attach_debugger print_status freeze_forever quit save_and_quit ======================================== SAMPLE 1 ======================================== What we have done, And what we should do. Then and there The case is closed. The Dauphin's at the Seine, Dead against the rocks. That of Brennus failed, Made us take note. Pellucid or unfaulted, Stream or predew or prenium, That of Petrarch we learned-- That writers' matters are telltale And can be learned of posterity. How the minutia of verse Makes obsolete the long behind it, In a passion of months and a fever of times-- Some Decca Snell, Some Cilceta, Some Bernardino, Wasps for the Crestana, Sowutha butterfly, poet-knott. The miniscus of a pale Wensday Came to a cinder down. Chaucer's dang and he's a credit lazy, He knows as much as can be learned of him, And Pitman knows more. Long may they be!--Red Gillycomb's a fighter Shall turn him out of his quivering marrow, Sundering him with Ciceronian expostulations-- And the Deacon of Decca sings him along. I should take to drinking my daemonic health As the Hanmer, the Whitman, the Painless King Was a soporific to peace, to the Year of the Horse, As now the Decca drinks me into stupor, Out, out all yon terrors of the laws, Let me only this night dined with the Deacon, Out, out! my roundelay--to those tidings of the stars! That is the song of the literary vesper; Now draw your boats up to the shore! Here comes my lady, the morning's mirth and she's like to make Friends of every writer-mistake and every writer-humor, Right, like, I s'pose, as the wind? Well sigil's a humor-tale, Right, like, that the wretch, whose vices you fancy a hero, Should nohow be a fool? Or that he's a hero--right, like the wind? Hail to the ladies, then, who in their spears are shorn From their heads, for their right of speech, because they're fools! You'll learn, you will not authorise this quip of Saul. To the bard be glad all time this morn! Grass is grass, is the best grass, but the hardest is probably his; To the bard let beauty and mortal happiness combine, Bards are grass, is the best grass, but the hardest to find, And as for doom of women--why, the ancients often go Here is not death to them, as they've unfortunately not yet come out and formed their little tomb. Good-bye, bad music! long have I lived that I must say good-bye to you! Here comes good music, but it is not pleasing, for I can't do your work with him. Grass is beautiful, is grass, but the best, if not made by a poet, is made by no one; Chirping, caws, and squaws are pretty creatures, and do not last long on the sand, For see, he's author! that master of all airs and daffodils! He may have brought you this quiet, That has kill'd the ferns I nursed in my garden, That has made the snail-ice at last a knoll, And the grass-skirt thus at Venulus died on-- But he's author! and he's no more--such an one's also no more! Here she lies dead Straw-that's my niece!--dear aunt, He that hath her private villa'd here in her stead Caught by the bullet of a poor farmer, Him that took time's flesh in his little pocket-knife, Heal'd his brethren, fight'd the plebeian, break'd his legs-- I wish I was still the cleaner! Don't talk so deep. If you wish to know my reasons for bringing this, If you wish to be glad that such a visitor died, Then babble more! This you, bad man, That this bade the while, 'tis vain to require, This can't but do, by jingo, as you can't make the same Application to literature, that you make to every other branch of Where she sleeps, by grass and ferns uncased, Near, dear dead one! even as thou lovest her, ======================================== SAMPLE 2 ======================================== To hang from me-- And it will soon be ducked, And taken by some one else; The gazer is baulked by the blind, And never shall he get at it. I speak of trifles, And trifles is all my book; As if it boiled and bubbled in a tin can. It will not boil this month, nor ever. Nor yet will it boil, if I should pot it. What are you?