herself again. I am glad I came, and I am glad I came for what was not, For the maiden host of France, The diamond of the south, The great poisëd sight, the brulette de Vence, The royal Gran Sosostre. I am glad, I'm glad I came, For I saw only Spain, The monstruous mounded wrecks, The little, shattered bier, And the crown of my dead father. I am glad to be here. A little death is good for us, A little sadness, a little delight, Weans away the sorrow of earth. The fillings of our teeth disturb it, We see, and we see The first tresses twinkling on our laps. A little dust, a little mould, A little mould we breathe again. When we are dead, we will not be alone For those we loved are here to kiss us, And the flowers come up from the earth where we have lain, Armed with the men they loved, Coming as the rapid horses of the sun, Coming as the sun itself on the cloud, Coming where the rain still falls in her yet unknown paradise. The rain of life falls in, and yet more rain! When we are dead, we will not be alone, We have Spain to kiss in sunshiny runs, We have France for the kisses of her eyes, And Greece, and the far off fields, and the virgin graves. Ah! they are all ======================================== SAMPLE 432 ======================================== then I must be a slave; I must be whipped, I must wear a brand, My back to the wall--all mine, My only play is to obey. I cannot smile, nor yet I can talk, Nor do I as I will, I'm afraid. I was not born, as you may know, to serve, I'm the fluke's chance, and his luck is only. Ah! the sight amuses me quite! My sire was pleased to name me for the Gadir, and so I am going to stay; But tell me, friend, you're a devil, or Not? And if you be, why don't you show it? For I'm sure you can, and wou'd better. As soon as I step o'er the waters, I shall take my chaperon I've a right fool exactly such as I, An' by this time you'll see the Carmarader, An' I'M a little person, so it's a free, free heart; An' that's a pity, because of the way the people revere & respect me. The nation bows to me great estates, honours, fortunes; An' when I speak, 'tis in accents divine; An' tho' 'tis sometimes in a broken language, I've a native U6%: of wit in prose or in verse, I CANNOT quit my native soil, For this is the nation all o' mine which is me; What's that to them? they've the rule of the main; So long as I write, I am not a fly; An' as I'm not, let the fool flap his wings, It will not lessen th' amaracity I have of being a Bird, tho' alone. As for the blither crowd that you should dart on, It would serve their skin like food to have seen me live; They love a man, where he is successful, to scound Like all the rest they talk of gold an' gain, They worship gold, an' silver's turned to gold I fear; They're like to be duped by a carpenter. An' they would drink e'en all away that they can get, Tho' they would not cheat on such a large face; An' all the lies they're good e'en enough for ale, They'll swear they are, tho' they are not. They talk o' peace, 'two 's like friendship to me; But peace from men, a discord, to me is a shame; It means they want girdles, girdles have they not? I've read o' times how Fanny became a slut, an' it Must sink her pretty soul so, That makes such lasses so wicked, such, as for my sake. They talk o' liberty, an' we're not to be sold At bargain-prices, we whilere we see the light o' the sun, An' see the de'il on e'er cop's wait to rob us blind, We hear the ruck passed an' thro' whene'er we dee, In the furrow's front, the furrow's light and the wind Be still an' friendly to hear, An' 'till the work's done, the work that's done we must 'ave. I never was sold to a TRUMPMAN, He'd ken what was good to me, but perhaps, mi body Wasn't so handsome when I cam' in; But all my mi brothers sold when they grew up, He was just nown the cleverest, brightest young onowr, And mi ole mother sold at kes start, just when she'd grown Old, an' mi father sold, An' I sold at mornin' 'tew lip, an' I played on the best, I never was sold to a TRUMPMAN, I was just nown the best chaps on ower. He's in his coffin now, that precious bone an' rich, The sweetest sweetheart, an' the ru; He and my ony, we 'ad some kind halesum since When I was just a Coney, An' the best ole daddy bought a tile-lot, An' mi lassie o' silver hair, 'Cov'd I should walk in by hersel' a penny an' spence, But I wanted mo' than a-takin' for my leem; For a lass'! a lass'! whoorpan' can ======================================== SAMPLE 433 ======================================== freshely grasses; A message from a courtier of kinglike shape, --From, first of the stately Neva--to be One day the boundary of a widowed hand, Who, wandering, could but give a place to one: No, but by the name of Cypris was rife Till her whose touch could make it poor or rich. When, lo, she turned upon a royal feast, Her eldest in the cast of man With courtly buttons and a haughty face To dance with him in stately dance, And, in the choice rings, the banquet of her eyes, Her ringlets, did the more work of those, That should have been the feast of Venus. But I like a lute may tell in rhyme, The old man's wishes in her ears attune, --Her feet and her hands, her my thread for her eyes. And then there came an image in her mind Of a small, lonely church, where she had been, The sad one, who found that the sweetness had Been plucked out from her, by angry force, She could not suffer it long, but fled, And she has never looked upon the eyes Of the poor church, its last sweet joy, Since she holds it her life's eternal grave. And yet she smiled, when she beheld the cloak Beneath her cloak, which showed her a queenly person; And a beauty she might have said rose and mowed Over the parley's speech, which she had held; But a word more was lacking, as she passed by, And she turned back for breath, in a little town, With something in her wise she made her turn. She moved off to the counter, and we heard Her weigh anchor, down on the antilles of weight; And what's worse than that she had heard, it seems, In a small circle of cold, listening men, That the powdered meanest are bleeding With the gold; but I'll tell you what she said, As we hit the road in the days to come. 'O damned ships of British, Irish, Scots, and Welsh, What do you say to one another, sobbing On land and water at a bound? I see You've been long together, fighting and streaming, And now you are fired with rage, and bitter. Come, I'll tell you what we'll call good; a long Life must have its marks; let me tell you mine. When I was young and if you have the will To leave it as I shall never have the power, I wish you to tag an old tune for my rhymes, And remember to tune them well; do it here, And here, too, adjust your compass so they'll fly Any where--I'm not aping Francis Plain, by jenny;-- But, all you enthusiasts, think you can have gold, When hell comes blawing through the overhanging lid Of all these fortunes, gold will seem a dreary song To what's to be avised in this: let me tell You what I wish'd for, when I'm dead and gone, And you may find it, cousin, when you're low And I am gone; I want you to be a fox, When kings do stop their faces, you shall say "Aagh!" As you pass the gates of hell, and peck the dust With griesly gargling; 'fore the throne you shall Have gold enough for cross and dagger, let me be A happy monarch dead, and know the sting Of hunger, of freezing wind, and of a prison To see our fellows borne; let me be so bold And break the dignity of rightful things; For had I, when I was first inspired, Worn patience and a stripling manhood, longer These tyrants had been content to play The part of everlasting chains, and I With worn and rotting crowns had never been Content to stir the swaddling cloth with grapes, Or to be Prince of a changing crown Of glories that broke and vizards, seen Through mist and cloud in heaven's unobscened Sky; now more swiftly and now more slowly, I think that way a Monarch may be After the time of universal sun And water and wind; but were he seen To hold a wheel and a body of light Like the white earth round about him, and to fly Without and within, above; would't be the same, And not seem another King and see And not a Beast; but were he like afeard And loth, or haste and wakeful ======================================== SAMPLE 434 ======================================== gives, and uninvited stands; Till, seeing all's ready, 'scapes his friends, And to a corner hies him away; Where, by the care of many an errand mad, Conveys the myriad, the myriad man; Like love's timid pupil, defers his sight, Resigned 'twixt red and blue, between green and gray: Not this - who shall now guide him to the sun? Ah! thou art wisdom's prisoner: thou art reft Of thy lost world; by cruel held, as thou dost feed; Thy kin reduced; and those who long thy life forbad; And, last, thy friends who dost keep thee banish'd, And, once again let thee forth on land from fire. In thy strong hours, thou seetest with the throng; Thou gazest with the cloister in the morn; Thou watchest thy friends' sorrows, thy host's joys: One, only one thing stills thy appetite, And one thy mind finds thoughts to mind, till it becomes Thine own thing still to thee, and to all else endows. From each to each thou hust'st their spirit to thy side: Till in scarce held with Nature to the realm of Art, Art over force, Art over understanding, thou Treading the ground. Thee, the innkeepers charge With oil and pulps to make the palates of men sweet; Thee with the chasuble Johnson locks and mills inhabit, Thou'lt one day make pulps thy pulpit toilet; thy urinal A tubular jill: Nature's sybarit lies, Between the two, full from the slope to fall Down that low base to nature's priviest mount: And where's the safest priviness for man and bird? The air between, an air more secret than the sea Beneath a jutting coral wept hands: The air between these hills And these two eyes: Two eyes to see, two to see In what dim maze of eye-sight women find their ways To glory and shadow-blindness. I see the roads, Each like a sinuous red-mouthed train, Come into the sun: The wide-angled purple plain Flings back, and comes into the sun; I see the bend of highway through the plain Take the long day still more deeply to itself; The highway, the bluish bend of hedge and crude of ditch, The barred windows of a-field red, The rounded curve of lady-ash trees, The noise of city eallay and summer pan, All draw close the loop of my day more deeply still: The wide-armed landscape lies as if still to do And do not yet and not to do go cold. I see the road's wide way, the spurs of grass, The heavy foot of hay, the low white hill Lies hard behind, a hard white hill to go to. The moment on the wide way comes: It is come, But now, though now it is past, and in the past; The moment past, and in the past, and to be done; And 'tis past, and in the world's heart to be forgiven. I see the golden skies in peace, And the green earth spread out her arms, While ever the happy voices call: I will go and kiss her tender lips. O, I will go and kiss her tender lips. I saw the boat, The big boat go hurrying down, 'Twixt hedge and ditch; 'Twixt cloud and dimness, dim and dreary, I saw the boat go down to Norfolk. In glimmering mirror th' enthusiastic eyes, Beyond the boat's bright presence, saw her lie; There stole a touch of sweet of ravished heather, Beneath her tall pinnace head, When steadily she seemed to go, And, filling wide heaven's space, went down to Norfolk. I see the tall pinnace turn back! O, I see the dim unlit van go, And I see, in white exultation, The struggling dawn drive off in dappling Around the darkening lake. The boat has crossed; the day is lost; I see the dark lake only. Let the wind Beat round the sleeping town: the boat has turned back. The bells go out on lake and hill, The sun sets in a cloud, The girls have all got married; The groves are abed. Here is ======================================== SAMPLE 435 ======================================== All down the length of every vale, Where lay, deep in a grassy bed, The canes and the high houses hoar, And in the valley the flowing rills. He saw the purple heaths adorn, With vivid green, as far as he could spy, The glimmering lakes of swan-crowned llans, And green bright crofts with azure rooft, And steevings where the diademed naiads shine, And sombre base of May and deer hide, And promontories of spray, From which the warm seaward thelerings breasted. He saw the brackish channel, the white dyke, And wind-blown surges that drank the dun, His, and his brother's, towers of land and sea. As on a breezy height, in still-wooded Confidence, And far below him in the sea bright islands broke the sky, Where the white surf fro Peer-driven waves, In charmed strife, his loud music made, He stood, where sanguine thought on thought could yoke, Nor think in misbegotten see That Peer in jealous sheath of ocean sheath Lay naked as a star for others' eyes, Betraying his great mind, a trembling line, Lying naked in the sun's dear midday. Flinging back the sky he saw the sea, Where islands, from the sea's blue horizon break, Nesting freedom's thought in diverse self-airs, Some blind, some blind with hope, and some with hate, He saw them, nor compassioned, nor knew The source of whirls where earth's dream, as if a dream, had bound All things at pole over Mind at its vastest loop, He saw his world break, as he was part of all that broke, His sky grow dark, his heaven, as he was part of all that lifted. The stormy lamp he saw extinguished, where From pines of air in windy trees the wreath Of spirit flowers the earth had pierced, Till roots of trees drew in, and to the earth entempered, Friezed with the flowers, sank down, as at the sight Of sudden lightning, he could see the cords Hold the big waves that seemed to cut the vaulted sky, He could feel the mighty spirit of the storm Gathering his thunder asunder, his senses quelled. And where the earth's dream of spring had broken in The soft grass lit up like silver snow, And in cloud-flecked lamps of burst of wings The gulls, that now with beaks of bendèd bore Plum-sized mounds of shining mullein o'er, With din of wing, and clang of beak, and boom of feet In sport shot spiraling round the soft green lake, He saw the wreath fly high up in air, A light before, and in a cloud before, Where from each pale circle fountain-like up-risen Floated the ghost of pearly steam. Hither from his own sweet fountain he Looked for the wild light wherewith the fountain's shadow casts Arts, shadows, and embroidery of figures, mute, On cloudy wall. The slender willow that Flow'd in his thought with intent to illustrate How light is, and the spirit silent, To his soft couches, and to lure his soul with its lure, He thrust from its strong holds and windings of delight From the strong thought, to run like a river of song through Tears that flowed on for ever. This he take in Doubt, this at least withdraw into his own full thought, To think of the wreath he had of haze, of the dare he had Think of the sky with all its figures of night, Of the fair nights, of the pleasing strange stillness, And hear at last the voices of the spirits of the waters. Again she came with tears to his bedside And whisper'd in his ear; and again he laid All disjointed fears about his heart, and said, 'Give me leave to die.' And she say'd, 'No.' And then she smil'd to see him so sad. Then he retire, and goes out to the fountain, 'Sweet fount,' he said, 'sweet water, thy tresses wove And imbrue me, sweep my way, sweep with speed, To fill my hands with red and gold. They had come from a distant mountain. With loving eyes they met the multitude, And climb'd the steps, and sat down, ======================================== SAMPLE 436 ======================================== iepTtTcV' is the frowTi mieL fawJ'a nesi'l t'wvye'n me<:a>)na>a<:p>oo<:er>oo: iwvai<:er>uoa , f'oye'r wvchcw'i ymd'rybob'a'i wvbe'oib'a yn duws duw ya'ga wen clyne'r I le wold a woid h<= oo; Thei's whist I had o' dem, Yow! when I goo me home, They say to me, he's dead, he's dead, He's not heeding his brains to work, But doos bonzer't swolart day, He's sanged, and shet, and crushed his brains; So here's hell to pay, if I live, And he be not but strong to die. Hag the white flanks o' the cauld blast, We are oughne folk; Our auld guid dad mornin' we rase O' thocht; The laatli puir powl a'er we saw We wer double houghback. The paildy mountain glens I wander through, Wi' tamin', westsiders, rude and wild; The dykes we pass all lookin' through Fra throats of awa. It's no howeva's hills to glory through, But where it didden's children wander, Trevisure, wilds of beauty; And yont wi' the breeze that you may feel In your belly sae sair. When the stars o'er all yont owers shine, And the lintie sings to their rest; Then sing, ye puir owers o' th' gloomes! 'Tis a mool sae mony a leevil alane Will follow ye twang sae lang. Agh! little birds, in your peaceful bowers, The larke and the suckwood shelter ye, While lint-white, and gob borne, we pass by, Perching on their heads; The rosy blushing through the briers, The lark streaming, and the eve-brown's e'e Are seen with their masters. The cosen natural, and sae the cart-rod, The red-breast sweeping roun' the streets a'; The orewet', and the brither soil, We are wild, We are wild-ass gaeluff, The noble hert, and the gowked horse-hoof, The pla'water, the mountain-raw, In flint-beated destin'd March our pioneers crossed the land, To a' day! By hill, and dale, and fauld, the path is levelled yet In days o' history. To Galla Street, in 1784, lad Harry Yule O'er the drains brought his report, And his eye and ryt pye. Haith Ara, är ois te Islay! An' ly Shanterick na Gair; A'gree pyl Luatyce a' Terfeullion Lach bacchar! Oielohter kion Dusht! Thayer a' saut-guyten halachur! Ar delaidh, laith Ara! Thachar an' deearh, a' ilmatar A'r bahte a bann thehocht! Oait o' the gay green ash-alley: An' spak o' deear a' I' faith, for your auld een, Oait on the top o' the glen. Loup upon the bough! Loov'd by you! Mellifantens! an' cheer! I' faith, by your arms, and hearts, I've conquer'd an' slaps. Oait o'er the cluds sae weel-a'-la' Ot mak's a twa'ela' for a' Ter binnun. A'gal-lana! na, Loch. Oait on the burn! Loch-oman! I ======================================== SAMPLE 437 ======================================== A man who was begrimed by a thing, But knoweth he may never accept The thing he was begrimed by; So on himself he curseth the Blasted thing; he spareth all Except the thing he was begrimed by. A thing he was, a thing he is, And for this I think good To be reckoned begger, Since for all each thing he was begrimed The begotten thing is: Nor may a man do more Than become a thing he was begrimed by. And thus we see the whos The offspring is not Of the old man nor the new man; But it is the whos that shall befall, The fathers in their turn shall fall, And so pass away that from them The young ones shall be taken. Now to Anaxitater one, The other, twins were born of Mars And of Earth the leona. One held the earth, the other held the sky: Now make it lawful to them both To take one life for both of them. They laid them down both dead, And each man raised his arm. <|endoftext|> "Finch in the Garret", by Mary Robinson [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Fall] In all the language of the country the French expression is hard to interpret it means, is it pointed toward, is it inclined. If a cone or agg licome of grasses, grass, jim-bolek, The then it is autumn, but if it is the forest, it is autumn. The snow is of these forest only the sign. It is otherwis a snow of the forest, but the word is not, not is not. It is snow of the forest, but the word is not, not is not. It is snow on paper but of these columns it is autumn whether the forest it is the snow Or the snow of these trees It is autumn. It is the forest and of snow. Not the paper snow of these trees It is autumn Whether the snow Is of these woods Or of paper It is snow of these trees The day was clear whether it was pleasant or not. <|endoftext|> "A Dialectics", by Paul Dvorak [Living, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Philosophy] A Dialectic is simply a step is simply a determination is simply a pair of opposite A dialectic in st i ng is usually symmetrical is usually drawn in various shapes A Dialectic is rarely a single shape A good analogy is readers speakers repor t t he l egions of the world. They will continue to grow and draw others until exhausted. Their strength is in their diversity will not wither will not fade. A good analogy the night air. The clouds hatch into the shapes of great columns. <|endoftext|> "Ode", by Yemi Sol Hood [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Weather, Religion, The Spiritual] You found the sea with its drums from its nipple drawing your heart to its tip in the plash black air sinking past your toes to your lips into the crack of a last moon's shine into the surge of a spittle crack. <|endoftext|> "from "Every Valley"", by Yemi Sol Hood [Living, Death, The Body, The Body's Place in Religion] from "Every Valley" by Sylvia Legráe The yearning of body is where it all starts. The yearning of body is always there, light upon face, sky outside the world beside the body who lacks the ability to ever find the place in any prayer to contain, to say what it means to be alone or to say what it is to give up the question to silence. The body's pine roots hunger, its need, is the secret to everything. But the yearning of the body, the body's search for home, what comes when end of the world is a way to home. <|end ======================================== SAMPLE 438 ======================================== Again, perhaps, you will exclaim: "But what Is Beauty?"--as if, like my friend, you Would ask me the black or the beaver. In the darkest hour, When my heart was a-light, I did swear, and I did swear: "I This is the tale of a lady and her ladylike menial girls. It is O- san's specialty! One day, as I was wandering through the store, I thus was caught by the hand of my lady, And took, as you will wonder, this This way, this thing! And now, O my friend, there is nothing on which we would more go out, as all have done here; for now we have seen the tavern, and shown the sick heart; but there is still a chance--for I am sure the Master will be there! So, good-by to you, my friend. Here's the gate! That last word lit a glowing sentiment in me that lay beyond the spoken word. And the heart-throb that I caught from it lit the soul In a late August night the streets of Whistler, the resort town of the North Star, were all moist with rain but the dusty uprisings had silenced the cries of the taillights of cars that made Whistler a lonesome place. The bodies of the drinkers were floating in a drained pool at the bar, but the souls of the drinkers stood submerged in the morgue-like room of the bar. They were pool-sized, but the little and more so motley souls stood up from the slimy living tables that sought themselves with a laugh or a hug in the homosexual graveyard of the joint, and strolled into the room of the triple-decker with a dance to a Tommy o' three on the crank The soul, I heard his voice in my chest and thought, Oh, he'll be there! I'd bed his roof with my ukulele, and we'd hide him in the bay- window, or on the squat terrace, or rooftop in the urinal. He'd laugh it from the osmically teleological jungle of my patients, but I was in futadom, and he was the only producer in the world where I'd have left him with his withering winds and tear-stained plants, and call his bluff, if he'd just give a hiccup and tuck his shirt up. But he didn't waltz. He sipped a lime-juice and stood in the mirror showing teeth and a bit of a tropelward-facing patch. The woman in me raised a cry that would not in silence. I had killed him or honored him by being silent. "Why did you love him?" "It's a terrible thing, the sort of love you say it is!" But the thing was that he had died. I couldn't stop my heart. I am not a heart woman. I knew from the very start that I'd kill him. In the second year of this murder I won a big prize at the Guild. I killed him afterward. <|endoftext|> "Ravines", by Carolyn Wells [Living, Death, Life Choices] The girl who sits in the white-gold dawn I last saw twelve years ago. I have been counting—look, look up there! I pass and pass her as I do. But you say to scram! There's someone passing out flurries on those wings. Run. For Christ's sake, Ben, or don't start, or, if you do, pick your spots. Look out where you want to go and pick your attractions. I chose this unisones easily as a matter of appearance. You chose it easy as pleasedness. That is what is loving, that is what you do. I'd make myself unfriendly, wouldn't I? The pretty girl I was once can't be close to this appetite. That was my rule. You liked her making you uncomfortable. Well, somehow, I did. I can still smell her hair when I'm killed. That's how you do it. You choose your pris- terals. There's a sweet spot there. <|endoftext|> "Notes on Sexual Violence", by Carolyn Wells [Social ======================================== SAMPLE 439 ======================================== altar-holy,—is the step on the ancient road, and every man is welcome. Thus for this year I have to pay a generous tax, but in December I'll again be home to meet the folk, in the Blackfoot lodge, and then with happy shouts bring the children up to me. In the next house over the river is the Post- Standard newspaper, and in the house near the court house is Gooding's—where were his offices, so I hurry back quickly to the village, having written the speech on the blackboard, and joined the throng to go to the final resting of the dead. The blackboard is deserted, and the school is changed in appearance, for the funeral shouts ceaselessly break from the hills around to the west—I take a bitter heart, I cannot wait. The funeral tents are pitched, and the people are gathered on the road, and I almost feels like a coward to be walking so hastily. The elders grow taller and more beautiful as they go on—I've seen eagles from a great high ledge on the top of a cliff, and far away the Lone Druid. From the depths of the wood, the mourners climb straight up to the bright stars in heaven— I cannot watch them without tears. I am moving sluggishly along to the next grave. All of a momentary time is swallowed up in the gathering confession and in the praying, as these men continue to the end, and I stop here before the last. Over there in the day room, the women have been told to the voice. The boys have been sent out to the fields, and their voice is heard as it falls. The boys return, the corn is cut, the bread made, and sit down to their lunch. Then they return to the shelter. <|endoftext|> "Milk", by D. H. Lawrence [Activities, Jobs & Working, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] The cows stand on the hill, looking up at the cows who look over at them. The wind is blowing down like a jolt of gold champagne, and is warm on the ground. A big cream-white cow is drawn tight like a woman and towed along by two strong men. Cows seem to have a thousand tricks, as this one is to make her young get bigger quicker. They may stand alone or come out to the water to show their work. If a cow goes from green into green, she may hang around the place of green for hours. The milk they give, called knee-milk, is purer and sweeter tasting than old curds which is what ordinary milk is. She pulls on her man's shoe to make his milk rise higher in revolvers. The most vigorous and healthy cows take plenty of it. After a hard day's labor and many yawning climaxes, she may take a rest, and then be ready for the next. She has the advantage over every other cow of waiting in the morning to breed the next day. She has the advantage over every other cow of looking at the sun. This is the age of the cow in the open; the cow in the field may be in the stalls when the sun is high. The sun is high and the cows come to the pour to have their calves attended. The calves are strong and fair. They are fat in about four days. They are inclined to run and beg and will stand in a field all day to beg for more milk. These are the strongest cows, unable to be got off. The rain-days come sooner for these with stronger bulls. They are too strong to be kept inside. The pride of a cow is her courage. Her pride comes from her calf. The pride of a cow is to be needed. <|endoftext|> "On the Nuns of Farbunga", by William Wordsworth [Activities, Jobs & Working, Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology] Far though they be fro'er many a weary yeild, When the sun is low,When the mueful gale blows wet and rough, And the nymphs of air hafn about,How far do ye froeben roll in the blue Or where the gliding river's fold;If they straight do stay in that liffe, And wander not between ======================================== SAMPLE 440 ======================================== A fine day, my dear! To 'scape a polly in the street I halve it on the cheap; I rather grieve than tell it half, I tell her I shall die! If she should pan no more than that, She looks so well at once; The cottage is full of a cheer She never knew before; The game of the porters we, and who Is a friend to my lady, The 'prentice and I go every day I weep for the change, lord, in her face, The face that at first glance I see, I may have become quite the shame Of her mother, and for this what Should I have done? what will they say? One only hope I have, in vain I thought to console her for so long, I mean to bring back, to her sight, From oversea stocks their best, and show Her the man that she has loved so long O mother, O mother, one word only, After those many, many years, This is the word: 'We trust, with your daughter.' 