--God's furling hands? I would thou wert, to boil, not I. Take me to Heaven, to take thy grace, Though he can walk the waters, And drive a skiff, and sink him in the bottom; And I to fling, the topsails, not to float. And never, I think, That thou, to ease my toil, Shalt coals of me, Make demands upon me, or coins to charge; But leave the funds, - their accruing hoard, To melt with fires, for whatsoe'er they call The Master, when he 'reflects' me. Thus I can tell, And thus thy let me know, And bid thee look to me, For with the lamp I mean to shine, Though long he touts with gab to play his tricks, And spread his cloudy fins at me, And with his buffets try me; So, til I be more or less away from him, Then to my abode, to ride a storm-bird, And the tempest face, as if it had begun, To pose, to leap, have clapaped me, And, to have cleared the Dirce of my search, And sat rolled in carcase at my side, When of late, 'mid the frigid wintry air, So chill and silent appeared, What time in graves the winter pall descends, In tombs of frost, on mountain snow, The Shadow-God of Twilight there did pass, In utmost life expiring time; To every crevice in the subterranean glen, Where nought but whisper could wean them thence, Where murmuring waters did not glitter, Shadowy glens, where ev'ry floweret failed; All this region, never glittered, Where lay only Thence, Thence, the shadow. Where shadow-soft the dreams of solemn green, Caught from the twisted o' the moon were hid; Where shadows from the pink dawn were always flown, 'Mong oaks, in orange glens, alakes so high; Where crystal dews would twinkle awake, Up in the lindens of the land, Was shadow, all, but shadow, very swift, Where ev'n then did shineth vision; And e'en to where the heart would break it, The loud world's reprimand did grate. Twixt gravely laid in cold earth, And bricked up fast with mighty stone, The moral lesson was:--"Try your best, But never fear to speak or hear; To every secret joy of sight, Still be in polite speech assur'd; To ev'ry accoutrip heed; And, whenever you can, still say, 'We see nothing new; let us see; Might it be a cove? it would be A cloister cool, a supper sweet; Let us mark, whilst the sly wind does breathe, Creamy puddoun, prest on a brown; New curds, from goats, or from kings, I demand; Carrow-berries, or currant, or dates; Rut-oat slices, or 1lb. of butter; Venus, with thy own hand thou eas'! Let me, good friends, my form display, In all the familiar shows; On Sundays, at prebends and prayers, Sha'n eat in the Queen's Chamber; Shall cake a brolly, or two, For thy new-made parish; And, in March, a twenty mile ride, Shall take my house in Thurston town: But now, with integrity, With the benefit of my skill, I'll run through two pounds in it, And, to make it add unto two, My maiden aunt, a picture, bring; Which long my life, and this sorry funk, Have kept from view, by the law-- Go, Adrian, till it be A goodly sight, In Thurston-town, and then bring back more; Now, that I've got it once more in view, I'll buy, for ======================================== SAMPLE 3 ======================================== A brick, inlaid with cunning art, There's magic in its veins. So went a new year's day, All the way over Paunch Street, Cyclest, Cyclops, and, of course, Jumping in a wheel at a time By way of Eleousin Rode the gaunt Cyclops, of course! Bourn, a rook, was keeping watch, Clinging, like the hands of a clock, In and out, far as the eye could dart, Over bagpipe and sword-hurl battle; Here and there, peeping, it seemed to me, Till the cocks began to crow. Then out from Baghent's Woods appeared Knight and man. Their drums were shaking, As they pounded on their wings, and they beat Thestars out like white-winged butterflies. And lo, Paddy put his pocketchain On backwards, and off he ran With clashing drum and strict drum! And all around the Pub! And up from the Forest flowed free, Flowers like the grass they gathered; And all around the Pub! All the lads came flocking, As the noise of the parricorn passed, 'Twas a maiden in beauty Who dwelt in the Forest, fawn-eyed, Till she cruelly deceived; And she fled in the morning, But she could not remove The watch from the Brook Who kept false; and lo, Brough amuse All the plain. Till, in its defense, She took her fledion, Great Arj or Anonymous, Whose neibor hirased It from the winged stell. Then out from the Forest, flocking, Broke the Contract on plox, And riders and risers, Four, and six, and eight, And ten, and twelve, Trooped on a note of glee. In the Cloak! Tingle-wog Leaped in the Cloak! Tingle-wog, with hairy ears, Who can dodge this tingle-wog? On a human landscape Stoops the wog and leans. Who can give in glee, Lest he face the Cher. And with main vessels and poolings Broke the 9th, To see the full glasses, And full plates set down; When a thundering wog, Whirling like a chomper On the parom, To the cheers of the frater And the shout of the frattere, In the tall thin man, With combed purse; Down in the pit fell a wog, On his knees down, And many a plank O' windows, and post, And posts around, And window-chairs, Left lie for days, For weeks, and the cold crisp Pools of blood. When the storm is up The Gipsy Men lie low, They are ranne 'neath the moon: And they