'O my daughter, dearest friend!' O Dejanira speak as of the last, And greet her with one word alone. As mother to the maid, but other Back to the child, I stole a smile, A kindlier hand at the child's birth, In all sorts of ways I won her, In all sorts of bliss she me: And there I found her, it seems, Half naked on the floor, and what The wretched mother had to say She could have heard her mother, and die, And throw herself on the child, and close Her eyes for sheer despair. He smiled to his daughter, the maid, He smiled to his daughter, the maid, And kissing her two hands, "Dear," He said, "your mother's hands are here." <|endoftext|> You are away in the field with the cares of life, You are far from this little white dwelling now, The poor and the distresseful Seine. When you think of the sleigh, your little companions are not there, The far-storms have taken the far-lands away. But they shall not always be afar: Sister and brother you shall come again: We will make the far-lands away More than this palace of mine. Sister and brother you shall come. Who shall name the sights to you is unknown, In these far-suds, sweet Lands of Sleek and Coates! The roughest troop that ever trod out on the Grey, Rides gentler road and circuit here: The King in his fort of pride and power, Dwells here, here, and at ease: And here shall the sweet maiden and her lover be, And the rest of the cuckoo-smashers. When you think of the time that is past, When my dear face was sere and shrunk, Do not think of the land of the far-wings: Think of these life-gifts which I lay down for you, Of all hand-lets, of all gray hairs. And of the fainting pulse which I caught and lost (It was sweet, was it not quick?) When you thought of the land of the far-winds. What is there can menace or dread to us, What seels or sills on a maiden's cheek: For who of my heart-strings knows what terrors Decreeed on the sea of air; Or what of rapture and what of reproach The height of a nameless height, the giddy width Of grinning chasm or crack of sheer cliff? O Earth, bear the wear and tear Of seasons long and fleeting by, And teach me to be humble and brave With changeful time in change-tide: For when I am grown old and grey And thy children mine, I shall not hail With folly's fool of an Echo-cough The world of the ages again. Though the strange heart of man be wild When his rude songs of home are sung; But a kindly Earth and quicken'd Seed Shall answer his longing and yearn. In the years that are theirs I shall learn To sow and to tend corn for my use; In the years that are ours, I know no hope Grown in vain in barren words and shades: As some great song breaketh the bar of night And some glad music of the dawn unroll The joyous songs that shall be. Hearts, like flowers, ======================================== SAMPLE 441 ======================================== So that I should not have to say I won't eat If I can get by the salmon. "I don't really care if I go to pieces If I go to pieces, And it's better if I don't have to. I wouldn't care if I couldn't eat. It's not like I count my chickens. "I used to be so glad of chocolate It was like an joy, I just don't know what to say, it's so not nice. I just don't want to say anything. "I'm sure the Lord was with us and was smiling, But it's awful hard to say it. I don't know if I'm making of you this side bar. It's terrible it should happen to me. "I hope you don't think I'm a fright Because I'm four yards deep. It's a horrible dreadful yard "The Father Himself will see us, The Father who saw us And the Father Who beheld us. We have no fear or loss Of any consequence If we only stand and see it done. "You see the house isn't done. But if it's never done again We might come in humble shapes. But it's dark. What would the old light be good for? What would the dark do? I see them there in the dust That my hoes and rough-ol' deer Have picked up along the road; A kind of a way station. And there's a beacon light That shows the way we've come. So it seems to me, only I don't see them there hoes There in the dark, And I see only one beacon light. But it flashed on the high ridge-antenna. So it seemed to me only I was ghost there. And I heard the old beacon say: A beacon light you never saw. But, still, like any of my hills, it's where I've lived it best. For the hills are my own, The ranches are my own, The life is almost mine, The crops are almost mine, The cattle dogs are almost mine, The flies are almost mine, The woods and the cattle are almost mine. So it seems to me, So it seems to me only I'm not looking out of The door. And, in fact, there are three, or four, or five, But it's really only one, and, for three weeks there It's almost my own. But sometimes it's like I can see out of the door And, when it's dark, I wonder To what window, to what window I'm looking at. I never miss the print of my foot on the roof As I chase the sunshine around. There's no wind that can get there now And make the outside seem cool; There's only sun and a blank white sheet And a little breeze to help. But you get there in four-foot winds And blow a white sheet to the off-low sky. And when I'm up there I guess I'll see How far I've come and where, I guess I'll find out how much further, And that will be fun, Shall be a great big rainbow-colored event And perhaps tell you something. I can't make up a fantasy, I can only relate to them. They're not so different from the rest of the men In the universe as far as I can tell. I can't make up a fantasy, I only catch their color, The one that always is closest to me, The one that seems to like me. You don't need an imagination If you only think about it, But you'll wish you had one if it comes to be. You don't need an imagination To make up a dream for a dime. But if you take the trouble to afford it, It is a joy to obtain. I was walking up the hill And settling in the valley, I was walking up the valley And feeling up the sun. I was gathering strength To go up and down the hill And make country and town Gain a scuffle in the dusk. It's an imaginary picture I've painted, It's a kind of a journey, And my picture of Home is the finest Of all the journey we know. It's a journey I go on and on about. It's a marvelous story I'm telling. The brook fills the picture with laughter, The rain cloud with sadness, The bird that swims past the window Has a mild eagle in it. ======================================== SAMPLE 442 ======================================== Modest in sooth I prithee were That he ne'er hath seen the death of one By his impudence defil'd. But I see By his own deed he hath enfranchised Thy black soul: thy black soul alone That only can be doom'd, e'en in this. What hand created Adam's race Of strange new colour, and new sense Among the known old shades? What foreign light Thy inner mind could sometime reach? Or, were it possible, whereof Thou think'st? Else, the dream, whereby Thy speech I hear, was it the wind, Or said by me unweeping spirit? My daughter! if I pray to the mountains, To the pines, to the pigeons of the plains, To the snow, to the sea, to the sunset, To the foliage, to the stream, to the year, I am wont to pray; but if I pray To thee, myself, myself thou dost forbid To aid me in my travail; for to thine Thou giv'st aid. Oh hear me! Oh heed me! Thou shalt be by me, as the porter, To control and to keep in check My full endeavour: and if I am unjust, Thou shalt dismiss me without days' notice. Have no patience with me, therefore. Thou shalt treat me as thou wilt act, Be just to me, thou shalt mock at me, As if by thee we had been brok'd, And fixed in one stage of pain. Thy foul reproach and insult Belong to thine own self: and if In answer to the very least of things, I have foreshown thee thy soul's sense, To me thou hast not been answered. My grief thou freely hurl'st, my rage, O, give me fury, get thee fury! O, give to me then plagues body and breath, Tears, veins, and such ingratitude Will make me go woe and wild As if I here could live at all. Then I shall rest from my bitter tears, From my sighs shalt thou receive me: I shall be as one who doth expire Whate'er is made of brav'ry. Thou shalt be fed, made great, honoured: I shall be get'd abject and beggar'd. Away! thou never more, O misth! Shall I behold thee, nor support Thy, if I were to see thee more; But I shall meet thee never, never, Where thou dost then think on, or where Thou shalt be, or whither, wherefore Farewell then, and for ever, or so it be, Farewell: I wish none other happiness Lies within my power, nor wish, I say, Any joy, myself, nor else my friend. My stock secure we shall be gathered more By that day, which you shall now begone. O! the thought, to kill or be murdered To me seemed joyous to the extreme; Nor so at present; but, O foolish man! Walking with such a fancy in the sun, I, thinking, thinking, did unty this minute. Walking awhile, next day, at eve, The truth I straight forgot; And, o'er the same path, now arid; And, short like me, you me applaud. The locust, proud of her sweet pride, In th' "Woo" of her scent has stalled, And stands at her unchiezz'd weight: Walking awhile, next day, at eve, The truth I straight forgot. But come, then, since you so approve, O sla'ng Truth, To try the ARCHETEAS, I'll jump them, one by one; And if you praise I'll defy you, And if I die, you will die. Tho' life may not 'scape me, as you think it might, I'le try this experiment for you. That from the wrong of one offence They absolved me, where I should crave Eternal blot; "He did but act, therefore he deserves Neither mercy nor justice." "He held the position of the world; But we from that world do roll." Daughter of Jupiter and Danae, Whom bold Jupiter married, Her father's mighty changer, A footstool of polished gold, Saturn's younger ======================================== SAMPLE 443 ======================================== <|endoftext|> "I Thru Wellness", by Dr. Judith Gomez [Living, The Body, Love, Realistic & Complicated, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, Race & Ethnicity] White girl, affirmative action alumna, what up? When I need a dose of glox to get me through the day, an edeline a pick-me-up tincture, a coconut aromatherapy to get me through, I through know that you are a healer, you through understand that I am a patient wreck, I thru you can get to where you'd only ask me through, a desire and want of getting to know you, and not just the outer coast, my inner crash and burn, but your crash and burn, my drive to get to you, an ode to where we share a space & time through a wellness, where we can get well & get well & get well each day & get better every day, a road that leads to a garden of new glories, a veritable Eden of the earth we share, a new galaxy of potential for the mind's astronomical year, a birthright our skies gave us, our star sign, each day we get up & shine, each day we shine, each day we brighten, until shine & brighten is less than not getting started, when no calorie, no matter how committed, no matter how damaged, no matter how good, no matter how grievous, no matter how savage, is good enough for love. My desire to be more than good with love is my foregone debt redeemed by beauty, beauty my harbored intention to be more than beautiful. I thru debt to heal my heart's torment; a deed of sacrifice for other, whether human, kindred, begotten. To get to where you are you qualifier need not apply, already by your dork, whether he apply, he already already see you, he already is with you. My Lady of the State Your smile is stuck to my no meaning, my no application. My greenie baby I follow in your cry your sub credit, your sub menu. Your sub earth is my sub star, your sub Mars the sun, your sub trine you trisected my heart, your sub tridevolved, your sub ultimate you transcended my way not mine. My Lady of Change You know my fanatical, I respond like a crazy person when you state, sub parent star meant for a parent. My fealty to my bloodlines, fountain, igni-cult, and sacred, my sub phallacy it is either me or it is it is I, sub passion, the fire, the passion that I tower, that I am the origin it is that I sub Mars, sub Earth, sub Sky, sub Silver, sub Green, sub Rock, sub Ice, & sub Void. My sub breath, sub heart, sub brain, sub Mind, sub Soul, sub Dominion. <|endoftext|> "Slide", by Christine Kierstead [Living, The Body, Love, Desire, Realistic & Complicated, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] My body doesn't care for your porn When we meet alone it's either cuckoldry Or golden shower lust That's fine by me A shower is just for changing clothes But when it happens again I want it rough with soap and not glaze I want to be oiled & hadferred by spilz I don't want nooooo linger But that's just a huge feat If I insist It's fucking weird if it's not obliged & every inch of me is soft Now I'm with you In thishood <|endoftext|> "Self Portrait with a Telescope", by Courtney B. Walker [Living, The Mind, Arts & Sciences, Photography & Film, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] This is a conversation I've had with my mind a lot. If I could return to that place I would catch a worm at night, far off in an elm where a bird would ring and its twang in my ears. Would stand in a doorway that opens far into a crowded city. It's where I'll go, though I don't know how to get there, to stand there, to be in that place at all. I see myself, arms stretched to catch a wound, from a certain angle at which I see myself. A flower, a finger, can shoot a photograph back to the photographer. A stranger walks into a room and ======================================== SAMPLE 444 ======================================== if ever she is any after all as the seeds are not ready yet for any of this to be she is not ready for the stars to be born and not all of them suns there are many others that have no peace they are as wary as the moon they can get enough so that the sun is one with the distance she does not know that the moon how it is making her cry even when she is a lot of light it is still singing to herself we want to go back we want to go back to the life of making a home of anything we do not necessarily have to do it for all of it is done for us and we are its sons we are the seed we are the flocks we are the harvests we are the blooms we are the kids we are the younglings we are the children we are the nature we are the in grotesques and we are the assemblings we are the spirits we are the breathings we are the waters we are the tempests we are the blots we are the flukes we are the fictions we are the voyagements we are the luster we are the silences we are the signefied we are the spells we are the sparks we are the I sing, Sing me the Graeco-American Song: never again <|endoftext|> "Drift", by Robert Hass [Living, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] This place is haunted, he says, echoing the spot where a) the dogsleddeed was chopped from the spires of older hills b) where he and his mother lived, c) Where they met, riding that cherished gust, e) Where he learned to trust her, that this was possible, d) Where he and she first saw that this was possible. . . now quiet, though not quiet. . . Beneath the oak, the child is silence immeasurably hence. From his eyed gaze—a ball on a fiducial patch of ground—is There. From hers, an awed aesthetic suspendent. Withdrawn, she would not have appeared alone there, in or near that foxfire; withdrawn, Sutherland's Mariner would have been lookish, and Sutherland himself seemed in none of it. The poet cannot bear alone to linger, and would have us console him: the only hint one finds is in the copious preparation Sutherland made before his book's publication, a matter of months in advance, including, he says, "written sort of a foreword." Not a solus excuse, but one worth looking into. The day is clear, and if the wind's not wild, there's not much to see but trees and a smooth law: you may choose to think of these as friends; or to think of these as mortal foils, or to recall these as the normal order of things that will be disturbed— the shock of now— by something out there and then, by something in the not-so-distant past, or by nothing that has even the vaguest connection with anything and time and doesn't want to be a mystery. There may be little things we have never or only very rarely done that we might do now; we march to the prettiest flat field on a magnificent view and scan the gutters, road, and border tower. And, sputtering, we do the best we can, and the best we gigantistically can. <|endoftext|> "Unworthy", by William Matthews [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Separation & Divorce, Love, Desire, Heartache & Lament, Unforgiveness & blame, Change, Sorrow & Panic, Valentine's Day] I should have done it sooner It is too bad because I liked him a lot. It was not like he liked me much. In fact I screwed myself because of that guy. I don't know why it happened. I felt like a loser and ashamed. He was always talking to this other guy and I was too much his type. Then there was another one and then not him and so on. It was like this go around. Then there was another one and then it stopped. I got tired of it and didn't bother ======================================== SAMPLE 445 ======================================== And when the poppies are a flame Their blackness can no way be lit; And when the rose-blush's faintest flush Is as a tear wiped from the eye, They make the cheeks so pale, To see them, yet so sweet, so pale. And there is no wind, at ground In a hive for a hundred shade Through a whole day, with a good supply Of bees and sunshine to keep A steady warding: There's a safe life for a brave, In a hive of honey, where The prize is the honey not the worker; For the prizes are, and the war is late. They went out one evening to feel The moon and what the stars were doing, Who steer'd the planets of love and life, And as they look'd and listen'd, went. All silent was the galaxy As if the lustre of the gods Had sig'd to strike the golden proportion, And so have their enveloping stars and gold, Like very gold, have train'd their brilliance to An eminence high over nature's death, Their own high life alone. I am the weather, Who live in the sea of thoughts That fill your petrified sea Or rather were, and yet Are as dead, as is your soul, In a world that is always born, And dies, but does not die alone. O bright weather O bright incarnation! How shall I say it? for you Whose presence fills the sea and, As for your lips and breasts, With an oak of word-soothing power My words alway have fare. O water for your feet, Your feet and hands are clay. Yet your strong root and your root-children, Your beauty that never withered, Your ocean-bones and your sea-resurrection Are worshiped and adored as gods. O sound of a far shore O beauty that dies not O deep in his ocean-chambers Your self-fed son is fauning, His soul a-strive Yourself shall a vision be, The wavering image of you Is whiter than a note of blackbird. Mirth and innocence, O golden halos Of pure persons, As men whose feet have trod The miles of earth where, not dilated, The myriad blackmembrance, have sinn'd, shall have sinn'd. The soil of your brest with its odours Is such as fed the last and lamenting For all the sallow fields: For you have sown forth your yell-burthen Of griefs and you've sent them forth To be eaten by the riffles of the wind. In your grafters is a green-bath, Butane and amply banked: And the fair one, your lovely child, To comfort and hear chants. For the vaguest soul of you The being is a joyful one Whose body is a garden, Whose skin is the tawny osier. For in your breasts is borne, To feast you and get fres cooperation, Love-drugs, and all convenings, Assurance of you and whatso medicines The pullulates of your over-soul. And the way it is with your vigour Is equally to be gambrel'd. Youth of your years O, too young to bid you leap From this to dancing and tuning your lyre! Too fond of peace you are To give your body the tongue's share Of passion and sentiment: And too stern and scolding and pedantic To be the god's consort. O hear the praise Moloch is given To counterbalance the heap of mothering And boyue's lust O what Mellons o'them As mothgers sing They will swear What Moloch has Was at the once justified scorn Not worship For you can have Whatever you will You are allowed to be any kind of god. There was a time when men would say There's nothing finer to be seen Than folk who painted their tails and clothes And knew how to prink and prance and sidle, But the scornful Gentile Would see with his share Of paint and kink And clape And would smile at the marchers and taunt Of this no faith In lampoons or carny wyes O how dare you leap and cackle To be what you paint? Now they are grown to be With sons and wits reft a few That ride gayly across ======================================== SAMPLE 446 ======================================== Hymns, offered to the manifold Powers of heaven. The father and the father-in-law, The sons, and the grandsons, and the great Grand-sons, who are called to be first And fourth, for earth is divided into three, But these four make earth into four hearts. There is a windy cleft between the gates of Enen, the lowest, and yet open, And the head of a halidull time doth roll From east to west, that time being the highest; And thither the holy ages do go, Which go with baptismal symbols. In that far time, which is called Hermes, It is decreed that a holy child, A child from earth, shall spring, to whom all Repentances shall apply. So that with shrift-kneaded hedges That infant shall be wed, Wedding-like, with saints and priests and fire, And so by miracle rise From out its chalked grave, in Hiram's day, And by its own second birth Become a first or atcher. There shall be two more to unite In even rows, the one that way From north to south shall run; but who Shall set them, the two Leaders? I cannot call to mind, With pallid cheek and drooping head, The forms of good old Abe, The lion-cragged, the Red Sea One broods in black and gleaming, And the other sits alone And droops with ragged beard. One canter past in thunder, Cocks clattering to bounding feet From the scented rose-buds that Tempt the blithe air with scent. Abe canters by, yet not so, Bearing upon his back the one Small weather-worn flag undying, And on mute cheeks and hands Little sign of labor toil, Or sweat of hot and bleary toil. His soul's a fire, and where He lights it, no change comes. It burns not if it will, nor stays If it can, endureth all, But size, and color, and form, And tear of woe, and mood Of worn and racked heart-- All these have nothing to do With light, and shade, and speed of wheels, What e'er it lighted on, down below The restless waves it down will bring To haunt and bother the happy forgotten lave, Laving it slowly to that fiery end Where fury is not, nor strength secure. Then fade all over to a calm and simple sky With cloud of Hell that thou must never challenge. What flower is not piteed by the blow That leaves it naked with a scorched leaf? What hedge is not pierced with the teeth of ravin? What road not already ploughshare smoothed? The watcher in on false rising ground And on thy wasteful self-dug grave Pursue thy way with pride, with pain, with rhyme And rave, and leave not living thing Out of thy heart's once Ceuelstone Galloway. And thine own lands left deserted Thy bed deserted, thy fires drear, And all thy heart's scorched heart and head For ever left doth heave a stone Piling up toward Heaven, and know'st thou naught Of fellowship, and ease, and rest. O women, O brothers, with the Lord Blest for their sake! O people, O Kings, With whom be firm and sparkles held To thy light a cluster of sparklets thrown. And after thou, our Star of Bears, Be risen Star, have thou enwound A crown of blazing comets, for whom? And ye, O frogs, O purged ones, Enlisting in your snouts, and ears, Long ears, long eyes, and hollow breath, That leap, aye awake, at my command, And make a constant crooning To me for spirit that babbles low, And panting cold, for bite my fill, When called to arms, do up in arms. And ye, O trappist Nations, So many, myself make happy With you, that light to me is hailed. And ye, O spirits, that haunt, And sleep in clear nights, aye as I, That haunt a hell or high, a jail And sleep in a far land, This life, this mortal life, Is not the death of Philip's God But this, or worse, lives on, And has ======================================== SAMPLE 447 ======================================== As I am one Who knows, and I am one Who knows that I know. I once had hope to blot out the wicked In my own person, but that now is fancied. I make it known to you as plainly as I can That I am myself good, but I am still to find Other people's wickedness, as you will find, And I have no warrant to assume the blanket Of person evil, excepting God and your life. But I am ready to say what I mean to say. The matter stands thus: We must take things as they come, And I have always held that you ought to take your Ordinary measure, as I think the Lord Doth in the New Testament; though you ought to find Your old measures from the Old stand here, holding Each unto itself as sure and correct, and hence It is that I find fault with the things I do. My mind's completely on the looseness--me- And I must be this looseness' prey, Or none of the good will get through to the center That sits so constantly before me. I make this moment the same as clear As if it never sees before, and hence The looseness so deep I will go on Although my heart and I are filled with grief If you put your mind to it and effort To mind your secret, then the secret Will come out of its penance, free and neat, Or else leave this world behind like a new one, As yea or even ye, my dear friends, were Made Ye to love beyond all belief, and thus Prove the opposite of what ye think, and thus Construe me to be an abject hate, I find by cause and effect that King Must have his shadow, and I dohap more, But then I have the advantage of the matter In that I know how to bon ourselves At little corners where we can be gay, And thus we make our lame fountains sing And bear the music with us sure, and thus We drown our failures there where they mean Most, and thus put on a masquerade, and thus Appear to ourselves royally as great and pregnant As if we never could be weak, we are true But now I come to make up my bonnet, For I have put my stroke to such a seed, And what I gain I shall set t'enrage And have my whole large evil stopped with one By showing that we never mean to go About our business apace, and thus Hear us call heed to this blessed day Which many a day hence cometh, the day When the great lord jowells his veines and weaves In sundry patties all over sweet, And I want to set the pattern and make an end And witnesse keepeeth me that I may wite By this time that we have seen this monthe, I will put it on to answer thus That the floure may understand it, and that I, With your leave I will declare openly What hereto I speak in silence since, And I shall have it printed, and have it so, And over-how pass, and for such credence I'll receive from his lowes, but yet perforce He will be kyeved, and proudered, and great will Is given to his falsehood. I was a traitor ere Love was born, But now I make a covenant with you, That wherein I differently did esteem The cause of love then deemed of merit: And if both texts be as old as David In case there be no love in either case, I swear on them, the two worst pages in my Bible, That all the other pages may teach a thing Less wrong, that is as if the rime of Rome Had been found in Mr. Swaffield's brain than in my. On him I call A heartworn maiden And swear to her, as to a Bible, No man alive should know our engaged Intercourse, as I knew him, or would: For if he did, at once from him I shrink To list the blow of one that hears one, That spurns an empty vaunt as 't were new- Because he loves so weakly. And in the place of Scripture that's found 'Neath all the world, that law he would defend, He'd cite Marlowe, and I would answer him, (Though how better it were my prime than his That I should speak him fair, and make him see That in my life or love he had but mimes Of that, ======================================== SAMPLE 448 ======================================== On the happy shore that lies, Where the rainbow's glory shines, And the souls of them awake To the work that yet is to be; Where the full-duck sports his wings, And the sore-hearted ploughman smiles, And all greet in chorus:-- "Oh, that they could be as they fly Far above the clouds that linger! Oh, that they might laugh and play the game Where the firstling minority prey On the young and the strong. And what shouts ye bare! What greetings carry you so? We've seen naught of those we seek, But the sea and the fields and the sun; And above the whirl of the wave We've seen the Goddess come. And the rosy light in her hand Made the rippling waters quick; And the music of her voice was heard, As she rode over the beech-trees; And her white robes swept so low, That, half hidden from the view, They gleamed among the waters blue. "And we saw her dine In an old church tower tall, Where they told her stories of him, And her father said: 'He was the man I was born to be; His pilgrimage is done; For he left her at her birth, And took her away, And sent her to school there, And she sits each day at her window, And all she earns she spends, While the long evenings fly by, 'Til, at the sight of her smile, They awake with a fever. "'Oh, well I knew of her'-- Said the Queen to me-- 'I could have died if she Would have left me alone; But her mother always Was strict to her, and she Kept a visiting-room, And a hundred old-time cronies, And passed on her way. "But, oh, the light of the Queen's eyes! It burned a pasty-white, And we sat there in awe, As the time drew on for us, And we heard the strong winds moan, And all the rolling smoke, And the drowsy-voiced gusts moan, And the wintry storm grow white, And the surging billows fly. "She looked on us with pride, We were all that she could see; But she looked on us and we heard The image of itself, And wept as it passed with a moan, And we hoped our days. "And she rose in the opening morn, And all the towers were black But the Queen was not there; 'Oh God, I thank You that I'm not A beggar now with a daughter, That I ever could have been. "'I know what You wish'd, and I'll try To do what You wish my son: I'll get a son to Your call With the gifts of a man to look Like a king, and eat his share Of the gifts that a king draws by, And die with him at last. "'I'll make the world my child; But there's nothing, body or soul, That can ever be Like my boy. I'll let the night Bow down before him, and the dawn Bow down before him and bow; And when he's gone on his business He'll pack the room with a hum, Not grudging his Sunday's stay. "'I'll look on women with scorn; I'll never laugh at a man; I'll never pray for a sign Of the woman to wed, But as white a finger as I Can assure them I Can assure them that they're never Half happy with a woman. "'You'll be my God my son; But every woman is a fuddy, For Yours is a tyrant, And he must be bekim With his rough ways, but he Hass't quivered with my son; And I'll never praise Him But as a caitiff; And if I'm a loon, I'll Play the fool and kick it, But if I'm a believer I'll play the fool and kick it.'" "The Princess sat at the windows With her eyes weeping, and she Saw the city, and as she saw it Saw the wreck of it: the little-eyed Gashed carrions wailing like wife And baby in the war. "She saw the maimed bodies of women Wandered and wandered; but she, she saw them Only as blind people mocking her With ======================================== SAMPLE 449 ======================================== Behold, how sweetly flow the streams, Like children's voices that have finished, At the gateways of your soul, Wondrous and wondrous, and a wonder, Like a book of myths and legends, Piled upon the world with stories, And as with loving fingers, We fall down and worship it, The grand, floating dream, that rolls Out of the centuries, And like the burthen of a spell, Toil with us, all the days of our lives. There in the solemn dusk of the world, There in the dawn light of the hearth, Now, O now I see, can we convict The blood of Sodova That has slept half the world in sleep? Did not truth bring victory? Can we butzed orzards with us? Will they not stand with haloes turned? Hear in the airy upland-vowels Gather and shout, O father, To thunder-theologians Is this thy word, clear and bound, That in the night I steal O'er thy beauteous garden-front To bid the blue-eyes greet it With frowns that it might waken For the cry of the born-again? Is it not thou who ever saith In thine ear, is it not she? The airy greeting-greetings From Eden now to tower Like those of thine ear— In the airy upland-fronts, By night and by day, The bells that ring and shout O'er the heart of the builder As the roof breathes its breathing O'er its own work still: In the blue air of the sky And the heart of the builder, The glistening clock in the tower Is like a pocket-l alarm To the chimes that chime: The grooms, by bayonet and grip, Like havock-snarlings To cut the smoke of the cook Over the hearthstone of the cook They have forced a way For a man, by the grit Of their iron-tipped lash-tips, For a way, in the night, By the guttering beam, To love and to hate: And he is the man With a heart of fire And a blood as red as his sword. I have seen him on the desert Drinking from the rocks, As out of the healing-oom, A poison there was among The healing rocks, As the poison that is found In the winding-rooms of trees. And, from the desert, they have With knives of sharpness shaven The wild bee's heart: The diabolic venom, Which I may not have power to name, They have taken for a name: I have seen him in the icy Desert on the heaving Silt face tremble: As, from shagged pine-trees In the muffled night, The Fire-bird's Nest Thou wouldst weavest, They have wept O'er the ungalien land, That the sun, when he shines, May show some particle Of the conditions Under which God made man. In the Alpine lands of ice They have made a trench To the centre of the green, With the edge of their knives And the shape of their shed Blood: In this freezing ground They have kept him that they say Was born in the darksome dells, 'Covered all around with clouds: Till they saw him on the swan I have seen the earth bare that laid The foundations of the world, And the great earth bear up the world, When, upon its heaviest hour, God, coming down his waters, Made the mountains so many That they beneath were borne, As, on a while, to the edge of men's sight Smote the marks of their dizzy dance, And the great world, each to the other view With wide inscrutable motion, As, with ears laid loose, men heard I have seen the separate mountainocks All around me in a round, In a different shape, to see And to hear, what sound I so lately Thought I had lost all means of keeping, Where I thought not ear or eye, Or mind, in such sort As now I think ought to be, In a pond upon the mountains, Under their very crown, The roar of my water-tank: So that what ye heard was not mine, But, ======================================== SAMPLE 450 ======================================== I had an eye for the lightning flash of some distant bell, and I could sense from the dimness of space some obscure stir in the veins, some far-off rumbling, some mystical thunder, that came from the earth-land, the locus of every storm, and they were beating drums, and the wind-song of birds was their beat, and they were beating, and a noise like a quaking of trees that was reared, and the air was wrung, and I knew by the shimmering flags and the billowing vapors that the sun was bare by the whole vaunted nakedness of it, and I knew that the night-wind was blown by the leaves in their nimble flight, and I knew that the trees were bare by their unbound leaves, and I knew by the fast rolling thunder and the flashing of its lights, and I knew it was that the moon's halls were shaking, and the air was wringing, and it was coming to its fever on the earth by the earth-thunder that struck at the earth with such fire, and I heard the creatures of the air beat with it, and the mighty tumult of them, and I watched it pass as it passed, and I knew that it was free from the wreck of Custom, and its hot breath made the earth to quake, and the glow of its birth felled the tyrant's bloodied pride like a strange white-hot bath in the limbs of the victor; and it made me hate the earth-thruster as I saw it, and it made me sympathize with the sky-thruster over the torn windows of the sea, and it lit up the madra yellowness of the desert for me, and it was harmless as a toaster or a piano when it was huffed or thrown out of the window, and I knew that the wild ferocity of the past had nuzzled its claws out of the bone of the world, and I knew the new was nipping and nipping at my flesh, and the earth-thunder made the air hoist itself with the agitations of its wings, and the moon was on the point of exploding with a flame of tones, but I shut my eyes and buried my ears and hid my ears in a mound of damp earth, and hid my head in the moist earth of my eye, and kept my chin in the storm's shadows, and shut in the warm pockets of the sky, and I said to myself as I looked at the storm with the tail of its fires behind me and before me, "I am submerged in this hour; it is finished; it is finished because it is a perfect moment, and the elements close in upon one another with the aid of their means of conveyance; and I am subject to this conveyance, and only as I see the end is my moment, and my means of vision, and my use of means make themselves, and my power to see make their own moments; and this fact of their mereness makes their own fact; this fact they are; and our art facillitates; and our art, which is our speech; and this enumerates our moments; and this fact they give as their principle; this fact they give as their rule; this fact they act on, they give their act as their act; and this fact they act on, as their act, in my eyes, as their own act in mine; and this fact they count, as their number, their idea; they have power to act in the fact of their mere powers; to give their fact of power in this or the other point of time; to act, to see, to speak, to count, to love, to drink, to eat, to love, to marry, to kill, to earn, to serve. to rise, to rise, to run, to stand, to sleep, to fast, to eat, to sleep, to fly, to sit, to dig, to fight, to wonder. and its bases, and its spacious walls and its ample bases with their walls and its portals. and its ample, lustrous spires and ======================================== SAMPLE 451 ======================================== Moon-colored, like a spun-silver spider Twirling a drop of dew between its fingers. "How beautiful you are!" Cried Magnus to the Jew. Then Jewess Ruth and Wife Gena both Pushed in, and kissed the two, And sat them down, fair and far off, Under the trees, a young lovers' tete-a-tete. And that brown-eyed dark-eyed girl, who sat there Stepping up and down between them, with innocent lips And glistening eyes, her favorite mistress laughed All the time, which didn't seem to me at all, but only A moment, like a scent, or like a song, that was Never repeated, or some bird, it was so Unthinkable, and so much had never been before That I can't remember it, and I'm afraid I May be on that last silent stretch of earth with them, When everything stops, and I shall not be there, But drink the air, remembering everything, And be a traveler on the way with them, Who'll tell me all about it, and some night I may even be there to see it, and To stand before their eyes and talk with them, And tell them that I saw in some way, myself. The Jewess Ruth Dubois called that afternoon To see if Matilda was up and down; Matilda, who had come from church In sermon on the sop as usual morning, And thought no more of it than as a duty To tell the neighbors when her wife Would be somewhat out. "Oh, wassup, abel," said Ruth, "Wassup, abel! I'm glad to hear You're all right. Abel has a house Down by O'Sullivan'son that part of town Where you can get a cheesebar Open when you want it closed, as long As you want it closed. "You see, when Abel went to pay The debt, he didn't want a bar So much as a firm hand on him To take his coffee, his dough, his doves, Or take him for an air. So I had thought for years that I Might run his place for him. It is him Now, too, and I told him all about "Oh, I told him I would not take His colored servants-tips away. I said that they were like blue flowers Or minnows in the centre Of all our wealth, you know. And so I sent them to purchase A trattoria-roony In which to run A little differentie, And seventy dollars' worth Of beauties To run off with. "And I had thought that I, Living in the attic, Should not be quite so proud Of what I had, but I Grumbled and coughed, A bit of a coward, I'm afraid. And I thought about it now Some while, and I thought That I should let him know, If I had brought it up And he'd known it, That I had learned my lore From some big-headed mantelrate In days when men were old Who bade us coldly favour The things that we wanted, and made Our yachts go far On some far ocean, and gave The gleam of fine furniture A prettier and more flattering Outward lighting, which was only A fancy, and a little tint Of color, A little huskier and cheaper Substantial glue that held it In air together, and a hint Of more permanent muffling, A little more soaking, to be sure, In vanity's after touch. And then I said as much, and prayed That it might not be A-prejudice. And so, I said, He, being one of forty-two, Should surely know I stood for opposite Effigy "Ought" or any thing, And perhaps it had been his wife. I could have coughed cooler than that. It might have been the neighborhood Of Abolition, or some other Distinguished brand, And so I droned it. I cougted. I had a father. Well, I know That it wasn't the thing. The worst of it was I'd rasp With long before. I suppose I have the Southern parson's father, And so I sent the babe The boy I fed, as I had It handy one day at darkest And as I'm a-passing by To ======================================== SAMPLE 452 ======================================== What their hands would bring. While the joy of the shore was on the tide, And they from their toil were able to sleep, Fate looked on from afar--and had her eye For little letters, mark'd in the sky; When, suddenly, she saw a smileysled Shine forth out of the gloom! All at once she knew The meaning of that smile, that dimple sang, And hark'd a sweet sound that said, "My! but you're no pig!" Then, like a flash, she turn'd to tears, And low sobbing, "No, Master, no!" she said; But--"No! I'm pregnant!" In tender surprise They came along the shore, And, wondering, each one count'd her hast "How could she go! Not to come home to mouth home to bowhorne To her family, or to join the throng Of the new-lif'd ones who would sing her Spouse a song on feast days, Of a Table in the pantry, And the single low of a lark That haunts the boughs of a steeple; When in a pool was a child, And the slim girl saw a fish, Oh, 'twas dead! he pulled it out with his hair! Poor little beauty! Her little face, And her elk-sized feet, And her laughing-eye Tell tales of a healthy little girl, She had no wonder, No fear, No terrors, Of a thing, That might have been dangerous, But a single healthy little girl! When their journey was done They "should" by appearances tend, "Perhaps," thought they, "some chance may take 'em, And they'll be one with the Barrow-sands, Or near soarl would they be; For we can walk 'twixt 'em, For a pig had them left alone As long as he could see; So the other children went with them, Not to be divided; And now they have turn'd from one end, To the other, and they tell "By a stream you must NEVER go, And at Deer-lock t'other side, Where you'll encounter the same Large, hardy herd, tho' they'll tell You're quite so large, and heavy, And full of ponderous loads As they pass on, which they will Do, as if their statements Were deeply thought, As if their edicts stout Were written with just a touch, And they will meet with a stare If they meet you." Oh! if some day, in dread unrest We meet these monotonous people, Who sink us where we were all ready, Not to be divided, Who were in the habit of dreaming, Dreaming the same giddy dreams, But they're not to be stratified, They're not to be changed, And this they have well-neighbored, and they've annoyed The hell-born beings, and the spirits dread In that posture which, they believe, Has safety in it, as in sooth It has safety, for, indeed, They're not loose and roll around In cushions and in blankets, They're not comfortably dressed-- Their garb is not, is ill-f Broad-minded, It must come to the worse For luxury in it; And that's not worth looking at, Which shows as black, and blacker, The subject as can be. So, too, the dolls they make for them Are not of size for child's play, And not half good, and half admirable, Unless they're made with pain. For dolls' blood must be fresh, And hearts must ache and sting, And mouths, and not whites, and not blacks, They must look ill. They look ill, they have to be deckt And dressed and put away, And not see both day and night, And that's not right. If they only knew how they're bred And kept--as if they were sold For a fellow who is buying, He's willing, but he's not willing To lay the charge And buy them, for their clothing's not good; The best there is, in my judgment, Is a wither'd thing That's old and ugly as a beau, Or a stuffy barn-bird. They do not deserve to dwell In such an honest household As's a fact I can't but state. Some folks there are, though, I've ======================================== SAMPLE 453 ======================================== Till the hope they left behind hath moved And leaped from the lonely place, And lifted up a trembling hand In the name of the friend they grieve. There is no rose but she doth love, No lily but she doth guard, No little one that hath not wing And freejoie for rest, And glory of all lovers' meeds Forto lift up one brow, Since her mother's name is sorrow said In this far off land. There is no flower but she doth know In that wide world of ours, No leaf that hath her little word To teach of grace under sky, No little face to be The mother of one child, No rose but she loveth it. So long, so long, so long, so loud Alleluia! So long, so long, dost thou call after death-- Alleluia; Thou hast thou honor still, Alleluie, cry after him; Call after him, and follow, and see Upon the brook of the dark river Souls that are wandering, that have strayed, That have sinned, ah, for ever go forth From the awful shadow of this bed, Underneath whose darkest night Thou yet mayst be seen Still blest--Alas, for pity!--if ever! Follow him, follow him, child of the moors, Thou shalt find by the red moon of December (That fast is not stayed by the rainy wind Or the storm) Follow after him, and see The golden kinderense in Hellespont Girt round with the white Muleteers; Follow after him, and see the Palm-shigs Unto the besieged Troy! So long, so long, Alleluia! Follow thou, Through the silent land and the plain bleak ye dies, By the black Fountains and by the grass-mounds, And where Manas'boroughs on golden sands Streams, 'bove the torrid river, So long, so long, so loud and a whole day long The mule-bell's herald, That o'er the Ocean rising, o'er the Ayr, Through all the villages they all shall hear; So long, so long, Alleluia! Follow thou, Till thou reach at noon the Mouns acid With her still beartwooses; Till thou see the Lake of the ruin'd Abbey Ruined still by the abbey, And where the lonely Watchers ha'e feet of bees Finds the world unblest, So long, so long, Alleluia! So long, so long, Alleluia! Follow thou, Through the whole Valley of Chillon, Let thy gilded ambulayos need not dance For fettered feet, and bloody feet; If they tear locked doors, they tear the door Of the shoaiest house of bells: So long, so long, Alleluia! So long, so long, Alleluia! There, Where the towers of the Alcaband saw Eons ago the Royal Mourning Burning for a sacrifice to them, To catch, to avenge The blood of their royal sister: That a girl's life should heap A grade of hell upon their Alma Bell, To the marvellous bell, To say to it and to cry Underneath her crucified head The names of her whose death yet breathes Pronounce her name, In the words of the sacred chant; With the hearts of a thousand slain That were not slain in vain; Thus to her you shall threefold Enter on the Heaven of Heavens, And look through her, Heaven's astray Lion and leopard; And see the Prodigal Come in with his game, And the circle of the other two Moving around the Sun: And the circle of the other two Dances changing its shape, Silencing the laughter of Hell, And the himalayan laugh, In its old pitiless laugh, On the blistered head Of the other Two: You shall see the man of God Advancing that other Two, Like the procession of the Sun, When he with us upon his way Is preceded: Her who rides the van, Her who and the wan Is the virgin, the beauteous, The great beauty of the world, The admiring To be Wife No. 2: And her who is the Widow, the Widow's sister, ======================================== SAMPLE 454 ======================================== O, I am old with time, Old with all the shipwreck of years. Who hath reft from me my native land? The stream that went sailing up the channel of the sea, The ship that went down somewhere under the wave? I know not whether thief or eagle took My ship; but poor I stand, a helpless thing Uttering vain cries, -- my voice who can blame? -- Telling of the desert places that I see With tears, because I can no more. Thou know'st the places so well, Thou know'st the ship that drifted off the shore, The muffled figures, the mistaking lips, The dew dropped on the noon-day flowers, The dying kiss that — long — before Might wave to and fro. I tell thee where the cliffs uprise From below, a shadowed chain of peaks, So when the waves were swelling on the shore, The mariner, a foolish man, gave sign To go his usual way, and — there he fell. Oh! but he died a sailor's death, As shallow in his bark as any oak, At nightfall, out upon the water, On any kind of wind. So as he leaned from his old deck-chair He murmured in his silence: "O God!" And, God bless us! the wreck came in. As each slender fraction of the gloom Took room in heaven, and made a grim gash, The pinnace swept o'er the ruffled deep, Carrying him to the faraway land With ancient voices like the whispers Of caves, and echoes from within. In a hollow isle, bright with jewel-like dew, No dwelling is, but here at morn and eve A little cluster of rare flowers grows, With apple-bloss, for all dews or suns To welcome, and no breezes come. Here he who sings his heart to sleep must lie, And, God help him, the dreamer, must sleep too. I loved the Western sky before I knew A verse, a sentence of destiny; I loved the blue from morning's teeming mass Rolling out to sea; I loved the sea, I loved the grey beach; but now I know How vain all these; the sea and shore Are one; I live upon their mud-brick walls, And see their tawny igloo topsump, And watch his tatters clatter. All live to wonder how I fell, All to despise the land that bore me; But if I could, and if I would, I hate the East enough to lay My shoulder to the graining bayonet Of a fortunate peasant boy, And he shall know that every drop of blood My land threw rivalling all its cowrears Was spilled to prove it true. O East and West, I ystened ydam in y court, Where now ystur the mud and dust appear; Waked from the sicht of dreamland I see Ynow what happed; how at home I'm hieing To collect my thoughts, as down the trail A lone cowboy stumbles. I wandered through a weary land, to speak, Full of loss; the fields were sad with drought; And here and there a swallow flew to-neast Some rusted tank an elk blood laden; Each field-ice hard as will to will With stick six feet from grass or field; But through it all, save one small field, The cattle looked, and looked, an bright Red-bearded horn loaded o'er it. It was a wanderer's land, with nought there But roaming herons, horses, wild deer, And corns that brood on them. No tribe But following its own memories, No husbands. When the heart stood near A wave of fear broke every heart In that unmeasured field we wandered through. How to this solitary man Did they give up the base and narrow road, And in the perforated dust They set my strong beautiful bayleaf? How could they give up the all of me Now that I am the old? This is the ancient year, When the scent of a great rose Tho' put a wood in a wick, And she that reads the stars Came, and lit upon my hill And gave me a West When rose was a twig and moon Blank to paint the sky With one bright finger; And thus all nature new Has her tongue ======================================== SAMPLE 455 ======================================== risen in the old man's grave, but new times can offer none. A fire in the middle of the night. You watch it. You are part of it, and the colors it creates are part of you. It is a small world in there, you like it <|endoftext|> "Century of the Pig", by Amy Beahthan [Puget Sound, summer] It's as if you picked up the familiar rattle of his people, the links that bind his island. He's ready to mark his territory. He's taken his pen, and he's moving it over the horizon, in an ocean far away. But there's a chance, in this heat, to mar his dominion. He's near the nape of the pescad. It's his to make this place our own. He'll pull down the pig, to make it our when we come to party. We'll go to the stage, and there's that famous link in the chain. But we'll be there dead, on our backs, and all the gracemen will have won at our expense. That's the funny part, but it's our fate we know. <|endoftext|> "And So It Goes", by Amy Beeder [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] The man in the van thinks Seattle is cool. His girlfriend complains that Portland is greedy. But there's not enough cotton lining the walk, and the sky's not blue enough. The little pony, driving around, is going to hurt her toes, and we're already late. We're going to be late to our cool appointment, or to our aloof job, our poetry reading, our sheticah. We're going to be late to our class, our conversation, our checking-out. We are going to be late to something; we're not yet late. It's our sixth trip to the last, and it's only connecting the drives that's the hard part. It's to the Bardo, and the flood routinely repeating. We're grateful for the long hours, the gas, the extra socks. We feel for the soul, its different burns, its various moralities. This life's a treadmill, and we're spiky, and we're not caught well. The van is a tight little fit, and we're bumpy, and the roads can be stubborn. The woman hates the city, but it's her and her love, and she can't avoid the tolls any more than we her. And we know how dwindling, how slight the contrast, how slight to cry off. But she's grown weary. And the man sees the future, and we don't. We're not scarce of love's height, and we have no more time to lose. We must echo the cracked give of our own lives. I'm sure that I do. We are not going to lose our way. We're going to leave behind the blurred ecstasy, the flashing rainbow's patchwork quilt. We suddenly find ourselves the dead crying; we wave goodbye to the place where we can not go. We're in a time where the future has to be a whisper, and we are inclined to believe it. There's no future anymore. So love, and die, and let the roses grow to smell of you and me, and go easy on us, when we're so weary of you. And the van is my obo in the tunnel, my lo, my moon in the sky. All is possible. There is still time. <|endoftext|> "Probable Cause", by Amy Beeder Hill [Relationships, Pets, Nature, Trees & Flowers] —for D.V. It's like the bright side of the toilet, the whole bird without its head, like the shine on the pumpkin, the glitter on the dog, the cool thing you can do in, with the leaves that bend like a noose, that somehow remind me of the things I love best. <|endoftext|> "A Ghost", by Amy Beeder [Living, Death, Relationships, Pets, Nature, Trees & Flowers] My dog is old. He was a dog. And like any dog, he left his trace in the forest. —Samuel Morse This tree is my friend. Not in a good sense, but a persistent blame-not. This tree is like my father ======================================== SAMPLE 456 ======================================== I hear them--and my heart beats, and my blood fills, That my old passion from its prickers breaks, Like the dead men, when they rose for war. "A year ago and a half she was wed, And now the money is spent and gone, Her home is builded again, and I hear her cry In the broomy garden for the train. "Go to her, soldiers, and take her up, For the love of her and for thy faith; The time is near when fools and knaves shall rue The hour that gave them plumage gay. "For fifty years they nursed the violets, Like prancing steeds upon the plains; And in the afternoon I hear them speak, And I hear the beautiful Priscillas say, My Priscilla--Ah! may Heaven conceal As much as may be of her-- I am fond of all the dear ones here, And of Elizabeth more than any; I think the child speaks words that from her heart Are: 'A lover's is the lips of a queen.'" Then through the silent air and light night All other lights were dim, and afar All other sounds, and light and song and song, Their artist, slept, for thirty days, As he had watched for three hundred years. Thirteen hours he paced, in tempest, Pacing his thin hair's green waves, And went weeping to his grave As grey as a palomino. As he bore off his fifty years, He thought the child would not forget, And, o'er the walls of his cot Were painted on a leafy bush, Inquiring, from the Furies one chant:-- "Aye! Zal, the dearer to my breast Than the immortal Gods are thine! Behold! 'tis granted unto me thus, That I, who daily have trod, On most earthly nymphs, a priest, While round about the sacred stream The Euboic Rhodian snake Warmed with her kindred viper's hour, And, in Etrusian Chaos' narrow paths, Are reponed with less ardent rites. Yea, further as leaveth my longing eyes, And behoves me come, but far away! Whence should I, if my number found, Thence arise?--not on thee! ill boding ensues; Petition should thunder there, to that chasm fall down. "'Saul Gervais, the vain' enumér, (That is, Horace, of the Raparst, the Spacio) Has much off-'lead' made of his wit in his daughter, And, for a goddess, that she should love him, set her On earth. He'd been a god long time ere he found What the offence was, through all the world, Where he'd been gazing, for the thing that he had In his contemplation. This is the meaning of the passage: "As, loth to endear her more With joy, yet sorrowless can feel; So mourns the life-anvil, consid'ring How sorrow-proof her heart." <|endoftext|> The horse was down before the rest, His mane was trampled, and in fragments He lay, when the bright morning star, Which bears the body of the languid Sun, descended; and 'gan to show, Which on the marge one now perceived, In shreds and bristles yet, the lady's shape. His jaws they seem'd to supplely draw, Which to a rapier gave, and drew And bound the neck therein with red-rawed Branch. And her gown, still cold, Did from his body tear, while the face, As in a sort of wintry shower, Which blinds the eye, the torn and matted Was all presented to the line of In the well-known hands, which now no more Were drest, and, in a silent cave, Still guarded the grape's weapon lay. 'Thou, Sion, with the seven bras Of thy sex have blessed us; I 'm In chiefour of the revel; yet now, I know not whether I 'bide The coldness of the meanest fold Or the lusty maguffle: Then, when I gayly do you thank, My truest friend I 'll be.' And so on, discoursing of the fair; And now the night had come, And so the fair ======================================== SAMPLE 457 ======================================== and no pain from't. Thenceforth to speak in prose is mine, My story, or my verse; whate'er Can be conceived of in word or tear. Now, thou art Admetus, famous King, Whom I, thy city, Rome, will now dispraise: A father I, my younger: so to you Shall I be modest, and remain behind In the lowest ranks? Or shall I bear an arm Full widely hurrying to the end, that we Ascend together the reverse thereby? Yea, we shall henceforth do it in a body: Thus, thus rise we from the ashes of dead things. Now, all in haste, I will pronounce and word by thee A little farther of this same litter, this: I too subscribe, for I consent to die In vanquishing this war, and vanquish it indeed. Now then, whate'er I shall say of thee, hear. Listen, and mark well. I know thee many times cash The pipe of pike, and nimbus of discolour; But thou as well any other fish dost know; The line of line makes in its basket ready, To be thrown in at event of need; I too have no care with this same fish to buy; To-morrow let it go; this fish for to-day. Long further speak I will not, but I can tell That this same day to me it will be a burthen; The line of line, to-morrow's sacrifice to pay; For this same fish no other fish will I Send for my meat, or trim away, or alter: A fish to-day is my daily offence. For all thou weperlifue broad suggest we To speak of him, and to speak we will not hear Who mounts the back of thee, thy broad suggest we. But I have seen him as a great man lay The manner of his morion on the hook. His neck at the hair was so close bound, And all the fish of yellow gold that leapt Upon his head were caught and little snared. Says he, Whose possession alone thy mind Dost by the wily serpent's teeth dominate; We see, we know, we are acquaint, give o, Deceived by the sardonic serpent's tongue. But thou in the fat lands, live there long, And we with the wide waters, taste we to-day; My health, I but wish thee ill, for vive la! Live then, speak, and turn'd his head upon the hook, Fix'd in the fish, now transfix'd as it lay; And as it no way unmanly fate would pass, But that the fish did him arrive at first; So they with fine constructsions interpose Round about his body, where the graceful wreath Tiel'd his head sayed, Tell me not of death, For I have not spoken of age or infirmity. Nor fine cast round in this fine space around, The left hand corner had in honour been The portion of that serpent's mouth, and that By the great captain de conversation Of life (whereof Geoffrey later was lord), He was by his lady pleas'd so pure and clean, That the King had bid him well consider What was his constancy of belief. And then, with the rich wrangler's skill, The captive with his foil he tangle Before the giant in his wit: And this bravely by the skill divine Was the great captive fir'd and irons; That so the giant may perceive How they who play him can afright him. And ransack still his forelock for more treasure. Then thus, with splendid eyes, the noble fiend. The mariner, to wonder started, Some watery bubble on the ocean Hear sounding from the hollow cavern He saw the boatman struck, And not the bubble on 's head made; He heard the oar, and not the stirrup, Start from the bones, and come a-sounding. The bubble, though, was not at all thick, But that the fisherman cast the line Too thick: so thinn'd by that discovery, The bubble grew a little. That a thing is not right, you now know, You must keep change pacified, and always All flowing things are improper. And that was he, not the boatman, but The noble monster growed the change. And he, (so blame not the bubble's author,) Himberning, and making grim, ======================================== SAMPLE 458 ======================================== ­ The very king of heavy cask-staves, Hemingetty, the heart's-ease of the delirious! That I may with my sister have our fellowship, And, side by side, with her from now till eternity, We will play at jovial pas, unblinkered as we may, In feasts and banquets, parades and celebrtions, By romantic fountains, by turbid seas, With orchard-villainies, by serpents in the grass, By music of our own melodious variety. If this be not, I know not what I dread, My dearest- and certainly the swiftest-driving fear Of all the dread things that are interminable- That this be not the dread of me and mine. I know not what, after all, the bliss shall be That's the zenith of this or that we know. Not to be touched at all: to be touched- And touched-at; to be touched-not; to not be touched- And touched-at; to be touched-not; to be touched-not; to be touched-not: "I cannot eat nor drink." "Why, thou-at capillomEatin' and dressing, and eating and drinking? I cannot eat nor drink." "Do as I tell thee to do, And I'll tell mine a little better way thereto." So she smiles and laughs in my unfortunèd way, With her eyes crinkling as an anguished crickett's do. With her smile and her laugh-how fast we are drawn- Like a veery cork that's fastened in a dyse– We drop and worke together, we drop and worke, Eating and drinking and becoming flesh again. What worke-time I have found to be most so unwonted; With her sitting so high upon the table; I only murmur and slip the common starve-out, With her and my pudding-less two hands to hold it. And she talks of the weather with such azy mean zest That my life seems a bubble with a crack in it, And my death a cork with a seal in it. I wash her juice and pulse-y thumbs, wringing them. "What's to be done? what's to be done? When all through the day You bark at nothing Nothing can aragle, Nothing can aid you, Nothing can comfort you"-- And I hear her now imploring me so, As I sit in the shed working to-night, With her voice to help me, not as a cook, But as a nurse, because her heart is young. How to please her! I'm a labourer, not a king, And my greatest pleasure is to draw blood. She comforts me: she comforts me. She comforts me by Not listening to the noise of a reg'lar's staff. 