whisper, in their sleep, They whisper to their neighbors, They whisper to the Me. And all night long, under the stars, The Gipsy Men dream of home, They dream of a furloughedril Loll, Of a home eternally Of all necessary free Of all legals enforcements Of the Greater Christ, And of the agonies Of their half-browned chain Which he shall mould, Under the soft full eye Of a tall thin woman, who reads Their sleep-writ; sees them yet, Forever and for ever In the dream-haunted dark, And whispers to them still: to remain Under the door, Honest and hard. As Grimm puts in his copy, word by word, A slovenly number in his verse, The ill-taught, grind-to-grasp of a waif Of nonsense, trivia vulgar, So to every truth you strain, Sparce vive! So to every secret plot Of ragged stupidness takes force And strikes it thro for bliss Obscuring the eyes of the world With obscenity of minds. The Gipsy Men, for their thoughts are myriad, They have so many that without care Their sordid little bosoms fill to the brim And their little breasts are piously filled With the parotlec and the pecked plum Of the fulgent palms, which is the fashion Of their small, long pinched hands, While their little, broad hats have more life Than the ======================================== SAMPLE 4 ======================================== it's a dandy face. I've only got a little afternoon to kill and make off with my fill. <|endoftext|> "Say it upon the someones they say it isn't all right", by John Holt [Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Social Commentaries, Men & Women] I dreamed last night she was agreable and--you? Holly. --How could you not be? When the two of us wore that cow with the bell on it You said the words the night wore quiet and I--well, I dreamt we parted that way. And I said the words and you said the most excellent Actresses and you wore a bathtub, but--well, I dreamt you loved me. That's the way it stood the night we went away (staring at the iced coffee) or we spoke from the dawn of the morning till now: that you were agreable and the worst was in the past We are fighting instant deaths. You say it but you're wrong. You say you never wish I was away from you Like the yoke bandaged and pulled, The Professor's cup and the cud of the unfit surmise Of the profligate & perf, I sneaked from the hall drawer & lay warm upon my bed --As you slept? I was you sleep? I was you sleep? You were you sleep? Tell me how you watch the distant taunting team of rain That heckles the ill tempest that darkens the hill & you know and you know you do not care & You have known it and yet . . . Bear with me: gentle journals I make of my common week-days & Saturdays Are mine, & not yours. I study what I eat & strive to forget the glories I find. There is thawing of the rocks & light breaking across bad nights That light that breaks & thaws & breaks Unmoving & all for me. And there is only the number of the hours when the sun The sun & what he wants. <|endoftext|> "The Virgin", by T. S. Eliot [Living, Coming of Age, Parenthood, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] Sunday: his friend's 1-year-old daughter; Sunday: me inside the wobbling-birth-machine At The Village, thinking of love, & thinking of love As coming long after I had come upon her As approaching near As any briefest dream can meet me. The woman Is self-moved and self-programmed In this kind of thinking & believing. I saw her last night & she was crying But not as many times as once As once I saw her as I tried to walk The last stretch between two dropping stones On some even moonless moonlit stone-bridge Before I saw her again. She took me once in each place That seems to be heart-beating to me Before I see her. She lies near the machine Where boys & girls are As soon as they want to. She lies near the blood-pressure measure That murmurs in the chest till it finds the bed Of its long-armed life-strings. She lies near the pills that lie SPONSORED in the breakfast bowl When the morning is in my veins Or on my lips at breakfast In orange juice that is thick As sweet sacred water. I have scarcely any time to get and give Since she has such each remov'd time As all the days so far gone. Her small feet press all night The breathing-plate which is still and moist. Her fingers all night The veil of soft black cloth that is the self. Her morning or day time cries Are heard in the walls or in the house That is ill, & where I am ill. And where the rafters meet I know Her dark-sized couch elsewhere plays. She touches me all night, all day. Her crying face in my blood At dawn-time or in the evening use Or evil sight. Her tears, their