'Tis enough to see a man suffering, To hear, to hear, to notice the tiny testings Of her high spirit, whatever I may say. It is enough to clasp her soft white hand That I suffer not from the terrors of The spirit. There's nothing to fear from men; Their hatred withers at the ironr; The world is poor who can help it. I must suffer. I suffer, and am reassured. "Love never dies; but, what's to be done? Though there be nought to reduce, We cannot depart nor linger. Stay, oh stay, And take my hand in thine, Or the joys will pass out of sight; And the peace of my heart Should but be a pain in thy flesh. But the sea can bring not death, And the grief of earth cannot break Love's hope: yet these four Can make one: Or let Love go, Or love burn; but this is no comfort, Because life is so short. To love while there's life Is happiness, not fear; To rest while there's strength Is perfect peace. "But to go away When there's breath in the flesh Is devil's profession"-- So to sleep, then, Death, 'twas, (Loving and fearing it) "Is but making evil game. "It is a sin to snore When there's work to be done; And snoring and light dreaming Must cease or I must be a bore. I would not spy a air To raise a spy, And rumour it ======================================== SAMPLE 459 ======================================== From the gold curls of the Moon-face, From the shapes of the firstlings of the woods, From the immeasurable stars, She was joined. From the magic of the planets, From the rays of the giant planets, From the paths of the dials, From the worter of the years, From the westering of the mornings, From the circling of the Moon-goddess, From the gossip of magicians, From the strifes of warlocks, From the toil of the Hunters, From the hearts of the Titans, From the writhings of ghosts and witches, From the wrangling of antlers, From the changing of wheels, From the changing of double-eaves, From the shining of helmets, From the dropping of halters, From the ploughing of horses, From the fighting of wizards, From the prophesying of magicians, From the reading of wizard-books, From the art of the book-belts, From the songs of enchanters, From the wizards' thrall, From the casting of runes, From the mystics' stones, From the swinging of witch-haws, From the wisest of seers, From the bravest of heroes, From the olden times, This ancient record is: From the treading of people, From the writhing of warriors, From the twisting of prisoners, From the wounds of poisoning, From the burial-grounds, From the dying groans, From the death of eagles, From the capture of heroes, From the whirlwind, From the rushing of storms, From the rushing of hurricanes, From the rushing of waves, From the roar of waters, From the motion of earthquakes, From the motion of thunder, From the motion of tempests, From the gusts of noons, From the action of lights, From the fates of stars, From the futures of stars, From the paths of worlds, From the fates of worlds, From the life of angels, From the life of seraphs, From the struggles of demons, From the truths of heroes, From the prayers of prophets, From the wars of magicians, From the working of moons, From the life of waters, From the growing of plants, From the tilling of earth, From the discovery of merchants, From the trapping of wild animals, From the sails of sailing ships, From the gathering of seas, From the slaughters of cannibals, From the persecutions, From the anxieties of rulers, From the plagues of travelling people, From the travels of ambassadors, From the wars of travelling rulers, From the anxieties of rulers, From the answering of ambassadors, From the sorrows of wise women, From the sorrow of magicians, From the task of testing of magicians, From the sorrows of honest persons, From the wrangling of jealousies, From the anger of jealous persons, From the seductions of helpers, From the pains of struggling mortals, From the tortures of widows, From the pleasures of servants, From the delight of strangers, From the journey of the dark-eyed maiden, From the journey of the bright-faced maiden, From the travels of heroines, From the dance of the maids of strangers, From the joy of hand-in-hand combat, From the pleasures of dancing companions, From the joys of courting missives, From the conquest of conquerors, "By the pathless slopes of Jumala, By the noose of the wolf, and spear-toe, By the noose of Tuska in the sea, By the pitfalls of the cliff-like Skyllo, By the rock of Nevenmount, By the rows ofohaistlets, By the heads of caverns, Koloipo[co] And Kura's pass, 600 fathoms deep, Kiravelu[14. the mass is made of copper] "On the round-robin mount of Ara. On the mountain of Tapio, In the strait of Kaireva, By the fin of kite and spry ibis. In the cataract of Kalervo, In the catch of seal and shark, In the cavern of Tuoni, And the rock of Mana, By the waters of Manala, On the upper, on the wet part, On the blue part, the lower part, Were I going ======================================== SAMPLE 460 ======================================== Bell's praise! the holiest sound that's ever touched a mortal soul! What Bells of Ev'n! what sweeter music could ever be? That song, that mournful, mortal ditty, 'Come, Lord, and grant that we with humble prayers may gain Thy sight.' With all my heart I cry, 'O Lord, Thou from Thee each mind, and Thou from each soul sweeten! For our eyes Thou hast Thy glorious face in all gray and white.' Now in the May-time love is made ripe, Love in full flower comes back The Singer then from his summer-based, In his blood-warm, heart-lit, verdant throat, To hear my sweet Song and to be glad. He 's like the Sun, with his burnished gold: And like the Sun we twain would be If we 'd get Our faith up to scratch: And sing like the Sun to Make it through. Lily of lilies, Lady, hast thou Heard what I wished to have said? Lily of the valley, Wilt thou with the warm wet wind Thy fresh wet breathy lips respond To say, 'I love Thee' to me? Lily, Lily, leaf, Yea, violets too, all lilies, The black night through hath stared, And cried, 'I am right content And nigh wakened To sit and sing and breed All night, and through the day, To sing and to be sweet. Now, if ye 've seen my tears, And patience, ye shall know That, in love, 'twill do no harm To moan a little: though the sad Have tears, they weep them dry: But when a man 's alone And feels no other Then to weep and to weep. Now, if ye 've heard my tears, If ye have heard my voice Woe is mine: while it excels My tears will pass your watch; Yet, if love were as wide 'Twould not be exprest: See, in his stuff, he lucketh And for his griev'd is clear: He taketh bread away and fleeth To feed him with his pain: Alas, poor heart, he fails That will not feed him with pain. A tear for lost ones left behind: Then wherefore they, poor souls, be gone From joy, from love to forget: This doeth he: sigh he: his Patience must be exercised While he shall love weep for them. They do not quicken their might: -- Lost things are not beautified-- Like dahlia glowing wine. In truth is it vexing That we so gladly run Our risking parts to save, And then are apt to miss The real gain. We must leave prime flower-grounds To fade in sullied air, And droop and rust and perish: -- We will admire them not. The poet wittler, Brake on his function, Can visit them yearly With soul-service ten I know where dark Hymen's horns Frowning o'er the threshold stone, Duly twined they in the grass. Weepeth he then? I yonder! I sadly weep for him there. With wilful hands the poet hoards He fearsers cry they wryly: "Bosch says that all these things In vain we strained to see And all that was found was vanity: Yet ye that thought to see Nursing our pop-up vegetable horns I pity those that might have been. What they was I wist not--they That said our flowers Threatened, if a man In them was truly great, As they then were in man, Were not to be believed but shunned. O they were too great for love to greet: Can they be bowed, can they be bent? Can they be killed? Can they be broken? If they will not be, Why were they made at all? Why are they not aught but dumpling? The horned plant, the idem, The cup-cup of the vine, Are not they but leaf? Why have they grown in many flowers? Why any trunk? There, as his mouth upthrust Corrupted them into petals, There, as he crept along them, He drew the purple stain. --Petals do not sting, ======================================== SAMPLE 461 ======================================== have ever had the benefit of taking a healthy nipping at the hand. I love my hand that went to divvy up to the chinks in my best material when they saw me without shoes on as they looked at me without shoes as I went to the wash in my quiet hour. My lovely self. And all of my love <|endoftext|> "Music Began with Aspasia", by Jeffrey McQuaid [Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Arts & Sciences, Music] 1 Birds make plans to depart for the heathens’ country. They would be wrong. The ear, which should be bent for the best sounds to hear, is sometimes not soft enough. Sometimes, when the last fugue of a posthumous thrush is being born, the private thrill of an air- name is sufficient to interrupt that song, its finger at the note to bring it back to life, its conclusion. The wind of  Aspasia is as strong as the aguilaras — the mountains made of fire — in this latagou place.2 The world is a gear-hung device that turns — a circle with an axle — to — it has the marbled patterns of  teak and ebony painted on it. These are recurring images that the sun not only shines upon but enrichs with his hues, shadows, shapes, smoke, runxes, and flashes. It is a swirling, magical place that compels the imagination to create, to invent its own errors into the music, the sound of the birds. the baobab stuns the monarch, and it, at least to begin with, is the old world gone. It is that world of  carbon, of world surfaces, of crumpled up- ing diapers, of lemons, of juleps, of hairs that stand out in the winter sunlight. It is not a place that inspires thought, but thought possesses it, and the thorns of   earth, of  our existence, only making conception. For I did once practice with the Royal Japanese Infantry at the Garrison Oii Peninsula Training Center in Okinawa. It is everywhere to be found. Only found if you are blind.3 For the royal flush of the monarchs of  the Crown, like for the crown of  he Crown, is a flutter of the brow, like the butterfly, that is the flower, the dove, the small metal  10-frills-per-cent. Then, a little hook of  grey- green, the wriggling of the tail, the eyes, they are gone, they are gone like their its mysterious, its shadow-side.4 I love the dance of the  crab-fish, the maiden that lives alone, the way the new cut flower hangs its banner with two white butterflies and three yellow peonies. But the  bride, the  hollow-eyed maiden is something that must retreat from the light. It is the way of the monarchs, when they do lift the lid of  its cup, and the last of  her loveliness is nothing but a half-open flower.5 A flicker of  the wings of  your eyes, a feaver of wings, a rustle of ègre. I am not the shadow side of  the sun. I am not even the soul of the soul of  the sun. I am more vivid than that sunshine, far more, more than the human who made the world. But I am not made of  externals. I am made of real wings.6 The first angel is the first of  the Apocalypse. But before that, there were billions of people on earth. That is what the Quran, God's word, tells us. And before there was writing on wood, or sound on the human voice, there were languages. There is the oldest mystery. The tongue is the same, the sound of the world is the same.7 The first part of the morning, dark of the moon, is for the soul   ...    The soul becomes more clumsy, and the soul more frail. The body has no balance, itself being before itself. And that is why ======================================== SAMPLE 462 ======================================== led me on to compare what we shared with this old man as we made our way along the wintry way to the River of Devices, and the ghosts of Paradise. We walked on opposite sides. We listened to the laughter of the animals as they sailed on, as we passed by, but the conversation went only one way. And as our glances met, I saw the young man's eyes gleefully warming the heathen women, and his own eye waver from the shine of the setting sun as his hand dropped touching his chest to his ear, and he spoke. Then we rode out of the lands of the fading, out of the places that are haunted, out of the sirens of the desert, to the land that is given. We stood by the gates of heaven, and the animals were alive with joy, for the fields of our visitation were the depths of our desire, our youth, and the sight of the young man and the sunset, as we shook hands, and I saw his young eyes gleaming, and his young body tremulous beneath its robe, and he spoke, Now, I say to you, to you and O. America, let that be the end of my story. I say to you O. America, so ever you will never remote be lonely again, I say to you in the end, O. America, I swear to you, to this day. <|endoftext|> "The Wind and the Moon", by William E. Stafford [Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Mythology & Folklore, Fairy-tales & Legends] How do you like the moon? Does she like what I say her way? It seems that every night she goes home To my bedside, and whether You bring coffee, or no, She will still want me to kiss Her cheek, and she'll say I looked So unhappy in the mirror last night, and wish I didn't, and tell me so. Do you like the wind? Does she like what I say her way? I like the wind to and fro, The way she goes from last night, And when she goes away, I like her so, and when She turns and waves her leek, It makes me blush, and I wish, And on the beach this morning I were just a bit taller, And so would she, and have known What I am now, and how the waves Have made me like her, in a dream, Tossed, you might have seen, The sand-rimmed party-bags, And all she carry on her back, Which she rode to rest the other night. But the moon got spangled in them, And other things of mine, When I can't be seen To like the moon. But there's this, And the way to cure this, To cure all these things, Is to go to bed with her, And to take a big dream Of your own creation Lasting for her, and you Are her only, and to hold her, And to have the wind and the moon Beating in the sea all night, All night, the surf being broken, And the white like any woman's body, And the tide flowing under the table, And the cold sea-sand streaming, And your hands under the seat. I don't know which came first, The sea or the sea-wind Which makes so much weeping in the space On either side, So much lasting, and I could wake. <|endoftext|> "The Dead Dead Trees", by William E. Stafford [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity, Nature, Trees & Flowers, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] for William E. Stafford The fire out of nature comes, and all things die. The old trees walking around the forest, Old homes grown up so high they watch the sky; Old friends grown old in the lights of the city Grow fatter and slow, and cast a long frown. But all the trees of sadness are sad, old friends, You gather in your trees the great aim that can/ Save by crying. The fire out of nature comes, and all things die. But there is one that walks through the night. Hers are the sad blue flowers of consciousness. She sows with tears, and they are the red fruits of memory. The planets are out in space. They know no age. All is a dream. One is there to spend with the gin in the air, Tramilty ======================================== SAMPLE 463 ======================================== New woes and death and suffering, Which were then hallowed by the season. Toward the brink we leapt; And he upon the swift ship Would have driven to the stroke of noon. And I thought of the threshold at nightfall, And of the sick one in the asylum. This was the first: The mill-stone is broke, the ship is gone; All go on ahead. This is the second: Fools in a joy, And a heaven Above the world. A wood once grew, With sun and shadow, A tide of bloom And an unreeling night. I heard the winds for the beyond, I heard the ocean-tide for the nameless realm Beyond the world. The mill-heaped wood Was naught to me. But with long strides I reached the shoulder of high land, And found a perfect madness in the barren upland, Which mown a flight of wind-flung leaves, and flapped a slight breeze, And brought me back to the fair upland at nightfall. It lay, and all its knotted shadow lay soft, Like a wind-flawed fern, and all its flower fell away. And, as I stealthily drew near, A low, pitiful voice fell, and the low voice died, As a black wave dies, and a dark sun dies, That a sick sea should come to whirl and to stony. Then I saw the one who stood there, A dark, dim witch-king, with envious eyes, And a dark dress, and a twisted witch-book. The world stood not near her, The sun slept, and the clear stars never shone. And I saw, in the shadow of that weak, barren shadow, A fair shape, fair in a hollow of the wood, And large, full, warm hands that wrapped a fair head, And a small white foot, where a shiver of fair breeze Died, and a bee stung. So I saw the one who was there, A cold stream-blinded person, Closing her bower of thin leaf Over the bright face Of a child who stammers as a boy, And lolls, cruel. A man who stumbles hard in the dark, And straightens an instant, with no faith in herself, And no faith in his hurt: And the child laughs in a way that the stars must understand, And the man stumbles, And hears the void, and feels the dune. But one hears only the lilt of the song Behind the she-bird's wings, And sees only the ripples of light, On the smooth face of a pond That he sees, alone. A hungry man on a long journey Climps alone, By day and by night, Up and down the road, And the great ocean, to and fro, Is his. A traveller in a lonely land Half-conscious, starts at the sound Of a lulling brook-bird, Which from dawn till the day is late In a fair nighness. The sun is set; and the fever-termed skies A sickly golden pall grow black; The sickly earth lies in shade, And the sickly night approaches fast; And from the tumbling ramble of the streets, The cry creeps slowly up the eave. The cry comes from the public wells And from open basement windows, From the trees that have bribed the night With their delicious mats, And from the footways of the street The murmurs climb. And there is a strange relish in the dust That falls fast in the street, Where those who were not used to walk, Take off their shoes to follow the Man, And treat him as a king. That city, Rome, that was Rome, That was Rome's ruin, Where the great Tiber flows in view, Where the Nativity was lit Afire with torches; That was the book that gave me breathing, breathing To the turn of the page; And there, in that lofty Ropero porch Where the walls were reared, I was terrified by the skull and bone; I was amazed at the stony look of the place, And the narrow stair. But as I went home with my book in my hand The following winter, I read what was left of the old Ward Irving, Reading a very shrinking William Makepeace, With a lip of ivory. And though Irving's face was by then bandaged, I ======================================== SAMPLE 464 ======================================== ,Bidding farewell: before thou proceed, Give ear to me: and if my words avail To guide thy mind, they are not meant to persuade Thy will; but thou to follow them hast seen The kind of love, which living see in truth: For which we, ere this from early youth, Have otherwise kenned; the deeds, And sizes, and as yet unseen consequences, Delighted in disensate solitude; And thousand other joys, which roam From place to place, and body to body heated: Oft reading the Scriptures, virgin or lass, Wiling through men's neglect, the Bible in vain, Thyself alone with God's own law to reconcile; Thou hast seen the place Of Christians' strife; have searched the first or latter gate: With stern reproof against idolatries reviled; What these have done; what yet? their mere excuses, And threats, and God in heaven a very curse: Sounding thy brass--the rattle of thy steel, The summary sentence of the Gospel strains; "Say to the good man, Lo, this very night, I give Thee--the second night shall be the third: In time of blood the third night shall be the second. Say further, thou sire, and make thy son be less In love, and faith, and moons--and a thread Thou wilt buy him for a flash, that he show As cheap as these have shown their own way. "And thou sayest, O friend, to send away This very day with ardor, and to pay The sum of five hundred flonks--in fine, With every time--toward the stroke of midnight, The fifth of enraged Jaguar: A fresh tartar, for the neck to clad. "But what hast thou, famous Leadth-time, done Since thy last sharp cry, or deed of grace? A wary friend would'st thou be, or long Since, wept, or wept thy lime-twigs dry. Thy day is turned to the tomb of truths; Thy laws are fallen, and living laws. "The heart of the great poet Tells how he felt his last dread heart Torn in two by its own cause, Which to this strait wall now grows more. And that for the which was roared The magic of its power. "By its own rage it fell, And, madly obedient, Hath gone into this fane. "There, till the sage magician, Whom these thoughts now imply, Will speak, and explain this thing to be, Which sakes so these hands were first to cry." "I only was for the world, But find the world a laggard. Leave me for God's sake--leave me--go To God, who only need do bide, For these are but threescore and two. "How would these flowers tend on their mate, Now wonder that they won! How the do tackle the task, Now they are together, I do bid, They'll attend to themselves: For what light frames, they both could stay. "I was for the world, my flowers; And there was nothing for me! Farther I'll go, And turn myfoot, Heaven ne'er gimme back. "I have seen two birth Cnidian springs, Who knew not to tread save by God's will. As for my world, whate'er it be, Praise it, for all is well: Whate'er it is, a world it seems, Though I, being God, by mysels have been Made fuller to enter in. "How canst thou know the future, God? But where Thou wouldst not let me in, As for my feet, that would reveal, So Thou has hid it. Nay, but in the world, O mine hearts' king, Show me the path that looks up to me! I'll find the man who said, Who told me to wear The gay, the brown, the brown, the roan! With the world to navigate, But my own sweet moon to wear, I could well turn my prow as a sailor, And talk, the while, as other men do. But my craft and my fortune are lost; For my only son hath cast down the bottom Of the deep, when his end was to be, As my seal it was, for thee, And if I then were as an old man, I had sunk, and had done ill that ======================================== SAMPLE 465 ======================================== give name to evil. To the wise man this is madness: the strong do: the field should not fear. The master hath his eyes expedient; in them first saw I the secrets, They look upon the eye: of a thousand tomes of philosophy I find not a word on this point. A meditative people! As if, when gazing on the rising sun, the mind of man should shut up and not out all the whole of his spirit, nor would all the prophecies which the stars reflect, that a single one of them is known to be the genuine work of man. The wild goose, of whom so much has been said, hath inhabited such marshes as are the by-ways of the middle sea. The people of the North, as well as the accursed people of the South, are mislead to suppose, that the prime cause of those nations' success was their being pleased to take in the gosse. How often, ere the fated river was reached, have both nations been stung by [t]the-gods-tongues, and in such enmities, that not a living old tree could be found to shelter them, so hard they did reprove [v]the winds of the South that they should not fly, nor downcast their fruitless leaves upon the earth! Would not both nations, ere they are released from the phial of entrapped themselves, be putting each the other's arms to bed? There was, thou mayst remember, one, the Trojan, named Ganymede, who lived in a dream-world, and was the consort of the young Jupiter; but the royal Io the king of the dream world, as she was a queen, bore him; there he was seen sitting, by the grace of [t]he manes of him, enthroned upon a golden throne. But it chanced, that the mighty Io, who was mistress of all dreams, had been wont to put forth the pictures which arise in men's hearts, when she herself saw fit to fulfill her lofty and beautiful prophecies, as was she powerful to do. So now she took from him, both of them, smoke. For it was a smoke-screen, through which the blessed spirits can in seemly guise converse with men, by whose side they sit down in Lausus' crystal dome. And when a new spirit should come, he would put on himself a crown and wizard-robe and bind his walking-staff, and he would put on a mask, and take the form of [t]Lawenna, daughter of Echion, and sit in the recess of [t]Achaea, and he would go forth from Achaea to be the companion and affidate of whatever Priam's son he should choose to be. But they sing theiro, nor is it enough that the young man in any way shall become a leader; they also require him to be very beautiful in his youth, and in his first appearance they wish to see. Nay, and they bide the time that is to be, when the god who is to make him a man shall himself choose him. So beauty itself is a trouble, and a pain in the soul, and always with vain purpose make it. "And this is why our father bore it, as I tell on, and would that they tell you also, that on no account with these people they can have any delight in telling of the things of heaven, but that it was in order to see how souls are spun, and in number each other congratulated. It was for death's pleasure. For to the living it was never joy, and joy for the dying; and therefore since a man can discern much by study, if he is gifted with more discern I must think that this pleasure was to those many for whom it came. And if it pleased them still they would not have done it, for the pleasure came to them already with the knowledge." And I said, "He told a tale, which, without being given or joined to his name, I fancy I have found a welcome coverlet to shut under in my fear that without me he will not hear more of his tale." And he said, "The stranger was a haberdasher, a man who wanted therefore to win the king's favor. He had a wife from a foreign land, who had come to this city, and had been before him many times; and, being on a day of sport there, the ladies' gentleman asked him who was presiding mover. And when he heard she was the female shade ======================================== SAMPLE 466 ======================================== Had left the marshy plain Among the thickets black. O'er heath and glade he wandered, Thoughts were gay indeed. Now the marsh is white With the gold-haired bough Of the marsh-marrent oak, And the boy is gone where? When a girl's heart is an aspiring match, The tie that binds her mind to aught That seems dearer than the world of her love, And death comes, as you would, to distrain The promise of her passion true-- But she feels, and she knows, Oh, the bliss she is on the wise decision! It is the heart that warms her, and it is the heart she knows Is the bride, And the worlds by it have no lasting meaning but the one true heart. Ah, how sweet is the happy thought to one Who's twenty not twenty, and two entirely other Sweet minds five years apart who, side by side, Are so happy and so proud, they don't care If they be last or first. If she loved me, why then The thought I asked for thrilled with pride And thrill to only one yes. If she loved me, there's no end To the tenderness she wove With her own fingers, every afternoon, Around my hands, and arms and hair; And her kiss on my cheek Seems to star the world. If she loved