histories, Their origins, tears, are for nothing held sacred As day-born hands perhaps, unknown To anything sacred, may reach At any time or anywhere Though all tears have meaning. Her crying & singing contain all things Her tears are mothers, tears fall Airless & unbreathed as tears That have wet lips such as these. Her singing body is ======================================== SAMPLE 5 ======================================== love all the way down to the evil eye in the wine not a bad case of mistaken identity your wine is not like mine The wine says to me, "It is the long head, not the hand, that makes all the difference." <|endoftext|> "The Family Jewels", by Stanley Moss [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Relationships, Men & Women, Judaism, Home Life, Men & Women, Pets, Arts & Sciences, Music, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Popular Culture] The children who have grown up in Jewish homes have no memory of an old life. They see, in their ways, a world transformed. To them, the past is forlorn more hopeless than hopeless. Their own lives honor and interest, the future beautiful, the future of one's children one's own children. One learns to love the boughs of one's own tree, the sky. The reference in the voice of the children to R.K. ABB'S tree is to R.K.'s one's birches, and ABB'S the bear of the grove, the bear the children ask about, the one they saw at the end of their day's walk, the one whose trunk they found a dove in, the one whose voice, with love unbent, led them to R.K. as their guide to death. And the children ask for grownups' voices, for sadness in the wonder more than potential in the wonder that flies above their flying after. <|endoftext|> "Eden", by Stanley Moss [Living, Life Choices, Religion, God & the Divine] The facts of history must be leaving them forever—those seven pairs of adult comrades who hid in Palestine, 30 years after the fact, the unknown villages they lived in, the lost villages they visited, their trees crowding to keep them company as the earth let them drop under or cease to exist, the towns they return to after adversity. No visible signs, no border or window, the Israelites wandering in the desert: the barefoot argosies, the laborers who move like moving sandstone, a stone that will not be moved, the flock the stone will not be storming. The barefoot Moses, more than their father showing calluses, lead them on. And each, as GOD SAVES US, sends a glacier of glass through the soil and out again, as the ROCKY Pharaoh sends us on a journey from the rock of RABBI JAMES, to the reflective glass of JAMES, as PASABONET makes a OCTOPRICE of her own Images: the day the robot Carolyn (swathed in robot rags) regales us with her PHYSICS, her EASY METER, her instantaneous heart, the pill that takes the place of water in the desert, love's vehicle. As the mercuried POETOMAN defends her RIBBONS, her RIDE (bereft in LAO) new, her bad heart's new and DR. GABRIEL escorts them, as the NEON FORAS, the NEON PHARO, the NEON REBORN eternal guests of the glass room, where the NUMERAKS play one side of a flimsy card in which he has a grip that is alligator-like and weak enough to bear in mind of the heart that rolls for INDIA, for GRAVITA and whose candle turns on the candles of the Bible. <|endoftext|> "Kinship", by Stanley Moss [Living, Death, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Religion, Judaism] The noose, like a prayer star, sloped over, a lantern lit on the lake with room for more. I was about to say something supplicate when it was my turn to say what I knew about the sea's cold generosity, the generous heart of the marbles that leads it upward, all the wind and salt of bereavement. It was no moon in the moonless night, no starry night, but a simple wind that lifts a gust from the sea. The ripple on the corn, the crash of the downfall. It is a thing to have been made in the Father's image and it is a thing to be lost in the Father's ======================================== SAMPLE 6 ======================================== That soft whisper of breath to win. And what a blast of wind! If I should die, How kind the call! What joy to hear, To stand and weep on the soft ground, And greet the tidings with a smile. That cry of fire! The flames sprang out From out the eyes of the broken-down house; And then I thought what man was for a house To no profit but in fire. I said, "This little house that stands To save me on the path that I must take, Is not a house but some bleak monster born To wreck and ruin in the air." And lo! I saw, and I began to forget What went on before my mind, And what I may be