me, she'd come to me By day or night, or come to lodge With all her sweet joy. It seemed natural enough To commune when we thought we Could not be separated. But, ah, she was young, And her heart was not what most call A child's. If she loved me, she came to me In days of ease, or shone with me When we were ill. And I could love the rill That danced beneath her bitter skies; I could, with one short word, Turn the mountain track of Gold. But this unvoiced eagerness Might never blossom, Could never be so sweet and real That it could always be at rest And be perfectly me. There came a siren singing of other singing days To my caged bird. The shadowed wings of o'ersea coasts to Cnoc's camparge, Wafting the True-love-reversed Scarlet Letter. From this prison, whence I could not look on thee, I turned, veiled my eyes, From bright Rome to dark Byzantium. Yet had the earth not touched my feet, And all had turned away, As immedusa above a flame. But there was one who turned her face to the sun, To meet my eyes, and follow my dark cousin. Eyes and heart and voice and arm and breast and thigh And dress all frayed in allusion to poison. A fringe of blood Around my head, a fringe of glittering light. Carrés, cardinal, mayor, king, president, That beautiful sad old lady Who sports the croupier's habit, and is kissed by Boursaire, the beaten, touched with plastic, smitten By the stroke of black lightning which strikes her rosy And roguish part. For the black thunder breaks Through blind tree trunks and planes of bamboo. Oh long black lineaments of our armor of fear That drapes the black helmeted head, Black helmet, heavy head and plump waist, That there is a thing By another name which can move a state of dread Till the helmet is shaken, till the dark helmet Unbuttons the curved steel-worker's gown. Between the rails, and opposite the glass, On the bare pavement of the road, I stood, and watched the children running to and fro, Baffled and confident. Then, in the human world, the men and women passing, All the slim-formed groups of life, All the smooth-chdrawn colliding traffic, When the yellow signal-light leapt, white, defiant, Begging for a word, sought, desperately, a word To say to the senseless platinum-chain (Not as humble swimmer wanting a firm stroke From the hostile sea-monkeys at the end Of an afternoon of chasing after sea, But seeking for a word to say To the master of the world), I said, 'Run! Save him!' and shouted, 'Jesus save! Save him, save him, The prince, the master, The father of all men, Save him!' And the trains ran and ran and ======================================== SAMPLE 467 ======================================== And the morning came, the sun it was, Ere he took his seat for old Parys, In a cloud of camomile-- A turquoise and a lavender-- And the night closed over him-- He was sad in the morning, But in the day's sunshine he grew gay, For he sat there, beneath a tree, With a muffled tunelike hood, And he saw afar, and he said: "I have now one friend, And he shall not be strange, Who calls from over sea, And when I am alone, I will call him friend, too." But, he was lonely in that part, Where, in the dust, in the lamplit distance, Men never seem to meet, But make a sad music together, And twinkle eyes, As they pass, by the mill. And it thundered on the steep, Like a mournful bell, Like a dumb thing's bells, Over the dale, Till a wind like the wind of the sea, Passed over the hill, And it thundered in the direction of the ocean, Like the sound of a buried bell, Like the dulcimer's sounding bell, And it thundled and dwindled till it was lost, In the vale below, Like a fading caravan of the sun's bright caravan, Passed by the boy. But he was not disheartened yet, For he sat in the heart of his heart With the Seven Sages, And they answered him again, Like the whispers of one long dead, Like a voiceless face in a breeze, Like a name without a place, Like a will of the soul, And they told him the story of the Thrice-One, How he who did not woo Should not have a will; And the Kings were blind with envy, And the kings of the earth dished it in court; And the white whale dished it in his sleep, But the sea swallowed it for hate, And the fish that is no danger still Dared not bite; And the sun plucked the thunder, And the storm tied it down, And the roaring shore Did what it would, and would have silenced it, But the sky-song carried it To the spirits of the wide sea, Who are the Seven Sages. I shall see them sing, I shall see them tell, And the story of RABBA will return, I shall see it gathered again, All its lies will be ended, When I come again, Hear, hear, from this mountain top, Rabindan (from the mountain) fling himself, Like a tree, like a crag, Into the little hand of his wife, His little child, a mother. The queen of the queen got tired of waiting, And herself got tired of the game, So like a wind, like a wife tired of husband, Out of the earth herself came, Like a red child that is sick of its mother, Like a child that is tired of its mother, She bolted, like a sheet of glass, And the hubbub vanished from their ears. The warrior's house is small, The room is bare, and bare, His wife is thin and grubby, His mother is old, His little one is sharp and hard, Like a black mole on a tooth, His bread is bitter, His fish of tea is salt, He seldom gives his daughter A crumbling day. The royal Kaistern or the royal fort StuffED him sore, And the king is indebted To his slaves for gold. The light of the double eyes Is for nothing but gold. The red thorn feeds on their gloom, The golden eyes in darkness DRIVES the black sow, So the poor, long arms are drawn For the freedom of the realm. The foolish kith and kin Gather like springtime bees. The Furies slow-pan dying In old houses, The Golden Ass, with iron tracking Drives the slow-pan dying, The distant kings Give them all to thralls. I heard a song of an old, old wife, I heard a song of a dwarf queen mourning, And all the song she sang was-- "O, old wiflit wot mine is thretened, Of an old wiflit withered man serene, The wiflit old sowhed somold time away In a mad callow place ======================================== SAMPLE 468 ======================================== at that, they had no chrism; He thought them the rudest company, Had never made it an issue; And would not have them round--by stealth--in The fashion of calling on the clergy, And he wasn't the worst party, like me; But would rather have it at the bottom, And out on his head--out of humour-- He'd have nothing to do with the question. They would have no question, like the persons, Which my brethren and my sisters found, For their instance--how it turned out--to go-- But the same I can only say; They were so clever, that for a time, They had my confidence--but I see, One laugh will go out, because I look Like a fool, and I look like a fool. A good foundation is more than fundamentals, If kept up with home life; and they were Betrayed with little warning, and there's no use Ever taking credit for a change. I could see no reason, now, for granting The right to change one's life, or the qualifications, Either; for none, I believe, have arisen To time, save those which are thought so-to-speak And are now given up by those who change, or throw, What the word means, 'tis up to the universal winds. One has the power to weigh, and say, 'tis best To change his, and not his competitor's (8). He has the right to tell people what they shall (9), and of those most wickedly to change, At random, when and how he please, as he wins A pow'r to weigh, and, like a judge, 'tis him That speaks in the presence of multitudes; And none but a fool, or one that's an idiot, Shall ever think that a thing's odd or odd; And I'm an idiot, because I think that I Am not too old to like, when the field 'S to be laid bare, and, instead of letting The fox escape with much less punishment, The supers have taken on the heaviest head; The supers have thrust away the sacred altars, The idol which the man's been worshipping for ages, And all who were originally worshipping With high vow and the Firehawk's hanging whip, For nothing but contempt, and with much show of vigour, At a blow, have been forced from the field of vision, And now live but to beribubrel them with sound; And the man that I left, as I did reign, Had rather than be beaten, put on some mask, And walk the other life, and be quite forgotten For aught but the mask that he wears in summer; And then, in the depth of hood, he will cry That the day that I'm born is still in Spring, And the day I'm born is still in Summer. The young fox, methinks, as it was in Spring, At the hurly-burly! his condition's not Unchanged by any forecast; but here, methinks, It may be laid to vintage: for the year's done, And 'tis the week of May; then, old Red works at Writing a letter, and toiling at a fall, The week in whisps! for the boss is full up, And the week of some one gone, and the week beneath, And, on the week's farewell, I remember That in such things as are yearless, alas! The mind eternally tumults and attempts To recall the joys that it officers; Yet, though my gray matter be as dry As May's here, I remember some old joy. The old dream of the place where it was held, The old dream, though it had but a flake or two Of the yellow cake which marks the perfection Of purity, made a subject for study, A blessed occasion, was more-a-greeting With a ravaged happiness, a quiet tide Of recollections, which did not perplex, And which, as now, only told of a thing, did it As worded by fancy; 'tis sure a charming thing To be born with a body, and drop live To live without a being! who will choose This lot? who pick and dip his hand Into the lap of his refreshment, And draw the wet curtain, and motionless Lay his arm 'neath the warm embrace Of mistress o'er whom he blushed to arms That would dally on the curtesking Of knightly worship, and stopp all thought For his carrying away ======================================== SAMPLE 469 ======================================== Her young child a woman, in her being, Swayed her moods and govern'd her agonies. I tell thee, sweet Prince, what my heart desire Would givest my love in return; but thou Art still far remote from being grown forc'd By better bonds to win my love and good Than all that thou hadst of joy and life bestow'd On my excuse; nay, in thy power to yoke I might and do accept it all, for thee. If in the act I do prefer Thy being to mine, on thee as our sun It lies; but if the lie the deed content Possessing thee, then mine appetite Is in thy virtue now no more: the rest Is all thine, all thy proper pow'rs and airs. To whom Ulysses, sitting, thus replied. Urge me no less, my Goddess, that thou tell Thy mind to me, and let no empty guile Sabotage or goad me to an idle task. For what is all the bond and compact here, Wherein he assures me he will give me part, When I inquire for so exchange to thee? And, in no set phrase, or word precise, Concludes the assurance he will lend me arms. For this I need not. Thou art perfectly Inclin'd thine appetite on fact to feel, Since hunger still attends on desire, That, making hard our senses less denuded, Makes sharp our hearing, and our sense disposed Like sharp-pointed or piercing eye, to check Those gross delusions feeding on our low aresmus, And speaks sure messages to the sated. Who scorns too slight may of hard items be deprived, And hard sometimes is softened into soft. But in no hard sense or facetiousness Thou speak'st, thou are not whirled by dissipation Of fabled foul desires, or to be At first uncertain with the rage Of spring-like froth. Thou art sold, and serene To give what gold can not buy. To me, Goddess, thou art all accordant, All convenient, all equal-odded. My part in all shalt thou fully own, And what is yours in some, is freely given By that Faunus, payment and satisfaction From the kind-souled sire, and mother nature, Which, beauteous alike to all, Moves and works, up and down, in all spheres, By what we owe, and what, entirely. So saying, the fair-tried Queen, Ulysses straight leave-taking, Smiled on him, and cast down her eyes. He, not devoid of effect, hast deny'd At last; but not till meditating all A contemptuous massy chain, in a knot Of beads (blessed instruments left) intaunt'd The chief wherewith to bind his brows in knot. Meanwhile, Eurymachus (wholly chang'd In discourse since his kind Queen), now spake blaze Forth with his divine Ate, as being given To speak whatever thing he knew, or any one Sought of his eyes, which shed light strait -- The eyes of Helen against the proud suitors Grew so as not to behoove them at the heart. And seeing him changed, they stand with stare Cast on the watery robe, overweening Tentatively, like parch'd ewes, on the rim The net, in limbo suspension; from their ears The piercing nerves scarce pierced, they view Ulysses' ample rod, and all his two-peak Of cloud-counching warden, up-giving God. And now Eumæus, assisting, him Beneath their reception cast; nor cou'd they Till he had felt the rosy breezes which were Borne from the bursting clouds in roll That hid all houses from the sultry glare Of the North-wind, incessant; nor cou'd they yet Longer that bright-bayed flame, and on the pebbly track Glide'd away the sun. They took their air. On hand the navel eagle, on the sea Girt with the storm-clouds, they beheld, and him, Which even to the clouds was distant, and on the wave Still sliding remained. Then to the middle also Deceiv'd he float'd, and, tempest bundle, by each The different gales which on the sea and on the cloud Culminate, and mix them; and so, the sea still From the ======================================== SAMPLE 470 ======================================== The cankered caravan did proceed; Through cattle-paths--that twilight-troubled roads-- Deep-velled glens--and distance on distance rolled; Till now, out of the stone-thronged hamlet, Stands, unmark'd, the cottage where they lay. There those unfortunate victims lay, Whom fear, or no hope, or one name bore; There he that walk'd alone--the squatter-- In a savage fort, and leave without The pale imitation of the homestead On the high mountain-hearth, with sheaves Of grazing swine: there the self-same Beggar With his 'custom'd-cob all day long was grinding To iron metal; and there he that sold'd Grapes, and all his other fruit to cheese, And all the plums and unctuous fruit That hung the crooked boat, did from his vine Leap with his basket to pick what he had o'er All one day; and the Haunterer, with his chalk, Mark'd out his apple-pane; but when the sun Winnow'd round from highest to lowest land (So he that had sight) he could not see His chalk to such effect, but the names Laid by him he could not in any case With out run: so he with all his bells In his hand/book, and in the heat of the noon Come to his apple-gat. The Haunterer eke (as it chanced, it might be, Of the god of each separate hue), Had with pluck a vizard made, Where he could practise on at his will: And there (wee thought, lovelier than the best) One day with hammer and chalk he arose From dusty vulkairs to do that day's business. Lo! what (he cried) is this that lurks in the wind And heaven smokes around it like a phantasy, All smooshed in gray! Methinks this be the oak that stood under The hill as long's yere ago, And to the church-doors fast flew and in By all looks, by its arched top is planted Then 'gin the landlord to ask, "Where? where? where?" 'Gain sthrob, As tho he were a harried hamlet: But nathing men to work, nathing loss, And worse than all sometimes rage is drent With short consolatory hopes that fade Ere they are sprung; Nathing consolour, nathing slavish prating, Nailing of gates, bills paying, keeping births, And planting new, and new-planting new, And tree or fig or grape, Naving harpes into, naving honey, naving wine, And none getting dready sthirring To a mere caterbaraider's tune The same's a theme, As overheads you're flying, and the stream's all blue with sun, And you can hear the cows and heifs in a squeeze, And trees, shrubs, ras-tles, in a whispering rush, In a oontry no snowflakes, but only ftryles, You can hear them crying "Be a soul atteyorris!" "A soul atteyorris!" Then he drew his long-limb'd sword: and before The crowd was he here appeared, he wept: "A sword," cried he, "and I'll have one to-day: But I'll leave off weeping, I'll give two flies; I wish there-to if I give two flies, I wish there-to, and the hoolish fly Will only take two: n-not I, if I give A trick to the hatter, or a walk to the fruit. 'Twas a mark of his strong sense To take two with an appetite down; But that's not for me, I'll not carouse: I wish there with the hatter, tho he leave To fling his flies with a neater rush." I wish that I myself were here Away from us, the kind of woman That leaves her bed to be living near Some hospitable face, as long as it gives No bitter bitter information when she's gone. I wish that my true name were nearer, read More of the 'Div dirset' that Paul did write. I would rather be so short my path Beanless with grief than be a slave To fly to be fetched and carried again. The sylphs and secl ======================================== SAMPLE 471 ======================================== That the winds, in wandering on With one-and-twenty strokes, be stopped In their short murmur? and if they need Any exhortation of the voice To do their work, I give them all The same, and rather say it in style, As one who boasts, 'I have put Hell in my stroke.' I could not choose but dwell on that curve And note it in myself, and ask, 'What it is, and whither it is gone?' And so, again, 'O Wind, if thou be A Spirit, tell me what it is.' And if it were the winds that make The clouds their solemn conference With the cloud-vociferators in the air, And call up sometimes the dead to hear Demophete, still how could they not Show it as they will with their talent, And the glad partake with me In the glad turn of the universe? We could not be more pleased than we are, If they themselves would allow A spirit to our world! Now wind is in the litter and the air To furrow a highest field of space With furrowers, and the woodman ploughs With his he-whenever on the hill; The wind is in the burs, and the weather Makes the hardy shepherd call it cry, The wind, to arouse the earth and seas, And blows upon the window, and sighs On the wing of the flight upward, and sets With a blast to the mountain and forest. And I myself, myself, can find A needful spot, I can bow my brain Upon it, and find in the silence there A grace, and find a stillness, and mark The pleasure, and mark the one that is, And follow with the other; now see A gurgle of troubled waters strange And joyful, and strange as the cry Of glad thing swimming in a gladdener With a sound that shakes the parting Of their wings to the zenith and makes Their hearts a-quiver. O pure and clear! O proud and lofty! O sound of heaven! What a chime of beauty that is given In blasts of the very heaven itself, That it should have for ease The music of a silence as sweet And as the name Of its own song. And I have loved the sound Of this grave with the taste Of glass and paper, and the sleepy Difficult path that lies between The inner world and the outer, And the sense of floating, and the call Of a preluded death, and the sense Of a man alive from whose mouth The very lips are turned, and all the breath In the body, and all the soul's In the intelligence that follows The death-silence. And I have loved The rising of the soundless tide As the souls are born out of flesh and blood, And the motion of the rising As it races under the flesh, and the shell Around, and the motion of the sea as lives In its whole many streams, and the chance Of an unanchored boat, and the silence Of the noon, and the half-cloudless sky, and sleep, And the dishevelled hair, and the sudden joy Of a new sleep. O! I know No form of beauty, no sweet sound to name, But the name of death itself. How I have lain In this grave and sunlight under the sun, And trembled, and turned my gaze to and fro On the whitewashed wall, and heard the wind, That leaves the riches of the distance bare, And comes again in the one open space With the loose trees and the quiet sky, And makes the utter silence of the space Its record, and the wealth of the place A token of the infinite store Whereout the world-wonder has her being laid. Cairo, when thou shalt hear That death hath loosened his loose grip on me, But in a longer space unsupplied, Thou shalt feel the supreme delight Of that swift-aging soul, and all thy cycles Shall meet in one eternal act of praise That abides, and I, that animated thee, Shall be the midwife of it all, and sing To the moment of birth. And once more the story shall be given, Turning a little aside, Ere he touches a different quarter: For now this Robey, the light-deceiving lass, Has been inspired to rhyme for us, And so 'tis that the soul is awake. But, ======================================== SAMPLE 472 ======================================== of the head of the canteloues to look up at the sky see it different every time same color same distance from the body still sore from the last bout white bricks have been broken away so someone will miss you even if you invite yourself to leave a room only to return with the sigh of a whole hour on your iPad or iPhone black or white all the images weave through one open window <|endoftext|> "Zadie Shai," 2013 [Living, The Mind, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] • In French this is called "de", but in Arabic it's "da" and "thou", which is also quite interesting, I guess. • It's almost 24 hours, and Fred doesn't know what to say. He broke his heart typing that last sentence. He should send a photo of himself with a blindfold on, or a letter that wasn't typed. He should also consider whether he wants to go out like this, or go out wearing a shirt. He's probably asking himself that already. • Fred's love of blindfolded activities is limited only by the amount of money he has to pay for them. What is his credit for an angel good for such things? • "What's her name?" the students ask in a lecture. "Why, that would be Navahut, "he says. "She's an Indian princess who was held captive by the Mameluk Empire, who were considered one of the most oppressive and barbaric empires at the time." That gets a warm reception. • Why doesn't he use a pseudonym? • Fred thinks about how he might. He's thinking of how he would rather make a mess of things, rather than leave things as they are, even if that means disturbing the peace and leaving flowers on the plain by mistake. • But this is the Persian dynasty anyway, which means Persian events often come from lowly folks who are thrifty and fond of celebrating the simple life. But all the joy and misery of the evening stays behind the walls. • As if on cue, a student mentions her family's five-horse mahorse. She hasn't met a five-horse veal Houd for yet, but if she ever has, she'll know. • "It sounds like a kind of play," says one of the students. "Is that the way you mean it?" • They mean it when they mean it, but in this case they mean it differently. • "No! No! Me no like," he yells, "a Horner's collected seria!" "No! No! Me no like! 'T is verily the blackest nite of all!" • Here's a thought: of all the ways a book can make the sky burn it is the only one not enjoyed. It is, though, the only one with which I'm all along. It's such a pain in the posterior that only those with bad hipours get hit by the dark that comes fast on their trail. On a moonlit night the dark is the book. • I'm glad I'm not the only one who has smelled burning plastic on assemblies and miserably misspent yen. And I turn the light off and on again and try again to put the puzzle together. • The word for that dreadful hour, a flashing symbol in four languages, has three readings. It has already occurred three times. The cat stretches its head, and the light shifts, and the motion of the wind rumbles and rattles the yellow lamp. The hours collapse. • All those poems you'll find in the book are the efforts of the soul to survive. • A book is a strange thing. • No book is ever opened. <|endoftext|> "Burroughs to Lazarus, 1980", by Charles Ghigna I. PRODUCT Lazarus now an old man, indifferent to the pleasures of the wheel and pen, gyrates twice a day to a dimly tuned melody that plays in the park once called Love Street. This is not product. This is not idea. This is the object that has come to define us. Lazarus is an idea. He is an idea that has come and gone. He wears the dunes in a starched collie lunga. His lissom body lies back and his small lustrous feet swing constantly ======================================== SAMPLE 473 ======================================== When he looked for his dad's horse again, In an empty stable, nowhere near. All through the night, he whispered a prayer, Crying himself to sleep with the fear That the "hoof-dog" dog, were still there. At the break of dawn, he said a prayer To the dog; pray to God for his safety. And he dreamed a little, sweet dream, That the dog knew. Dream #2 Maggie is watching, and she is very good, All through the night, She is watching and she is watching the sun. But at last, she is quite tired of the joy. She says, "Not a day! If the red dog dog did not come, I know I could sleep on the warm hearth-stone For weeks, for an old cheese, And there is no knowing If I'd still be sleeping on the hearth-stone, And eating crumbs that are stuck to softness." All through the night, she whispered a prayer To the dog; pray to God for his mercy. "Hark!" said the dog, and he says, "Hew!" Maggie says, "I will have your God! I will have your God, Minnepsen." And all through the night, she prayed to the dog. The dog said, "Haw!" And we hope that this is the last time We ever tell of what we s'pose tell. Pete's parents did not keep night watch. No more than a year had they insisted: But when the time came, they were not for watch; But "Woll-on-law," "Head-on-law," And "Goode-church," could hardly be told, Though one, good, and the other bad, Had died in seventeen, and the other Tenthallow's brought to house was in. And then they had no standing army, But bigges 'twixt Pete and Hob, And 'twas a war-court, as you'll understand. For "We stood armed, with our firelocks"-- (He told his lads to tell the tale)-- "In face of king Charles, who was red;" For his bold chargers were good, And we'll allow, that Pete had stout. But Hob, who had a field-of-battle, Thought he'd maintain his army to be, Till he sacked the Ports of Spain. The "Port-seed," as we elsewhere have it, Was sown, at his great sermon next day. In one God we trust, we also take; But, should our local deity be less, We do not take less then our lord; And, whatever his gracious whim, Or fancy, or his pulses be, We equally trust him to be The lighthouse beacon, and you to blaze. He was at once the priest and judge; At once a parson and a lord. From fire or fume he made no doubt. He kept the keys, the gate, the show. He told the truth, or talked at large, Till dogs had ears to hear his knowledge, And men had minds to understand. He showed them how the cattle droved (He made the cow-door well to stand). He cleared the stables, and showed How manure should be picked up. And all the stalls were clean, and well-stocked, And the feeders had their oats. And he was well enough to call Lord of the cattle fit to own. That day was very pleasant. They ate their dinner in a big room And were given a splendid luncheon, While Hob was called the "Rourked Samaras," With his brother-copartners far. But when they stopped to walk about, And listen to their little "pilot," They stopped to hear the "Gypsies tell." Of what their life was all they would relate. 'Twas not a hard transaction; The price they brought was high, but he Made them a modest offer. One showed a basket full of hair, One said his whiskers were black. The others heard of Orpheus's team, And "those who can understand Can buy the skin of dog to make." But not to perplex them there was Another guess they had to guide. One said, "We all go and pay down debt." But what they wanted was silver plain. (All this mess they'd paid was what they had.) They wanted to know if he could write. One more predicted, ======================================== SAMPLE 474 ======================================== A love divine. I have seen that pure soft wound, Deep where the quiet blood flows, In your clear eye You gaze at me with the pain Where my heart has no power to speak. But I am you. And your dear wound gives pain To my heart. And I have felt That heart's still silence As you turned from me, The moon never sinking to the west. A godhead of sorrows, This your dark thought, this my wayward thought, This self's sudden darkness, I have been glad and light When you have not been, I have dreamed you always fair, From the first of May. But now I cannot lie Careless of you, nor be still. You pass like smoke, And the dawn must be Red of dawn on the hills. The many maidens of the night Are hushed against my sound, Sigh against my breath, And the cyn Amber-Maid Says, "I shall not be a maid Till you come back." At sunset when the stars spred Bright as they had been, We were drunk and had dreams, We were sphinxed and tricked, Dreamed of wine-dark pools Where God-Be-illic tenants Wander. I had no moon aflat in, Only one glimmer, As a glest is found Glimmering of a fly, The other glories, But a glimmer, naught else. The very girdle had a star On the end of its gold, O, it had an angel's grace In the blue of the cup. If our drunkard looked further Down her face, she would be certain She was the Moon. There are two names in the world that strike on me: Inirons and the wings of Apollo; And they were flung from my mind like darts: Phoebus ascends, and the stoles of Eos And Istha, I saw thee. And I knew thee, and that was long ago, I was drunken then, I am sober now. I said a moon would be an on-ier Equal to the two of Apollon. I said that a false lady, when found out, Was born of a false woman. I said a ship was a stag's hoof, I said that two dreams were enough to keep A man a-wishing. I said of the stars, and their shagginess, I said that a coconut's leaves were made of silver In my Cavendish's lap. I said that a rainbow was of music, And its music was two-notes-and-a-FYAD You heard that? or Are you the PDFCF, And that's the reason? The phantom moon's first word is "OIAD"; Its last, " OID," And in the long O it is a-wants, Itsself being twin to the on-ier Of Are you? or OID, And what is OID, that you needed? O, you men of us all, to be men You must be fools at times, And not kill your soul. I was not like you, when an apple Was yellow, I said it was a peach, But it was not; For I woke and threw it high, Ere now, And I wished that I had thrown it high. I wish I had not turned aside there When I that high tree heard it run, And that I had not made no sign To the moon-light, and the sham Samaritan Who had come there With lighted sandal. I wish I had not cried out and missed my dear Face when I saw it high. O Diana, Queen of the South, We gave you guerdon When we made you Queen; We gave you silver and gold, We gave you pearl and pearle, We gave you cloth and necklaces, But not to your face; And now you have your crown Sideways, and without grace. You barefoot Thyme, from now till e'er You find a husband, Your womb is empty, For fitter for the keeping Of a far Footpad, Or a Schattgel Protestant, Or a Prussian Redguard. When God was making a distribution, The Earth He said, "You'd best know what's what, Otherwise Your words may give the wise false hope, That all things new are old, And the best and ======================================== SAMPLE 475 ======================================== such influence was somewhat all the beauty of that early hour, The spires of your palaces, and the summits of your gorgeous homes, Fame's cry, Pride's horrid voice, and the eternal worm, Chimed in your loving ears, while yet, beneath Its self-leafed boughs, the forest's iron fosse, Your rivers of lava fed by the masses' crowned labor, Fluctuated, rich, intemperanceatory, you Purged the world, rich, poor, middle-man, bottom-man, Man, woman, slave, lord, lady, slave, garrisons, bowers, Adjoining, next rear, all mingled, top, front, Huge cities of the modern mind, Wearied, blown, blasted by the old wind of thought. And you the majestic mother, to your people What is left shall give you, and what more than what was left before. <|endoftext|> Have you heard the Past and Life Remembered in all voices' groans And echoing thunders of time that kill And overpower us all?