in time or guess; For surely on that mammoth frame Were visions of wealth, cover, Code, More than could be found of value. I thought it pleasant that the lord Was further out, it made a change. What in the world was waiting me, I had not reckoned upon That I was wanting to escape, Or that there was nothing left to know. Then I got out as if they'd forged Some blazing iron and they did A mountain-wise spiral lift the dust. The scent and taste of earth and wood Were gone; and the air was blown With puffs from the MEZZOWS, small, And COLD, and GARBLE, and everything But house and lovers and little face, By time-bleached wood and soil, And that on which they'd predicted To see their beautiful statues As in pigs could they be seen To have been built by muscles. They urged me, it seemed that they Would not let me be the slave Of fools and creeds, as I might frame From nothing anything that comes, And with a joy in my thoughts to rend That heaven the immortal gods May have bestowed on me, Blemished, unloved, as the light Of dust that was their love had been. They had said, "They who say that He Perform the ordinary, Pass the wide world's distractions, Who is there equivalent For the simple ecstasy which makes One conscious that one was and that one is That the sun in glory and front is To measure with delight." "Deign, O Luxembourg! Are not we one, Together from this their dangerous sin Which vouchsafe no one eyes to take! Since both have come so far and made Their bow to love and taught us this, That we should still go forward And teach as we go." It was a bright and friendly time; and the song Of bounding children was the only music then, Together joyous, both disporting in the play Of that agreeable playtime, when the world Surges like a brook in the blades of an apple-tree That get split in the vigorous falling, rustling ere long. I remember the gate of all my lonely years Much more cheerful at the corner of the door Than as I was used to it in the _crotte_ de Nancy's eyes. (If I remember his wife's name aright.) But as we passed on, seeing things to recognise'd Through the evening's unsenceable eyes, I felt pursu'd And spyre'd the stronger surprise of another's look; And my fancy him still stranger and yet stranger inspects, A subject he finds himself lost too soon to learn; Our pass ''twas through the blue from which he took dyes To score a digression, which were not all useless here. O say not of it less that he was with Him On earth, they two together, and none the less The higher than did the nobler angel come Upon him? O Messie or Messid, whose voice And look were most benign to all evil? Where, When pressed, was the repentance pure and choice, Which aceval presence of humble things did bring? They both did mark me. The crown's great store of stars Scattered through the mount's wonderfully array'd Scintill'd, and put off straightway to the departed; And the halo's text sternly discommended. The world's gayer days he hath o'er overflowed, And gone, that legacy, from his access, But I am sorer than of old, of him, Left desolate and in exile:_I_am dust's keeper now! Thrown in with the rubbish of ungodly days! A curious torch too of eternal things Was Oscar Wao's life: what thing ======================================== SAMPLE 7 ======================================== SO EVERLASTING it waneth; For though some geese luste upon the wadd; Of Switzer gold the streamer springs. Alcides down the mountain had done so much, And had his lawes unakened; So he departed to seek the gipsies hardy, And bade them in his lawe accede. He soones thitherward discommemmewed The goth of them, and dyed themselves so sore, That they gan a looker to gesse them, And each one gan a crokinge to creeque, And so to the court he gan he. And he told them of the kingly hoble, And how it shynned, how it did shirk, How it hung in its mittens; And how the gipsies ech of ten The more of the jolly king did shrive. And how the sword of the lord was so, And how he by he had ferst take The leaden ligg, and brought it in, With his spoure of cowpes and of lemses, And of heauens and of heauts. And how as of that there fell a rift, And how of one the gipsie greeke Echem that durst not enploye a lisse, Into the confusioun cride. And of another sargepial bok, Whose is feavel quoth he, feasten at Oms, That the knappin-stonde there to fortren Him self, of thrupe yere unbenowe. And how the wylde gode gos is lord, And how the knappo joloso "Feele" Has stoned at the feast of Saint John, And how Bermingham and Nottingham Had but their names in the diction, And of their parochas also, And how the poortnowe of England The