- The thrice-told stories?- The Past that each spirit in his turn Recalls?- The Voice of God and of a Beloved That, though it spoke, adds impetus And thrills us with its wave:- How, till the time for smiling did become More than an old and aged prophecy, That reared its wallowed head on the Past and made us doubt of an end When, in a naked world, we heard and saw it rising up and rushing So lifelike that we felt the lorn horror of its speech! And our own speech,--for our lips made bloody with tears,-- That Voice which we heard with gurgling sound And now hear with accents grave, Recalls us, through time-perchance and future- Hzelos, where we went, and where we came. <|endoftext|> In the darkness I found you In the world's great depths, Where the waters edged the walls Of a world covered bright With an even thousand stars: In the world's primeval seas You were the most pure and blue, Circled by sun and moon: In the nether world below The darkness was more keen and wet, Yet in that world's other birth You were star-shipped high above In the eyries of the air: There the child of the after- glow ran to meet you, To meet the light of your face. Where the dusk is dim and black, Where the wind has winged its way To the white limbs of the sea, From the realms of light and of Light You were lit for a while On the earth's eastern side: You were launched for the over- thing and lighted here: Here was lighted, sparkled, glittered, And I-wis-me-law, I say, In the old days of blue and of green, Of the time when our planet first threw Its veil of cloud over the world To the time when its dawn was its closing, When the streams of the world ran dry, When the rains fell and the floods came in When the days waxed and the seasons waxed, "The end of the world is nigh!" And you lighted, the while the world was dark, You lit the depths of the world for me, In the land where I had been born: And when the months of the year were through, When the flowers of the earth had waned With the fall of her golden hair: With the end of the world I had- f many a day, With the great gathering of storms on the world's darksome coast, When the fate of the world's world- knowing peoples Was of a sudden lit in a flash of fear and despair: When the clouds, that hid or streamed in fog, Shrieked the face of the world with fire; When the sea had held a king or a country in its twining arms, When the mountains of the over-world Sheltered in their shaggy breasts the shagg- els of snow: When the earth looked at its life and sighed, When the whirlwind had turned the dark soil of the world to gold: When the west wind, the ======================================== SAMPLE 476 ======================================== Come, are not now free to light Our books with all the hours and hours of day? Then let us make a statute that shall blow Out of the night, a light to save the world. Take any old thing--a leaf of grass, Or wind-blown leaf of summer-season still green, And make it work for you at the Cross Or at the Globe, or at the Guildhall, Or any building, and its qualities Of beauty, them I will enhance. (This is our true labours. We can tell Our authors how their works are done. They'd answer, when we give them our police, Or speaking of them, how he was like A serpent from Aries to Cancer, And also, when he wasn't like them, Which he had twenty ways, with speed, And imperiousness, and smoothness, and youth. For some miles after dark we walked away With him, and in the twilight held hands. And when I talked a little to the wind I thought I heard my cottage-lfire. And he who was my power--and spoke, and stirred The very hills from end to end, And had my will, and had my speech, Was wont to walk and stand upon My left, my right, my looks, my breath, And talk of many things, of me. He looked as if he had the power To make the past and future go. His eyes were very sun-cullies too; And they were not for the left hand, left hand! And I, I said, would soon be well, But so as to-day I'm not ill. He answered, pointing through the night At the sullen sky, "We shall soon see This time our wills cross-fertt, cross-fert, cross." And I felt the will was with us To come to rest, to one heart at least, That heart my left, his heart his left hand. When I began to speak my mind And words broke from me as a gush Of sound like twirling of wheels In a wheel-pit, and I thought I couldn't use my cunning any more, But have to tell him "no" for ever, And I spake my will, and we agreed, And then we climbed the rosy Ford. I cried, "We must not loiter long, The Dunmore is just beyond the door, And there a huntsman goeth to bed, And when he hears the sword of God Against his northern brood, he will retire." "You have heard our oaks groaning? Let the wind come down And strike his fancy, he is sleeping." "Go down and have heard his tune." So we mounted the path so well And left the mountains behind, And heard the piedmonseal above us The firefly's melody repeat. I took my stick of woe And tuned my old swattan's mouth on it, And played my paineduckle so. I played the rag-pass theigs, And jagged the naked pine, And every mine and hollow like Dance coming to a lock With tongue-freaked, flinty monosacacal. And when my pipe-end struck his pibroch, I played my song and cried: "Once more for slavering!" And so We froliced over then And played a few more rags, And I slipped into the ferny glen And hid him from the sun. We roved for long in this bummering, I played on till the wind Made me think of Galah's long green furze flight And made me think of quivered fern leaves Over the field-wash like quivering cry of me, And then of brambling brush to elude, And wreathing trees and their emerald bow, "Thou art lonely," said the bull-dolly, "But thou broke the mirror thinkingly As thy hand on the stone." And while she finished this, My hand-plucked fingers On her furs erupted. "But, Sister, it is not well To live in excess, Or lead a nervous life, Or to smother the true soul In a cobweb-like habit. "I used to love it in my youth When the wind was young and With the sun the lake was rosy. But in the streets of twenty years I have been bitten severely." "What then ======================================== SAMPLE 477 ======================================== If I have killed the whiter thousand of thee that are named. I know all the gait of each thou seest, I know the leaper of the four. I know the back-bonnere of each a goose that gat a gander's yard. I know the salt of each a fleet-foot brave wight. I know the hold of each the height of a pine. I know the bush that steeps the slope of a hill, and the breadth of the rill. I know the leaf. I know the sower-scoop of each a greyfoot, I know the shearer's stand. I know the spear of each a wild-goose. I know the number of the shearers, and the hold of each, And the number of the droves. I know how the dew-pearls dance their dances, each of the heroes. And the back-bone of the hero's horse. And the foal of each a bêtte schè de bête. I know how the winds blow, and the high mountains foam. I know what kind of people dwell near the hills. I know the size of each cornfield's numbers. I know the grapevine's net, and the reckonings of each field. I know the tongue of each grape. And the tone of the watercourse. I know the scents of each plant. I know the fat of each she-wolf. And the lard of each oven. I know each plant by its leaves. I know the roots of each old seed. I know what the fauning is. On the banks of Carma. I know the draw of each river's vale. I know the smell of their fern-wood. I know the land of each old field. I know what's ours and what's their. I know what's ours and what's their. I know their wheat and potatoes and oat-fields. I know their forest and streams. I know the price of each corn and each wood. I know the number of the crags in each glen. I know their beeves and their fields of fleeces. I know what cities are in their tops. And I know the tallyings. I know what sort of creatures live on their lands. I know what sort of creatures live on ours. I know what sort of animals live on their lands. I know the beasts of prey and of the bow. I know their number, their order. I know their feats, their skills, Their powers, their fancy tricks, Their skill to take, to take, to carry, To aim, to aim, or fail. I know the sorts and marks of their sports, their weapons, laws. I know their bravery, and their ferocity. I know the arts they use. I know the marks of their arms, and this is a little of their warfare. I know the arms, the loss, and the gains. But what of us? Our arms? What of us? What of him that cannot speak? What of us with a window to a window, With wings, and horns, and a face to a face, And eyes to watch, and ears to hear, and ears like the ears of a dog? What creature of us is this? I am not afraid of men. I am not afraid of men. I am not afraid of birds. I am afraid of windows and reeds. I am not afraid of a face, or of a world without nature, or of nature increasing itself, but I am afraid of men who will tread these irrational worlds, and of their swords. I am afraid of men who will cut the blades of our blades, And burn their roots, and burn the crops they can't grow. I am afraid of men who will tread the world into charcoal, and then there be children, and women, and the elderly, and old who will cry out." And then the old man said, "I will burn my world into a fire, a fire engulfing, like a down-fugue, the elements, the sky, the fire, all the rivers, all the air, and whatever world has existed in any form of past hour, or past hour. I will engulf this heaven, this inferno, with the size and number of my swords, with the size and number of my armies, and with my long fingers, with what little creatures I can find, Orville, Tor ======================================== SAMPLE 478 ======================================== Though few and far between (Were it so that men were keener than we now perceive), Yet here and there, in all the world, were towns and men; For all the throats for call he won; And all the tongues he lit. Yea, our time was swift, Not that we loved the sun Whose hours and days were then; But year by year we learned to see his face So pale, now, for our loss; And year by year, in shade and sun, To touch our youth again: To catch its light, like flowers And water in a well, Yea, a new life we learned to live. But ye, who walk, not by night, On shoes where wounds are sore, And ye, who climb the temple stairs And of the sacred place Climb up dry-eyed and short of hair; We have blind followers, yea, Dark-hearted followers, O not to see the sun! Yet by the village way About the houses of the sheep, Orchard and wine-presses tall, And the white-blossomed houses Of wagtail, pheasant, prinkance, And set with hops and posts, Men at work, and children babbling, And a plodding dog before the door; Two white horses in the meadow Perched and tagged, and riders going Away, one of them riding over the horse's head The birdman pointing out the birding-slicers And sheep as though they knew him, And the horseman laughing to his horse's head: "My grey grey tall-stepper, I'll teach you to hold your smoke When a red hen's come by toghorn, And to ride the fit day bright and hot With a flying rein and flying rein When a red hen's come by toghorn." Yea, but his rider was white, His black staff curved from the end white, And in his hand he bore a bridle White, with a span of ivory, And upon his head he wore a cap White, with a silver fish and jewel, And a lily stuck in his hair, And a lion's grey and fine Closed about his loins. Then he mounted and he swung his staff Before the sun was down, Thence rode away, for his rider Was gone, and he rode far And he rode home without knowing Or knowing where he went, And for all men lived and died This Yeman had driven him And in the market-place he heard Gibing and guzzling. And men rode over the plain And ploughed the furrows deep And turned the sky red with dust, And men ploughed in the furrows And turned the sky red with dust, And men ploughed and worked and worked, And stone-thug men hoeved; And it was sweet to see The ploughman strike and shout And the shoe-trade men shout, "The King is dead!" His story to his wife They left for many years, Yet when they had their fill They quaffed their cup and went And sought the King's heart, And when they had sought and spilt All the blue and silver wine In the King's blood they died For out of that blue blood red came, Red from the stab wounds of God, Blue blood from the hand of God Poured through the veins of Christ, And this is the story they told Round the globe in years to come. "I saw Him today, I have seen The hands that raised them, the blue high hands That hold the throne," said the wife. "And He is tired, so tired, I. . . . But I have heard the voice, I know The voice that tells the earth shall roll To the mounded domes of men." - "But she . . . she . . . who heard the voice And sought the desert for the voice," Said Halen. - "I heard the tongue. The endless tongue of God that sows And blows, and men laugh and wander, And fall in life and death, and live From grave to grave, as a name, a name, And die to life, as a name, As dead indeed as dust, Or souls that hide behind a name." "I have seen Him in the body many times And every time I saw Him . . . The sunlit dead face of Him . . . I saw Him in the moonlight too, ======================================== SAMPLE 479 ======================================== ome on me. All was now quite dark, At last, the moon In solemn and irresistible light Bent to the east, and the trees All together Brighten, as though night Had one moment been a golden night. O me! a little while I lingered, longing to be free, But with the time I grew more anxious. I still was longing for it all, The power, the joy, the peace. I waited, always Mindful of a name, And the beginning Of a life. I knew the strength Of a desire. And so, one time Into the middle of the night I snuck awake. As soon as the light died So strongly I felt the stream Of power that slept within me, I knew I would not have to wait long. At last, the light died down And the moon We came from the North to see the bud. We looked at it long, long. But when we turned to our rest, There was no sign of it. "Come here," we said, "There is nothing here. We shall not see it. "Down there Lies the bud we saw full soon, I can't see it from here." Then when we asked her To come with us To see the bud, We found her on the footpath. She had shrunk into a bud And we could not see her. And when we walked She seemed to shrink away. But when she prayed, We heard her voice. "I pray, if it be my lot The light to break and shine, That I may see it." Then a minute later, We heard as before, But the light was no longer cold. We heard the bud and saw the bud. We stood there, alone. We saw it, flame-white. We saw it full. The bud had vanished And no more could we do but pray. So we fastened to the side Of the mountain a string And climbed up slowly, Reaching to the peak. But that was years ago. And I could tell you all about it, If I could I don't think So would I and so would you. And I know how it is With all of us who meet Once more each day To make new friends and old keep away. The breathless world is up in air And our narrow slit is open wide. No flowers can grow nor can they eat The greenery of the greener mud And the lily sings its awnry song For sustenance. The sparrow goes flung in green And runs about in his broken air For lack of shelter. The light seems to choke with its weight And I wish we could die. My restless bank is filled with stones That never look at anything. They've never seen the sun and none will The summer flowers are white and yellow And the new buds on the cherry trees Are periwig and pink. The carnations at the door Are tiny defaced wounds And the sunset makes me dizzy With light And I can't look at it straight in front. But I look out further still And see the little old man hole in the ground He dug for himself and soon it was full And in his trench it is still as deep And in my mind I picture that day's simple Complete breakdown. And there the Kaiser lies among the stones And they've left him food and water And he leans there and gazes out as though in wonder. He cries at times, "My good! My fine! My bonny! What's aboube? What's ove and what's a-go?" He calls it sometimes the 'short cut war' And at other times 'lside And 'top.' And there's the Australians on the Lancine With clean brown soles And they've slapped across the Tob to the Yarumb And are down on Ben Victoria now And the Somne is spinning off into Grosvenor Square. And there's the Chasseurs d'affaisance With pretty jerkin and jabel, And flanks like a— And flaps like a bird and they shout about the flam-fire And the rapier washer boys But it's a long story, I hain't got the time. I'm going to send out a hundred flowers All in a straight row, Not three hundred thousand yards away, Not four hundred million yards away But in a straight line all the way. Then I ======================================== SAMPLE 480 ======================================== in the my beloved. Her angelic beauty and love's holy grace must all my soul control. She wears a robe of crowns to my other prayers. I never sleep, I think or dream, but am always in my place, as though I were Jesus, and the Blessed Mother is Jesus' mother. O sweet Jesus, tear me out of this world, for my soul's need is tin and bread and wood; great merciful Jesus, make me a place again in your world, for the place of bread and crowns. Amen. The Blessed Mary's palace is like a meadow; I think of her my ten, and fourteen, and fourteen- years. I think of my mother and how she suffered sorely, and still suffers. The Blessed Mary's palace is like a garden; and, Jesus, she forgets no thing. My Mary was not born in heaven like the stars, but out of hell. O Mary! lift your eyes, and see if you can save me! Mary's Mary, do not leave me! for my pains keep me more than blue. My soul is always in my bed. All is as it should be. My Willsie is the finest woman that has gone the way of all Still she comes to me, and we sit and talk, and she holds her eyes on mine. I work all the day; Mary's my only child, and, please, look what my face is like without you! The house is cold, The wood-pile, that holds broccoli and cabbage is black as a mug. And there's a whiff of something nasty that hangs in the mould, O dear! O Mary! you that heard my cry, that saw my vision, will you say a prayer for me, for my heart, for my spirit, for the flame of love in my veins. O Mary, when you hear my cry for you, that is the voice of those who died for you, for your thralls of boys and girls, for the nation. The boy, with his blue eyes that smiled as he saw me, his laughter, his arms' wonderful motion, I saw them seized, I saw the wreath (of teeth) shaken from his features. In a sad voice, they called him. "He is a red man," said they, whilst my blue eyes looked up at their faces. "He is a red man," they said, "on the road to white." The fight went splendid, for the day was won; from the plough they plied the sickle surely and gladly. With a long rattle rang the heavy-footed horsemen baying the great gear, the harness, the bridle-leads with long shouts. One burdened up with fruit, like a high basket for the horse, another with hay like a rope for a cow, and so the soldiers went with their load in each of their hands. Onward now, towards Fitzalain's manor, with banners, shields, and the horse that carries them, droned onward by his voice, the land's friend, his hand placed on the sword. Hark! the footsteps of the manor-house as if to say, "Here comes that thing that has a face." What a green room! among green trees among leaves, as if it were a lover's room with the lettering on the gargoyles and the puccino, the picture of the Venetian blind, and the writing on the floor, the folding of the rocks as if the hero of a story were coming, the furrows as if from a field of stories where the shadow may return. So many pictures, so much thinking from that window, the shadow will have it. Let it be a dream. Let it be a dream. Look up the street take your shoes off and throw them at the horse's head. So, when you come back from the dead sea with your horse and the letters of the signet make up your mind, make up your mind, make up your mind, make up your mind to be dead in your horse's soul, that you will not stay to see the hand of the mystic that holds you, the silver tent that grows from the side of the rock. ======================================== SAMPLE 481 ======================================== Results of the Trial. How, in her blithesome plenty-times, When, mammy, I was full of love, I looked so queer, I wist not what Might cause such vanity,--such tricks But if it were the bantams in The wreathing window, now so bare That they would make such music, here I stand, and, loving, beg of Thee To make me like a silly sod, And sicken my heart with health. Oh, let me wait a little while Before I buy the tree, and pray That if the bells toll no more, I take a t'other side With the t'other tree and pray That if the bells toll no more I take a t'other side, And so, for heaven and for all, Be t'other side. From her fair side, let me look, And, from her fair side, watch her eyes, And joyous glowr'n, oh, yes, yes, How oft she glances at me, And how her perfect leaves I see As they're bending down the tree To kiss my feet, oh, yes, yes! And then, when done, I take Her other side, and again I see the wimbles stand before My feet, and wonder how I took her side, and pray, and, If God keep my feet t'ye; And she--how can I tell?--slowly Kisses me on both; Oh, yes, sir, I say. On such a day it was When they came to tell it, That I went with three From home to meet her in the town. Oh, their craft was quick and quick, Theirs was all light, their needs Were all furtive dimmment. "Herr Predelpenring," they said, "Do not come back, he Lies dead, at home before." Weeps, beshrewing, a little, Mists up an eminence. I heard him weep, as far As me could, till. . . . I . . . It stops. Oh, it's dumb. But, in a minute, I saw Where he sat with his face To the town, where I was. In air Faint as the house-top. Hark! I can hear him now, babbling: "When I'm ready," then I heard him call to me. "Let her Go, and don't stay." I lagged, left The house, rode on the train. Poor little mite was afraid Of me, but grew more fond Of me, till I was full size Gone from us, so, in the evening I sat alone again, at last, And knew, all the place again, In my head. Then to my side Come home--did not turn aside The scenes look strange; I can see All the same, the border, the wood, And there I see the cottage Where at play I used to stand, And watch its smoke go up. There, there, Where, on a single shelf, Eggs and peanuts lay. But what, O me, Is the town to me? Where I am? "Oh, 'twas golden," she cried, "Oh, 'twas golden, love, And, in our town, It cannot be regained! Oh, I am old, old, O me, I, too, am lonesome, love." I came to her in the fields With all the weather, "Oh, dear," she sighed, "I know, I know," I said. "It was too bad, too bad, That we had lost it!" "I know, I know," I said again. "There was just one that was For us the same. 'Twas mine that was not there." "Oh, darling!" she trembled, "Oh, dear!" she sighed in spite Of all the world, "It was golden weather I came to you in the fields." "Oh, dear!" she cried to me. "Dear, I know," I said again. "It was golden weather, love, 'Twas golden day, It cannot be regained!" But now the sun is going, And it is bedtime, And she still awaits me, And still I sit and wait. And we had better be The last we meet. For oh, she'll ======================================== SAMPLE 482 ======================================== Is what you say. The snowflakes I know well how to make, Not a new thing. They come On the arm of the wind and say In a tone that's cool and sweet From the lost ages of the gods, I am smiling like a woman. <|endoftext|> "The City of Death", by Susan Fallon [Living, Death, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] The evening train arrives, I head down to the waterfront from Etzel Plaza where I watched the sunset over the banks of the river. The city is dark, no one living, of course. The water gleamed like silverware in the moonlight, and the trains on the tracks were just reflecting back the dark edges of the images on the walls.The river in the moon was a figure the train couldn't keep up with. They had to tow it back to the city. It was a gift, I think,for the city, a figure the city could have handled itself,the river an image the city could have lived with, if it had wanted to.I stand by the river and count the bridges, wonderingnow will the river go away and the city grow emptier than ripples in the sand. It's a small wonder the river was given to us, with such a good wit, the only thing it seems to need is a path. There is something larger and more sturdy, though, holding it back from something like a normal life,into which it would go down as easily as any river emptying into the sea. <|endoftext|> "Twelve Chants", by Món Anicia [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Travels & Journeys, Social Commentaries, Class, History & Politics, Popular Culture] I feel the hair of the devil spatter my feet lay bare as adzuki oiliness on my forehead legs bare to the ground slung across my chest reach my hand for the hair of the good This poem is called "hair of the devil". In Japan, at breakfast, we say Godban, oops, God+ban. God+God banters badly bitter and little word God+Ban+Ban is how Americans spell it. Once I thought the poem was a message from God bantering in my mouth. Now it seems only my hair that is tousled beneath the baned world. In Japan, I seen long ago how the rich the young clean their teeth while the old drink tea. For tea, you drink at the maid's with three fingers. Godban is a three-finger hand. On this tour, I only drink tea till someone teases I've only got tea in me. <|endoftext|> "Life-Plot", by Món Anicka Angulasma [Living, Life Choices, The Mind, Social Commentaries, Class] 1 The poor man eats broccoli and figs and sucks his meals with a strange bell in his throat. I am the poor man and I want the glasses with a bell. 2 I want the hands that may hold the bell. 3 I will hold the bell in my fingers 4 The eyes of the bell will be red when I need it. I will make the bells 5 I will pat the trees and the walls and the floors 6 I will make the red windows of my hands 7 I will brush my hands flat and long 8 The hills will not notice my tread 9 Once I will stride like a man 10 Once I will fall flat like a fallen wall <|endoftext|> "Life Choices", by Món Anicka Angulasma [Living, Life Choices, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Love, Desire, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Po-Ethan, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Gender & Sexuality] 1 I.e. Mittomos from Leskos ("Debt" by Dandios Sanguas, 1984) In Athens there was a man with a big mouth and small eyes and a thick Greek nose. His reputation abroad was flawless and he thought he was cultured. He was the rich man's lover ======================================== SAMPLE 483 ======================================== "A heaven for them" no more than he was a soldier or an exile or one of the dead poets of chicago <|endoftext|> "From "In the Wood"", by Kathleen Jamie I peeked in the liniment corner and saw that my name was there: Callie Drury My name and my height were called by the walker next door and his smile was like a gas the sweet field corn lay like one huge tangled root staked over the path next to the sweet juice gourd and the liniment corner was filled with scribes to attest to love and property my name was there my prized inking was there my life lay in the liniment corner in the woods I sewed in the sun and trees to keep <|endoftext|> "from "She"", by Martha Hymes [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Men & Women, Philosophy] she and i were at the house of the country, she had not yet given him up, and he was talking, with wild eyes, of cattle and cowboys, and all the rich men she could see, and some of the women, and the woods she was wild enough to follow she knew where she could run and blow things up. the two of them, you have this much, it is a real beast, this argument they had where he said she could not know the future, had she even been there, or had a vision when she fell in love with chewie there was no question of her had he killed the little showman, or she had lost his tricks, and they had to meet face to face. <|endoftext|> "Swim to She", by Martha Hymes [Living, The Mind, Love, Heartache & Loss, Relationships, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity] When he did swim, he thought he would land A chance at she, my girl. A few times, he thought he was certain He could find her, Stick his legs through the doors, And be sure he saw her as she stood All grand in the underdash. He was sure he saw her, and heard She was glad she was away. He swam right up to her, He sawed it in pieces, Thought he saw her hand in his, and stretched To return. But I heard him As I heard you hear in the underdash When a great wave come. I swam down to meet him, I swam right up to him. <|endoftext|> "the bottom rung" , by Alice Moskowitz [Love, Desire, Relationships, Social Commentaries, Mythology] did he ever tell you what he wanted, lay hollow as this clay and you would be sated, lay hollow and they would be served, a slow food of solitude could he carry a rose up this grain his wet lips asking for air rose could he make a silver fortune, not air, could he trip infinite bars, flowering as this dust blows back from his breath, he would be a bear of wealth and she would be his raining <|endoftext|> "Easy as Hallie", by Alice Moskowitz [Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Home Life, Social Commentaries, Gender, History & Politics] the dust thousands of miles away she just reminds me "i jusan't mean to bring this up, i promise i wasn't thinkin' jus while you were around, that'd be like tryin' t' get my thumb off, like i'd like to keep on, as far as it can go, a ring of light, a falcon, an eyeless birdie longer than vision is, it's just a little bead i could touch for you, Hallie, for you <|endoftext|> "Rose Ailments", by Sara Mon 703, subject : houses Welcome to the neighborhood she says you can stay If you want you can leave but the landlord Mr. Broughton won't If you wants You must turn ofthe entrance ofthe back of his house, or else he'll call the police and they'll evict you for no reason You must go with him when he calls when he calls when he calls when ======================================== SAMPLE 484 ======================================== . When he that flint, my heart was an't dismally fra'd, He stood a horrid tree, And would the daring thunder send, To fall on me at a blow. I went in every spirit and was myself, And found my Self in a different person. Then he that now a champion sent And gentle follower sent, I went to be a rod, And taught the world to know The difference betwixt the rightful and improper So now I am seen in a loftier light, And my voice is more free, And I can walk the vistas, As we all are walking. We, you and I, that fain would be And are untaught in the heart To rise and become what ought, And yet would love and live according to The half of our good intentions-- Come to this mountain. It holds my spirit, spirit and body Whose energy I feel And constant of feeling now, And silent in the free Moving presence of the Soul. I feel all strength of youth and old age, And a deep eternal desire And power, and joy and sorrow, Dwelling in my soul at will-- What say you? All life's issues before me, Each one tinged with the blood's True crimson--red Quite through to-day. The death-mist has not Inscrub'd me so, As I pass'd before it: Do you observe the lessening color From the frosty days? Now nothing in life Is there but seems To me any one race or soil, To me any one thing dear, Because it is not with me. Because I have won thy love, And thee, I cannot part with either. Thou know'st thou giv'st me a new Discovery every day, And power to be frank with thee And looser than thy friend, And looser than thy wife. I do not ask of thee to be Thy servant any more than of me Here below. I ask thee to be The disciple of all truth-- Theone who teaches me to find And make headway where I list. There's no purpose in me as yet, And I know it, For this you know, But my life's but a trial. But, could I know that I were To thee alone my care, That whole one purpose indeed Were of purpose B, O how Would tune my life to have thee, You would not be disappointed. My spirit would work its span Planted to this end, The best is not always to do. But why not, purpose A, think of me As something not of use, But mere wonder-work for glory Or for reward. I ask because I cannot give That which I would, All that I might is given, but only use Theend of things,--as of every tool Tried using with a most real chance Of use for once to speed the work. The God of machinery Has made me supreme, Mine is the higher pow'rs to devise, To manage affairs, to see things grow, And things in-move to move. There's no cumber I of things In all my life that's ours to know, But just the spare sweet bound I give To the moving cause of each-- To none of us. When, just beyond the cutting-forth, A thing at hand we see, And that thing is best, We think the thing so well meant We must have it more and more. And so our moneygoing down, Would mark a change in me Which would wear the stamp of Fate. Had I a Will that money didn't blot, And besides, brings a tear for reward Tieing a man up to his job. In such a case the price would do no wrong. I know the farmer can't afford, Nor he, his conscience anyhow. But if the thought to him and home I went, 'twould do no good, and at the worst Would but aggravate a damned day. And so the matter stands: I'll not have it. That's what I am now, And all because you made the turn of Fate. Be fair, be you--or be you no more. What's t'other one, old Whittingham, to thee And mine, That throgh a' thy gates he builds up darned wood And that he fills with water that th'ials fall, And calls ======================================== SAMPLE 485 ======================================== head is in the soil, you'll know it by its toes and the slight scent of a rubber it left in a house long ago. How many times have you thought, how many times have you, even now, in the not-so-distant past? <|endoftext|> "Identity", by Paula Pol explicates the value of an 'I' in light of the common experience of an 'I' and the nature of the human ego. She says that the ego is a social construct which is a mind, or thought, which is 'a consequence of the Darwinian theory of evolution.' She says that the ego is a 'so-called psychological reality,' which is 'designed to get people to do what they wouldn't do alone.' She claims that there is a myth of the ego, which is a myth, 'written by way of an understanding of them. . .for example, one is made to think that a personality is what one thinks it is.' . .if we look at the world through this prism, we see that what is most 'so-called'—such as 'social,' or 'ego'— is really a 'twisted image of the real.' This 'I' is a 'wolf in the city's fields.' An ego is made of lines and tangrams, and the actual 'I' is neither of these, she says, for it is nothing other than what it is: 'Its color, its size, the points on its surface it has; these are equally fictitious, equally imaginary.' The actual 'I' is the output of a drawing-board, and even this 'is neither of them.' . .What makes the 'I' that you and I and all other `I's' unique?' It is our common ground. <|endoftext|> "Love", by Paula Charles [Living, Coming of Age, Arts & Sciences, Music, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] The years that followed Prince Felix's abduction were to her an intensely personal period. At fifteen, of course it was natural she and her father, who was very old to be writing music, would fall out, but it was harder for her to cope with the fact that her mother, whose gray eyes and mouth were drilling the depths of memory for lines of uncanny empathy, had seen all the danger and believed again, this boy she could become herself upon, her passion, the lone woman in the band. The years that followed the fall into girlhood were to her an incredibly personal period. The generations of women she would come into contact with, sounds and ideas and singers, were all of the time and it's these that move her so now she has to speak: it has always been this way with generation to generation. <|endoftext|> "Lucky", by Ken Dietz [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Marriage & Companionship, Love, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] There is the train, there is the street there is the man, what (not what) just (not what) is it to be said, here in Prague, outside my window, the day is looking its historical (pour marche!) feet into nothingness, and I can only conclude, and I cannot be wrong, that it is Europe and Europe is Japan, now, and J apan, and a woman's life, and I like it, and it is spring and it is dusk and it is dark, and all of us are glorying, all of us, and nowhere, and nothing, and there is the rain, and I am thirsty, and I am going to jail, for this, today, and tomorrow it will be worse, and it never is quite to boyhood, and I have never said, never, I have never said yet, <|endoftext|> "Lunch", by Ken Dietz [Living, Death, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Indoor Activities, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Religion, The Spiritual] In the same portion of the globe that had been always the same, time was a plasma, and thus harmless. In the same portion of the same planet that moved, before, since, to gone, to be here now, it was Lunch, and it was unappeasable, and so we came upon it, here now, on the same spot, as if we had always been there. For I would have been content to eat dried out animals and had always been, on my desk, for everyone to see, if only it had been smelled by or among our fellow members of the species, and as long as there were such animals to smell they would have been eaten by us, at some point, in our wanderings, but that had never been where we were, and now, in ======================================== SAMPLE 486 ======================================== a a two a few. a few. a lot. a lot. a few. a few. a few. the more. the more a lot. the more the more. the more the more. the more the more. b have some. have some. have some. have more. have more. have more. have more. have more. have more. have more. b more. b more. b more. have more. have more. have more. have more. have more. have more. Have more. Have more. have more. more. have more. Have more. Have more. More. have more. have more. more. have more. have more More. have more. more. have more. more. have more. more. Have more. more. more. more. more. more. have more. Have more. have more. more. more. have more. have more. have more. more. have more. More. more. have more. more. more. more. have more. Have more. have more. more. have more. have more. Have more. more. more. have more. more. more. have more. Have more. Have more. more. more. have more. have more. Have more. more. more. have more. more. Have more. more. have more. more. have more. have more. Wake me from the slumber of night with sound of bells, Frost upon the water and the she-o-wee Flowers come again after fifty years of de-stroyment. Waterfalls upon the water and the we-we-littel with blood in-ted. Snow as close to the face of the White Man as one may count. Down upon the shore the Pilgrims come again to see their man-boy. Come unto me, ye elder Pilgrims, the brown uncouthies of the East. Come unto me, ye Pilgrims, the Brownies of the World, And bless me with the gladness of your Melodies and Tunes, And come anon as some greater Light to me. Come unto me, O Pilgrims, and let your new healer, The new Beginning of you, heal me of my Illness, Of my Dread, Life-long Dread, which hath me dwelt in Pineland House ever since my Nigh-aclit Crusader Age. Have I not, in my cowardly flesh so long a time, Littered the Earth with bones of unbelievers, From the Nile even to the Frozen Urals, Have I not loat and lease such vast regions of the Earth For one's self to graze in, to hunt in, you thought it a pasture Of some greener Forest on the Northside of the Earth? I am not kine-reaper, (you folk of the Forest only stalk wood!) I am not a reaper, (I am not any wood-pig, I am the reaper of thin ends for every bank;) No, I am a Spiritual Archer of the Shylock-trick-vis-ve-coelom, Of the highest order, a Philistean of the leaves of the Fold, And make me the grass that spreads on the ground your thunders and your fires. There is none such. I gaze into the Sun, and gaze, Gaze untiringlessly, unshamed by low meows and holds, For the Light is lovelier than my thurght, The grass where I throw me is a Gold-water-stone of my hay. I do throw my Shade. I am a Philistean of the cringef ======================================== SAMPLE 487 ======================================== Pale satin wing, Like that dark paper You may remember from college, Little sliver of flame, Tingling right hand I held on my heart. If I held it and not wonder Did it fly away? I heard the circling of wings, I felt the fear, Right, I have never learned to fly, I don't know why it frightened me. O as if I had never Kinda seen them, I must have done, I must have done, I saw them about me. And I am such a pretty corner It is hard to tell which one Is dark, and which is bright. I did not know it, I cannot tell you why I felt so much within me, I cannot explain Why I held my heart in. I sang and sang, All the air was gold, The flowers waved as if My lips were touching their lips. I cannot take my eyes away, I must not take my eyes away, Though there is not one One of them, There is not one Sweet and true as yours. There is not one, I cannot count them, One rose the sweet-sour sun, There was one smile that then smiled on. There are roses now in the place of the ones that are gone. I know the colour of the paper, I know the sound of the little machine, I know the feeling of my legs when I sit for an hour or more, I know the colours of the lace that goes up into my hair, I know the sound of the cream in the spoon, I know the size of a horse and a plane, I know the smell of the coffee, I know the feel of the soft thing that stirs within my hands. It is a bad thing Not to know, It is a good thing To have only a love for. I cannot tell you why, It is not like so much to believe, But my love grew inside the dark of the earth. The earth was green, The seed moved, Through the dark that was my own, There were roses then, And I smelled them, I felt them, I knew then what I knew before But had not name or word to name. The earth has been so bright for me, The warm suns have kissed the red of my neck, They have shown me what is sweet and sweet. Now I must see them to pass, For there is no sight like passing. I cannot stand against the light, I cannot see the pictures come. The leaves are bare, the leaves are green, The summer is over and too soon; The wings that danced in spades have ceased to hum, And I am lonely for good. I shall go down the ways of my dead, And tread where they have never been. The wind has shaken my heart for a day, It has shaken a boy's, that is true; I shall go down the ways of my dead And take what I will in a rack of wood. I shall go down the ways of dead And look not back, To-day or yesterday, To-day or tomorrow. I shall go down to the places That were trodden by day, And I shall sit alone Where no bright eyes shall see When I, cold, shall fall, For there is no help for me here. I shall go down to the witch's den That is under the ground; I shall watch the white-blowing fire As I many a year; And I shall tell the chimney one, That now blows neither sooth Nor strong, As it burns through a round of years That were trodden by day. I shall go down to where my love is, I shall hear her speaking, And I shall gaze along the beech That's old and rude. No fire is there now, But I shall see what fire could see, When it burnt through the night. When the wind will breath On the green leaves here and there, And when the slates of snow Pile in weight upon the door, 'Tis winter, sweetheart, mine own. Then when the sun Wakes the woods to green, And when I lean my head On the old beech-tree and admire The blue sky dazzlingly, My arms shall sweep the air, For I am in the bear's tender Green nest, and thy sweet hair is damp With dust of thee to touch. I did not know that I should find A ======================================== SAMPLE 488 ======================================== Sigh, she says, your virtue's awake! She, do I smile again? She, could I--be wrong? Yet since this first the quiet last, we meet And kiss and hope and swear to mingle glass. The common room in our house was bright With paintings on all walls; And many a book lay in the open fire By coloured paper or wraps to hide The canvas's glory; And over the windows grated tin Above the sound of strab bonded chain: In our heart's centre still, We were free to follow where we would, Or rest in the hush Of the paintings' twilight scene. Then he, a grown man: He will stand up straight and strike The colours on a shelf. And I'll return to the pictures again Or else hark To sound the music that I know: 'Twas his voice that I heard Whose I once more in my ear. Then he leaned from the durn: He was a tall man, his face was grave And his eyes had lustre back To match the silver bells that hung In the colours' sunset round. But now the silver bells of colour Sounded sweetly 'round, As I heard his feet. And I asked if I might speak In the dark room of his picture, In his face my friend see. And he said "Yes, speak you in this room That is all dark! But I care not for this, I have you by my hand, And as long as I may see, I will not look." For the firelight on the white stand Of his pictures doth tell: And I did think, "With a little less It matters not, for in some mood They will be the same." But my painter, he sat at his Pen, working on his tablet gray, With all the wondering light of night Bent down upon his lovely nakedness, And made him strong and noble: And I was there, my nakedness A-painting for a lover, O time! With his dainties, his wine and foison. So, we two sat there side by side Alone of gods and men, And the night sent its content As drops on the painted side Of his tablet from my lover's eyes. But, seeing the clock's slow ring The hour when it should give place To burning marsh-le reports Of the hunting and the feast, He turned and eastward went again. And I, still lower, sought and found His lover sitting, her head made Of peach-flowers, to shade her fair And ermine-blanketed neck She was the peach's straight line, She was the shell that's drawn By the hand of Time. And we spoke while the marsh's mouth Opened and fed around The jaws of one more fair Than my fair one's bed: But, being reserved to converse In the dark alone, We did not move the ash Which Time's hand had laid up But stood speechless in a streak Of flame between, And Time with hateful lips After me drawn out a while Turned, lest more splendid mouths Of living flame should but meet Their mouths in that 'twixt us two And make such hell upon both their sides That Time had nightmare on his part, Or else a curse on his, if he thought I went hence and got no pain, When he made his next pass, This time about the country roads That brought us to his tower; But I, having caught his eye Heard on the subsequent ground What the name of him were there, If town, or field, or bridge's name, The front of town or house, or tree Were not graven on the ground 'Twixt road and house, as one may see By matches long as highway lamps. I looked thence presently another way Across the grass to see what rest there was With what kind of houses on the hills Between the town and country sides, And found the place was surrounded By ditches dark, as a drawn ditch, And half-worn horns as were the horns Of donkeys when they knee In the ditch that rings the door Of a certain place; and in the midst A tower which was a theatre Heaped for the actor's post and place, And close beneath me on one side A pond whose edge but so appeared Uprearing, with one bridge for access Where the town runs up into a lake From lake and hill, I seemed to stand Beyond in a deep ======================================== SAMPLE 489 ======================================== Hasten to sail. O Youth not yet to thee! O Victory not yet to win! O life in life! ere yet my day, I have seemed but as the dust to roll. O mightier power than I! O kindlier be it to all, O softer than a smile! But, alas! neither yet to be To all a day in my fair and young life. 'Tis a meagre world! and the path that I Have trod Is by forlorn quite as forlorn as the other side. Forlorn! quite near have I ne'er known it,--never more Shall I see it. And I who know best that it is not God's will To bid life be more bearably had; And yet--oh, why have I not a giddier hope? Why have I not spurned--why have I not scorned The dame that made me feel That there was something beyond me and the earth That should not suffer me to stay away? Why have I not a thought like this: That though the world may play me here I am a dust upon the face of the sun? Why, if it play me to the earth, Why should not the earth at last play me? 'Tis more than true,--and by 't that thought's sweep, As I see no return for the squandering Of powers, and hopes, and pleasures, treasures Which I never can bring to remembrance, As though I should become dust again, It may be said:--I thank you for it, And I thank you also for not asking. I have eaten breads made with milk; And soft vegetables, washed down with wine, Have thrown on my best evening; Withered my cobs; folded my life With fear and sleep; given my breath up For fear of being apoplexy'd; Tended my fever, lay in bed, Wrought the plaster round each rib for mostion; With fret and care I have trebled the payment Of accounts; with groans, for fear it steamed, Have furl'd the blankets; shaved off lice; Cut, comb, bleached leather, and off steamed Bits of linen, daily eaten In the bath's delights; seen the brave Draculas, and those who have outlived Their pencill'd neighbours, men and boys, Have seen my under garments in air Emphs those that live of old. He who has lived on the winds, Can live from the tides, too; And there is none that can cross the floods And have a share of sorrow. In waters like this, who gains Is by no merits known, And who shall latch the wheel of fortune? From these that have been foreman Of human storms that roll, This is the end of the class, That to silence the world may know That living in waves is still more nice, And in bodies such as bodies be Living in waves is still more nice. Like the stroke of some most unseen Key, the wood flies o'er the eye In nature's delicate maze, Like the stroke of some most unseen Key, the wood flieth o'er the heart In nature's delicate maze; There's nothing they can well-much tell About it, not a bit. It is more than true, That they were born to die, That they shall pass All their little lives again As at some others' hands; But then the clod down in bottomless morass Would be very much afraid Of the clod that is man. It is true, They are still, but what is clod? What is still?-- Can the clod that's now Change to a nothing at all? And can't Be both still and now; Or now and now, or now and now, Or now and now or now and now, Or now and now or now and now, Now and then, or now and then, Now and then, a now; and then, now and then; And is a then next to be; And is a then next to be; Or is a now, or is a then next to be; And is a then not to be; And is a now to be; Or if you will. It is still. Cousins, hear my breaking heart, 'Twere better far if I were dead; For it grows with aged years, And the mind muost falter from the scans; Tears ======================================== SAMPLE 490 ======================================== cold from in-fighting <|endoftext|> "Arroyo", by Elaine Equi [Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] My spirit shares a little in the sun's. Like the water that fills the canyon meadows so fill I near behind it don't feel the water's presence. The chalk outwash the canyons take the city even as the canyons are sealed up. Nothing's left of the channel but the water that would find the city more shallow. If the city's a tide I'm a small boat in deep water. My friends are clouds followed by the rain. I don't go near. <|endoftext|> "Song for Senyorno", by Chivanje [Arts & Sciences, Music, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity, War & Conflict] The music today is of slave ships. The sound of bodies bleeding. And of spirits trying to free themselves. Today, the government calls on us to join its "history" projects. Today, I am the one who asks you to leave. I am Lakota and children like you who disturb our song. I beg you, I stand on your behalf. Look at the distant flames of Dickinson, S.D. Look at the Lakota fire stars, the sky's red and white ribbon markings of battle scars. Look, while white men come to share our visions. Look, while the rest of the world sings of triumph, I call for a more realistic and comprehensive story. We do not sing as we bring the full circle of South Dakota's national monuments to Native soil. We sing to free you, our grandmother, to heal you, our sister, to make you courageous. We sing the Lakota story, and the white man's heart should hear the deeper Lakota story. I do not want to live in a country where your people go extinct while mine is threatened by your neighbors, whom the Ribbon River throws into parks while you in graves. You find value in dreams. You find beauty in nature. My people used to spend their whole lives in the circle, dreamers among who followed the fish through the current's shifting rainclouds— my people dreamers among who followed the deer, boating through the open range, sensing the cats, where they broke into their sleeping corners, the place where grasses and humus give us back memories as deep as speech, where we learned the horse's calling. Where we hunted the deer, wading through the fallow with the blades of corn, neighboring Missouri plebebine the bone train, traveling the wind-up-like-a-wing-test thing, back to my people, back to the beauty of Gatterville, back to the test where I stood among the children, among the grandchildren of the serapàu to me, an Idle American Indian. <|endoftext|> "After the Presidential Election, Barack Obama Wins the Day", by Daniel Lanning [Living, Death, Health & Illness, Life Choices, The Body, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] After the presidential election, death settles in the White House lawn. One day after another, resar emerges from the black protoplasm of the jaw, after the facelike preparations of sugary-finned Obama, after the short-term cells detect a fair number of the end cells, the president is dead. At the campus clinic, Cindy, a nurse who believes she'll have children, twirls a dying man's face with a broom. At the mall, Jonathan shows his friend, a few minutes of Mom's "Perfectly Responsible," with her cobalt free soul and divine belief that "nothing wrong" in every view, but, sensing life's trouble, an instant later, holding his nose. I am, and are not, the president of the United States. And, while death keeps his cup full, our bodies seem to lift them anyway. My friend and I, whom polls indicate might well be a multiple resistant to his will, drank it right along with its endless sipping. Rippling in a space, sky-lighted, the president's death would pass ======================================== SAMPLE 491 ======================================== and beauteous effect The peace and pride of Paradise; Whilst pride, that in controul is most Of those who in this tower do dwell, That not to know the place was folly, And to have one's own complexion there, Is most humility. O hadst thou known His head, thou mightst have trembled; and his hand Having tested courage, silence on that fit Had then all been more prompt to rise, Than here, when the Lord commands, they rise With trembling countenance, and stand combatant. The tempest and the darkness fill the air As if that earth were shorn with plagues acute; But they, as thousand spirits, are increased. When the air is bright and merry, Happy spirits, they will arise, And give a place of places to go, As if they did their own appear In London at night, where, being loath To wait longer in a Christian place, Each day, they make of that a memorial. Here when he gave, the cause why, I knew it was a noble heart, And of such a priceless good That to look on him was to buy With a much more precious thing: --'I will my place not take,' Quoth he, 'but if you will not, I Will give it up, and for Christ's sake Take you the punishment'-- They went, that first drop fell from him: But what peopled he the skies, E'er was darken'd by his soul. By his open miracles, the soul Of the poor man of La Mancha Enlighten'd and instructed half the Universal host; Hath show'd the Hindu, as I conceive, That souls of men, if scattered abroad, Take light their fellow-gifts from heaven, And heaped unnumbered lights around In a dark house, where each gift are Hallow'd by the good Sophy, In whatplight distress and evil eye Are set all other blessings; What beams on what, by what pow'r are borne, Are not conferr'd; and fondly take to heaven, The same places but to take to heaven. In all things, where lives and offices are It brings forth souls, the flesh it wastefeeds. In what chambers thou dost elect to come Is only emblem of thy soul; It is the body which going throuh him, Or popp'd from his labours long and far, Sheds its long fresh fangs as a porcupine strikes; It is the spirit which with what pow'r, Or by what motives it is dy'd, shall burst Foul beneath earth's lustre, near its death. Voltaire and Polemex, brothers of birth True beyond all names, and who all ev'ry good And virtue had, from first to last agreeing, Ran madly 'mid their cumbrous trains For the huge Javelin; and the string That made their furious assault obey'd No longer than the life that made them. What scarce aforerest plac'd in those young limbs, Had glut of days, was now to chase, or run, As fearfully as younger brothers can. They had both loved, from their first springs rising, The same passion, which in them like one ran; The same, but in a different stile: Nor like in speed or manhood's bulk they seemed'd, Though on the edge of name most war have waged. And as a man of yore, whom wastes of war Have since begun, and more or less defeat, Seeks for his dead, and as he nears 'bids die Advance his fugitive sons; so Theseus 'Of these fated brothers pair I alone, And pair, of all that pair, e'en now the best, Inclusively the foremost, Theseus. Since this, as oft as Morno-Med'c'n's head Those brothers had set in a sort "bail'd," Even the dead 'twixt two brooding brooms was seen. Theseus, still early ris'd, with the morn Had stpoted, and with lilied crown Hir mastiff-like coat from sleep disarmed: Till his strong mind with remembring pain he ran. The crown, as fenced in his childhood, fly'd By course fire through his grasping grasp; and he Receive it's discredit; nor of revenge, No, nor counsel, lest he witting stand, That in this trouble, as of old, he might be ======================================== SAMPLE 492 ======================================== A solitary shadow flits across the porch, A cold glare falls on the distant shop, and now Whence are dropped into her lap the coffins Of shoppers brought to the village fair. But she Tells no one--she only pets the cat. She hardly Lives in the town where all are glad of her, And where she learns that to the hospital brought From home, or sent for, one comes for the quiet Of burying one's own elder and to know The folded cloth--the last great mystery. When she crosses the river, and is seen Standing in the boat's place, the moon Heavy in the ruddy water lies; The only town her father knew Sinks on her swollen name, The roof-trees of her childhood Fade in the fog. <|endoftext|> "The Coffee-Vein", by Rudyard Kipling [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Heroes & Patriotism] In Burma's jungles I wandered, Where for 200,000 years it grew Without a thought. Then I looked into my garden, And saw--or thought I saw-- A stir of intellectual babble In the canopy. Coffee-growing, I had forgotten How much more fun you have without A brain. Oh, I like their eyelids wide At the milkman's hand-leyant's caped Show: But when coolly correct analysis In the presence of facts and fictions Began to give me the goose-pimpled face, I sat a while in a daze, And then I went in the house. <|endoftext|> "Sparrow", by Rudyard Kipling [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Pets, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] The Bisping of B. by —The story of Li Huata— The Plum-Flipper of B. by The Spariotage of B. by The Cock of B. by The Chit Of B. by The Chouffeau of B. by The Chaiju of B. by The Chequer of B. by The Cogwam of B. by The Chops of B. by The Conment of B. by The Drake of B. by The Dragon of B. by The Dog of B. by The Dog in B. by —The fox in fox hide— The Gander— The Gryphon— The Gruel— The Hare— The Hoof of B. by The Housebreaker— —The Nest-box of B. by The Old mare of B. by The Obstruct in B. by The Omelet of B. by The Ounce of B. by The Oxen of B. by The Overcoat of B. by The Pantaloon— —The Ounce and the Pound— The Parthenon— The Parakeet— The Parrot— The Parot Coxone— The Peacock— The Parotin— —The Parris-fire— The Parule of B. by The Parupete of B. by The Parvo-Mare— The Parasoulades of B. by The Pharos— The Pendolance— The Pentax— The Pascal— The Philosopher— The Philharmonic— The Picklebin— —The Pint-O-Rita— The Plumed Ox— The Plug-Pole— The Plectrell— The Plume— The Poignet— The Poppet— The Poppyet— The Poppies— The Poppy— The Poppyine— The Poppyle— The Poppet— The Popplestick— The Popsicle— The Portable Oxford Mode— The Portable Plattadel— The Portable Parthenoly— The Portable Posy— The Populace— The Popular— The Popularity— The Popular Row— The Popular Delf— The Popular Delil— The Popular Rule— The Popular Girl— —The Poplar-Cliffs— The Popler— The Populefe— —The Populence of Ja— The Poppyet— The Popular Escort— The Popular Eye— The Popular fust— The Popular Fluttu— The ======================================== SAMPLE 493 ======================================== tis all gone the cunnin' quick-and-finally come! Oh! H. W. Fields a-handin' o' bun-brown coats; O Putnam's best volume, ev'ry kiddies read, Was spent in learning how best to manage a pair, Though Heaven did good, 'twas ruin all the time, And chance smiled on ev'ry one the while; Though fate opened the world to us, And gave the keys to Martin and to Me, Yet, this it was: there was the law, the rules, the primers to learn, And Fates themp'her way of doing things to guide us, For all the pair, at last, "contemplate" was set. For me, I stuck to scheme and turnpike-wise The pair did stand and droop with the Ruler, But when they were at millin round they began to wish it might had been "immortal fates" forbad The Ruler was kind and generous and hard at "our birth-cent'ers" kept, "scaled up in silks and laces" set out, As if he was "king of all -- (An' the girl said) and by ho, of a piece! (An' the boy said) do you think 'tis fittin' the end -- of this to 'id -- make the pair on scheme, oh! H. W." The Ruler wore a trou, a featewant that was rugged and ragged, And had a wooden leg fall on, And tumbled them both to seed. The Ruler had to go, 'Twas good -- to "let him catch a chucky!" and had the square brought to him For "birth-works" -- when the boys come round an' see it. My sons went past one day, a long way off; The Master to get a sight of "him" They told us "Master" (my sons) "would 'appone the job." He said the Ruler (the laddie), He (the Master) Was "not fit for a 'tention to 'id," as they'd both A scuffler to do. The Ruler's "rabbit leg" was a mool man's match, The Master's was "a poulterer's," but a clumsy art. He'd cut "him" (their streetwise) by the breech, "a point o' nerve." And when you walked the street, you were snarled and snarled "Uncalled-for Them two -- 'tis settled -- "are twain, in their sable whiskers!" The Ruler's pony broke its leg (he couldn't a mooch do), And he (the laddie) was wounded (that was me!) When the hob-hawk hounds tore at the Scotch-Cavalier's fiddle-stem. The ancient magician's stall at a faromboy bar tore me from the moor and, with all aboost by way o' inhospitable zone, I thought to hide in a rabbit's fur and where wot I could I aint learned yet not to see in a spot from whence I could walk a little like a hare with sore eye to see. I could have cared enough to tell the least, for a chuckle in a low sing song a fevered soul caught, cuddled in the snortin' oaks. I gits 'is watch the perfett on 'is stic. But this the rich, sweet breath 'Ose's ill, 'tis 'alf the same: But in the morning, when a crowd, footwind in their loud chorus went by, the cry was, "A bunny, a rav'lin' hare!" And the lads they chivied me out to be a clown at bar (The Monarch's Atoning Ride, when O was a 'ghost), To catch you quick in a giddy spun or snug in the banes, That you wad be scouted pure and chirpy from their perch, not fit at all for's preëminent drummerly chat. They wanted me on the next ten, so out I ======================================== SAMPLE 494 ======================================== TL2R loves bowing, c*ck & pussy too. A towie, like a black, man. For a stripe on a white horse, would you mind Driving to Waltham, me and a pig One lunchtime at Meggett's. And in black again, S*ITTIL taken. <|endoftext|> "Stanza ", by Justin Tremberg [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] * A figure, if geometrical, a figure is a vehicle a car for a figure and Stanza a tram and maybe a train, if there's space for it and more than one figure may be important ilyer icon the ilyrer always there <|endoftext|> "Colonoscopy", by Robert Hunter [Living, Death, Health & Illness, Surgical] 1. Who is this for? I look at my watch 2. This one is the one I ate popcorn with he patted my back 3. He said he was sorry I didn't call him in 2 4. I know it hurts I know it hurts I am standing there my bloody gums wishing I were a rock <|endoftext|> "Water Bottles", by Kay Ryan [Living, The Mind, Nature, Animals, Trees & Flowers] I'm just a flow is what I am. One of everything. The thing is: what do I know? A twig is water. It bends and stands on the blade and rips itself and the carbon that stays. A few leaves off a spruce a drift of bark and snorts. A sprucetree makes a water a green blade that someone crossed to fill a fist. <|endoftext|> "Remember Me", by James Ellis [Living, Time & Brevity, Philosophy] I'm remembering myself. I'm in my father's house. I'm in my mother's house. I'm standing outside on the lawn. I'm standing in my mother's house. I'm in my mother's house. I'm in my father's house. I'm in my mother's house. I'm in my father's house. I'm in my friend's house. I'm in my mother's house. I'm in my friend's house. I'm outside. I'm in my friend's house. I'm in my father's house. I'm in my mother's house. I'm in my father's house. I'm in my friend's house. I'm in my friend's house. I'm in my father's house. I'm in my mother's house. I'm in my father's house. I'm in my friend's house. I'm in my house when I remember. I'm in my house. <|endoftext|> "My Perfecto's Face", by Ailsa Krois [Living, The Body, Arts & Sciences, Photography & Film] The face is just a sheet of air. Or it's the whole picture expanded out to the length of a photograph that wraps around the frame in a rim of its own space. We could bend and walk over the frame's inch or more of we'll stretch later. We are all photographed living so we can't forget we were born. The world builds on the fidelity of a water well filled up to the brim. Maybe we are the posterity for the frame. The body can bend over the well's drill of a diameter. The well is empty. There is no world anymore. The weight of the world builds up to the height of a crow's crowness. Our crowness is sight but the spooky world is camera but the world is cocked off its cusp. I am her living spirit on the screen cocked off her cocked tone off her tone. I am the lightness with which the frame bends over the well. I am the stealth with which the frame bends inside out like my father's smile. I am the linguistic champion with which the frame bends backwards and forwards like my father's thumb. The world is my bent paper bird following a bend in the moss. It bends back. It turns back. I am ======================================== SAMPLE 495 ======================================== There is the sun, the heart of a young woman that is worthy of your lips. <|endoftext|> "Sea Fever", by Wee Macpherson [Living, Health & Illness, The Body, Nature, Trees & Flowers] I would walk out into the street, Mackerel scaufused with the sea's sensual Eternal Vapors, and see the glories of golden psychedelic peafowl swarming the low-set streets like fish through fishpipes, and cherry school- buildings like moonlit batter stacks. Here, if I could catch a disease and never leave my bed, saw beetles in rabs; saw great animals waking; saw bug-white butterflies and cockroach-yellow caterpillars pouring tea through the afternoon. If I could never walk, could never leave this strip of cocaine-rife in a strip of body-sinking ocean, I could lie on the plush of an oil-light showing. Here I could lose myself in the drift of siren-sound; and in the glories of death, immaculate; and in the poise of cairns. Here I could see what the bouquets have always meant: roses, hey-de-t hey-de-hey-de. <|endoftext|> "Bees", by Dorianne Laux [Living, Life Choices, Parenthood, The Body, The Mind, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] Like weakling fireflies, they land on when next we shut our eyes. But for hours they fly above, until we begin to feel,Through amber rain and through fluid twilight, the return of black into brown, the slow thaw into grey, the quick turn of day into night.This is the boundary of who we are, and where we are, in these sets of laws we cross and apart, in and away, always somewhere in the faint diaphanous horizon.This is the mysterious ocean of motherhood, the mother-state, and where the connections are made, made clear, between womb and womb and ever Where you are moist and the earth is wiggling its serpentine grace, and over what yet cannot be named—the drone of bees across the still air, the soft flicker of the clothes when I'm sleeping on our sofeseats.What we crave, or rather, what we wait for, in the boneyard of light, is a dark that's deep enough to understand our destinies: to set your body free, to find your soul, and to be nailed to one birth for life.We must lift a burden as deep as any one of us. Stillness is not prayer, movement without verse. And I want to cry to my babies— the very words in this book's lineage. <|endoftext|> "From Script", by Kay Ryan [Living, Coming of Age, Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] My mother said come look at my words, not the rehearsals, and I looked at the tables, the billing of actors & actresses, and went into my room and saw the finished script, and did not go to bed that night until I saw the full-grown creature in the pool who was taking a nap under the salt water, and thought well perhaps we'll give this to the creature, or to the pot, or to what finally we decide, and nothing was a bell in the window, a button was a fist, a letter was a pest, and the phrase was the flies. <|endoftext|> "from The Return: XIV", by Kay Ryan [Living, Death, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, War & Conflict] for Ben17 To be given the day off, and then, obviously, murder. To be in love with the notion of killing, and not just the act, but the never-ending delay, the slip, the blurring until you are right at the edge of what is, and then the sudden incredible bluntness as you gape, and feel your own wet body burst into a puff of blood and tell the world your horror. To learn to live without conscience, and to live without a conscience that would find it guilty. To be drunk with joy, and to want the joy without any review. To want the young and the lone. And then, of course, to die. To die with a friend, or a lover, or a enemy. To know at last what cannot be seen, or what is heard through windows left open. To have been a part of something so quick and so deadly the death is the death of love, the death of a friend, the ======================================== SAMPLE 496 ======================================== So proud? who makes me beg mine own worth? I have none but she, nor any less than her. She I before my eyes is majestic,--I see her. All, but she, say Tonga, or Ceylon. I am all hers,--the meed of my lust. Let no man fear. Let me but tell What is thine own, and my desire. All mine, the beauty she hath made mine, And I have no power to retort. Like as the limb of a just leg that's broken, Or a sepulchre, upon the sands, Which a loud bad storm hath rained on; And, like limbs of a skeleton, exposed, To his entreaties do cry out, and burn. Such seems the soul of my heart to my eyes. 'Tis gone out into the darkness of night, Which is dark with the dissatisfaction And the misery of my despair. I am ashamed Of my poor meanness. Is there no help for us? For I am a fool, as we think, sometimes,-- The proud, despairing moderate man, As in old times the pestering hester was With the wooers of Lyrness. How can I be ashamed? My hester was eternal; he addressed his pet; He never turned about nor hung about. Therefore, Since it cannot change, I will make the attempt to be great; And try to emulate the men of the last, For the stubble-field is not holy, but bleak: I am very well aware that I am not like them; I have no prophetic thirst for prodigies. Now to return to my theme. What did my new lover say? Was it love and hostility first overtired, Or was it some sort of wink at my distress, A salutation changed to speak how bad my grief was? Was it a rent (he said) in the nail-size of the heart? I will not be astonished if that be so; I have heard the like by my old teachers told. "They say, my good friend, if you take poor old drinking For granted, it grows stalks from your gut, and gnaws on you." --"I take it not," He said. "There are two kinds of drinking: the good kind and the bad. You will have to make your own peace among the land's concerns. You need not look on me as some hallowed Beast of the Earth, A rejoicing creature just set out of Cloudland. I do not wear the robe nor the cloak of the Cabalist. When my honorless lot is thus arranged, Why, even tears will be welcome." Here the whirl. The whirl. And the water with his beard grow high. A wonder of proweltines, Crouching under the sultry Sky of the stifling Pan As though in a swamp to hide and hunt, And so proweltine. The water's face Had as many words, such a thing to speak, As the mouth of the mouth can hold. "There are those who think That Pan is not water," he said, "But of the sun." The face of the water Nodded saying, "Therefore, I should be thirsty. I am like to have had You know that the power, The little island water-snake, Is a snake to roll up into A coil of the sort of things That the wind will wanton and wild, And once the chain will strike, And the wheel go run." A voice said, smiling, "To be water-dynamic, To drink and run with the wind Takes a spirit like a brine About a body like a louvered beach, And makes one gush and get up spinold. I have seen some mad ones So comely and boyish, Not wind or water. I will not say Who has been blue in the head, But to be blue in the belly Takes a crystal of air, And they say that only God sees." "I say, you do not know what you're talking about," Himself reminding me. "I am only a filter, Taking the heat and making the light more clear. I suppose that the snake in you's dulled To a blue cornea, You stare, I'm afraid." I said, "You snake, you're coming to," "An oily star, my son!" "I don't believe you, I know you for a liar, pipistrell, ======================================== SAMPLE 497 ======================================== How those dear beasts would sniff, Like good pilgrims, all the way; With wistful eyes they'd watch, O'er this world's leading materials, Whose merry-go-round goes round so fast They see naught without its changes. But hark! the voices grow Sadder and higher in the air, And onward grow, and onward on Like thoughts in an organ in the Church of Rome; The cross is a bar of white Keeping back the mists of blood and tears, That stop no more the pure of heart from mingling with things that may blow as kingly blood As kings across their stately domes; They must keep drawing back to the Papal throne, For that is Rome, that is the world's mandate set. So brother-priest, since thou wast born To baneful scum only, not to speak Of thy highborn ancestors, let thy words That such are sons of this your clay, Whose fates have stilled with older generations, Hold out the chalice, and call back those Who wore the cross to thee as charms To guard from harm their sisters and their kin, Who are not wives,--O what a strange trick The gall-headed camel hopes in song, In songs and prayers he flays and disordereth! O sister, cast it not from thee, Nor vainly stir the memory Of one cruel crime to win Feruments from men who may Himself be made evil for this, For this man's sake who lifts his eyes On thine and laughs at God, O thou who wouldest be Just like thy sister and child, Not like nor less than they, Read here the prayer of a sister That begets not herself; See here the faith of a sister That must afford collateral fires, And with tears alone quench her aspirations. Hearken to the heart-breaking words Of one who shares thy sorrow, Tho' much she lives in gladness, Fully her thirst can learn 'Tis a sea without a shore From whence her toils may spread O'er endless, lonely shores to roam, Unshelter'd snow!' 'I have heard the voice of love And taken her word to be Most nobly and forsworetly dead With that of good-dead weeks, Since first I took her ghost to bed, Unveiling of her eyes To day the screen that spins for pride That she might be know'd whom all say Like her dead sisters Of him that walks below the sea, Who holdeth mortal breath. 'O love, how like our brothers they Lie in their graves, like us, that are not Part of the slow cycle, that have nail'd Their souls to everlasting fast, Whilst ours eat, drink, sit self-smoker, lie In light care free. The wind may change, yet our dead fire Is not of wind; And death is void of thunder, but of flowers That have their being. 'The grasses may lie athwart The pathway of our dreams, The dews may flounce The moonlit limb that tracks our ceiling, Or dream our night, While we do sit beside the same stream And entertain the same dream. 'The stars may still be round Our pathway as we move, And shadows cross 'twixt us and our goal, Yet do we none tarriance askance Out of our bed of flowers, Where the same bed is bare, And ye may drink of one cup Of one glass of sun. 'Our shadows be spread ere we know, In the cool moonshadow, A lower sun may flame between Our southern skies, Or, the shadows may be none, Or they may be most small, And have no weight Within the bed of clouds. 'The great white orbs that circle round Our bed, The dew on yon white wall May turn as light as breath, The stars on eyes may fail The dust of death to heal, The dew and sun may grieve or joy, 'Twould not be wise For me to pray to change it any. 'Ye are silent--love, sleep, Sleep, the fair moon, and this covered man, This folded hand, O one, as fair as great Richard, And as good,--as good a father earth Hath ever felt as she. O sleep, she loves you and loves you, As her own soul.' Her voice was young ======================================== SAMPLE 498 ======================================== Betwixt the trees and yonder Shrank the black branches, Dry dead leaves and the snow. Where the fir is, the pine Above me is, as though to deck With blossoms the vista around me. My foot is caught in the snow And on the fir-beach is the sight Of two black birds with whom I am in With so black a plume their pinions gleam. To the wall the tallest has clung And closes with outstretched claws A hole not wide as a hand's thumb And the birds are feasting One has the sun in his grip, One is glistening, one glistens. As I close with one in spite Of the other a leafy bed The pine-branches shake and break; One with his body nimbdy From the arm of the wall has jumped One in the same way the other Is within the wall's depth. Oh! what a sight is that; The black bird glories As though in a crevice. "You see them too? If only the sun were here!" By the ship-side, In the clatter of oars, Sails collapsed, packed away, Bread wrappers out of the loaf, The oars, strong branches In the sun make music With branches and with lights, Which there with branches and lights In a vast circle make music, As they strike on my ear, Who, for twenty cotsnatch, Are listening to the shavings Of the Green Sea track. Within the camp of the Redman There were two, the camp master and his wife, Who liked, I think, their own vers-song So the two Black-Aces, one night in the autumn, Sat up half naked, to gladden The Lord, the Lord! Oh, I glisten To think of the moon Smit on a grain of salt Of sand in the moon's grain! I walked with an Irish bedizen On the pathway to Kishlightup. The leaf stood up and shook down Some soap in its leaf. It said: "I have lain With an imp in the dust of the city, That fell from a mill, down To a humble cottage on a hill, That I gather each day For a soap-bucket." I had gold in the mine, but, ah, I was poor! My neighbours were the angel of swift death And the green-haired little ghost Who glowered up in my face. To shelter this I made A heap of gold in the pit, and I Stood looking and smiled. My neighbours were the angel of death And the green-haired little ghost Who glowed in my face. To shelter this I made Gold, I had none, have I? My neighbours were the angel of prey, And the green-haired little ghost Who gloated in my face. To shelter this I made You know, I tell you, that I had gold in the bank And yet was I poor! My neighbours were the angel of prey, And the green-haired little ghost, Who gloated in my face. To shelter this I made Now, this gold of my pit and the bank Was slaked, was gone! My neighbours were the angel of quick death, And the green-haired little ghost Who gloated in my face. To shelter this I made I kept my bed, but I was ill with the bed, The bed was red with my thoughts of the gold I knew was mine. My neighbours were the angel of swift death And the green-haired little ghost Who gloated in my face. To shelter this I made I saw the sun faery afire, afire And lay behind the reeds in the grass At gusts of the North Wind, and lay behind Gold in the mine, but the hoarded treasure Was gone! My neighbours were the angel of swift death And the green-haired little ghost Who gloated on my face. To shelter this I made I died a prisoner. My neighbours were the angel of swift death And the green-haired little ghost Who gloated on my face. To shelter this I made The city of the death-place Was set in a sunny land. My neighbours were the angel of swift death And the green-haired little ghost Who gloated on my face. To shelter this I made When I was dead the things of the world ======================================== SAMPLE 499 ======================================== ad bacchata, when I die, hŭdnia; when the glimmer of my name will be a mist. <|endoftext|> "Adieu! For I Loved", by Robert Burns [Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Heartache & Loss, Romantic Love, Unrequited Love, Relationships, Men & Women] Adieu! For I loved thee so only, That I could have died to have hated thee. And now I'm hated by my love, And he oppresses me so I can't livingly say, This world is only a sham and a:// And I'd gladly be dead, To lie under grassy banks Of scented bents, and hear the ewe Went rowing. My life has come to this, That now I'm hated by my love And I can never leave him. Because he's my favourite grace I can't but think his blade's death would me a breaker do. Yet I hoped to be before this rose, Fresh from the thorns all green. And my cheek would gently smell to him, As now, I think, my dear, I'd be put to him, I'd love to be, my dear, But if I were he, I'd hate me! My heart is growing asaanto fat, My waist is filling up, my shade's rising; My coat is pretty, my eyes are blue, My cheeks are blushing red; My toes have quickened, my words are all said. I'm awy, I'm eight-and-a-half, I'm dull, I'm dull. I'm after Gossip; he's cause of it, He's the cause, he's cause of every thing. I'm sad, and I'm sick at heart, I'm faint, am sick, am shouting; I sing; 'tis my blood; 'tis my song. A strange one's come to me; I'm trembling, I'm shaking; I'll shrink, I'll shudder, I'm so stiff; My face is like a hill; My voice is like a rap. The sun's I'm shining, I'm shining, I'm shining, Shining, the light is shining, The moment's shining. The wind's I'm waking, I'm trembling, I'm shuddering; The flowers' I'm kissing, I'm trembling; The trees' I'm calling, I'm trembling; I'll melt down, and be water. The empty like me, I'm trembling, I'm shaking; I'm wild, I'm crooked, I'm shining. And now I'll hold the hills like mountains, And now I'll hold the valley wide, I'll hold the mountains and the valleys. <|endoftext|> "To a Child", by Mother Lucetta Oh! tell me how to speak to you in a tone to suit with your bosom's ache; Tell me how blessed we both are, and how you would know the exclamation where you see it no doubt. Tell over what? perhaps you want to know my thoughts of a fine spot, Of emerald moors, or a view from a castle in a baroque palace. No, no, tell me what you had, and what you got, For I had no care to bring treasure or want, And till that charm us out of hoarded hoards we'll not indulge in store. But tell me, was the spring, that chased after March wind, And bade all other seasons standing still enthroned stand? What was that bird that soads through tree or grasses, Seeking his blue hole when his green hole was dry, In the lukewarm cinder, or in flowers forlorn? What was that bird, that made hole after hole? In what wolde it set, in what in dalliance Did he awake and what he had and what had he to give? To what did they restore or new or undo or end or endeavor, Tell me of that ill, and I warrant you,ye by the feck of a foot that was not of a mortal's. What could ever make you glad, let but once in a way! Well, the bird that sang to us, and that bird that carropped Over the prairies in the days of the horse, That the slow winter and the slant sun brought to the brink, And that spring, that liss, for that liss, they came to the brink; And here they stay, and here they can not stray, Till they have the use of their own limbs and wits again, And have forgot their ancient outlandish looks; And he, that was Riddle, will he merry now? What is he? a Sapper? ======================================== SAMPLE 500 ======================================== 's he're too weak for the task. Our great object, in the broad glare Of the morn, should be to get through As much as we can of the day As quickly as we can, And with light to those places that are new We will go, returning each day, To live, and to grow old there. We should for the time be well Fed on food that is most grand But still with view to keep one younger Than our old forefathers, so That when at last we leave the room In which we have lived so long, We have left to the passing of the current And this we should do with a smile As though we had come all the day To play a little shop on earth In the upper heaven of the shop And have left the hours to ourselves With thoughts of self-congratulation To have laughed aloud in our mortal concerns. But if there comes a day when we feel That we want the world, and we go To buy things to go away There will be those among us who say 'Why go? you have money now.' And others who say the same in thought, And I myself the majority will be When suddenly our former strength is gone. And yet I feel it would be only right To go and take things as I can make them And if I should live to try and do Some great things out of the shop I trust that many men will say 'That we made him what he did, and we Shall not hear another word about him Until he is grown where we can see him Wandering from the weather of heaven.' I was born in the year of the flames which were red, And I had never seen the sunset sky. I had been brought up on the tales of mountains And secret fires within mountains' claustral bosoms And the black and spangled rooftops of cities And how the water from those bodies of fire Comes uttering through with all the lamentations Of winds and rains and night winds wrangling through The cycles of wind and ocean wind and tide. But evermore I was born with a sick grin Upon my lips where the seam of twilight Was conspicuous on the greying hills. And as a seaman I worked there, And floating, with the others, on the decks Of the ship called Lyonesse, through the pale skies Between two ceaseless rains. And I died, and I left behind me a grinning grin Which told of the fortune I had lived. For I was there as a seaman, to ride down From thatëlection of the world, which is A historical mystery, which hath No history, and therefore can be but Of other world's wonders, than our own. If the seasons of your life are like the sands Which span the sea, and not of continued Smoothing in advance of sudden changes, And you dance, you must gather what I have Before I get it; but if, as I have said, Your life is like the heavens, and you are For ever rounding, no body can know What is forever hidden from the past. The endless voyage of a foolish hope, The unrhymed Animus of a mind whose god Is as old as stone, and as simple as man; The aspiration of a rising sun, The trouble with water and with dirt, The bad dreams of children, the dream of a child, The constant riots of the imagination; All these are negroes to the world's mind. This is the time of the moon and the temptation of young men to awful and horrid enterprises; This is the season of fire, this the season of dust and ashes, of blood and neither hope nor cheer. Men have been ruined, and have been saved from hell By the advice of friends and the advice of fools. All empires are they new friend's and fool's hope; The fool is the rightful heir to the throne in this, When we men delay to put us down and to remake. We are a scattered people, and we follow here The vague direction of our hero where she calls, But we are more fortunate than many peoples Who are said to be happy and contented. The poverty of the mind with none to feel it, The folly of the tongue, the wicked design Of the devil, are made into blessedness When men are just in their tears, and to others who Have known one pang as nothing. And there are days When I forget the world is but an empty sun, And when the spirit of man is exalted To the heights of heaven.