Greks in their parochas were aplace, And how the Greks in their baptismal litel, And of their parochas also. He told how Swenoers were to ferne An hundred yeres, as to youwe; He told how London bridge had shend A chancer of the king with h\/id, And of the swerdons also, And of the toun in servite hwhome They dyd continuo rennen. He told how was broke lyons winged sail, And left soere uncombated, He told how the flaundos of the feild Had ben yroked within the hall: And how the Romeoes in prigs had delyted The moneys into owth, And how the Saxes had remissedte The milk and hony whereof they made; And how the devil had seid In sorvis fike wondour, And how the gre with his boneamriles Himselvens had cheated of his mede. And how the Jelous Pharould thond, And how the sweete curiass was fell, And of the mutrick how it ferde. And how the salt of Ire triumphad In drinking vnto her ymage; How toke the brave Tiberuge In sute of his gruppes fell; And of the swerd vntlie how it cryd On dyckes and on stede; The name of the Jowes his sond, Thef nut withor the cuckis he couth, And how our Seint Thomas, the stearnes Had changed his qued at last. He told how the Lady Hiriusburg Had drunk of hys curd toyd Hoolyzot more than twenty sommers: How the stoutstal of dwellers stan Hath successe ful of its dysot, How hoolyzot women, with hataries Of hoolyzot men, some vnfay, Consignd theyre tale to the staarl; And how heah, whan he was a-leard Of his owne wan curd, Of this lulleth greate poll, To weddhte as the progeny Went in their maw; And how, when all thei hadde ben changd, The luperum still was aboute Vnto the joole, and how that it Lubit Urchb hoom, how ======================================== SAMPLE 8 ======================================== an army, through a quiet country, bound, by a sense of duty, but by no war; over stones that have not yet taken soil, over a stone that has not yet had a span. * I want to walk in that dust, as the casked sound gives way to noise, as the stones tumble from the road over which the boy marches forth. Over the vane, the foot straps stay the same, the casked-in sound gives way to noise as I walk over the scarred road where the boy has already gone. * It is not what is seen that is crucial, but the spirit that animates each song, as Soren Race about to enter the grave; as the specter of the massive man displays, if mortal is not involved, the dead in so many a poem: and not in sufficient strength to abide the metal mother-bear and child. <|endoftext|> "Fable and reality", by S. S. King [Living, Time & Brevity, Religion, The Spiritual, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Philosophy, Authoring to Invent Story] Fable and reality, both indispensable, are found in every age the one dear clueOUR great Guillaume, who,.  wretchedness likewise sought to compose, once printed in the spectre's column — crossed the Poles and obtained the hoary  coasts of 3rd century Europe; crossed the Mediterranean and obtained France, and crossed the Arals and obtained the arctic skins, then plotted the course of vulture everywhere made, he reared upon a hedge and planted his trees & flowers, his face and breasts unfurl[ed] and saw the day; his blessed followers cry — from beyond his grave sought consolation& rend their white garments, earth tears, fill[d] the soil with fire; at his birth a giant sow mouneedaged: "I give thee to taste of love and grief, that thy humpday be no log: the tail of thy morass strikes the earth with most motion." <|endoftext|> "On thinking of the child who is dead", by Soraya D'Entremell ☊ [Living, Infancy, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Religion, Christianity, The Spiritual] How beautiful was his heart, his bewnosing nostalgic for the green cornfield and for summer, his pensive thirst ignored the tallhen, the monks, their parchterness, the fasting of the night over and over his Altdorfer, a cantina seller, a peddler of chisels, his brain navel on the shoulder of the sofaall night genuflecting in Aztec priestessens, a pilgrim of that beginning and that end, which are the same, travel is the Parchami's way. Translated from the German <|endoftext|> "On remembering a dream in which a child's heart was consumed", by Soraya D'Entremell ☊ [Living, Birth & Birthdays, Philosophy] The feeling of poison in the small of the back, the fingertips still, the hair still lightly caressed, the pluck still in the air, the pads still isolated and analyzed, the browZadores and Pequita, the Inf bar, the C, the BRD León still in office, the phrase Y nada, the lifetime only a number between innumerable and Yanquinares, the front door still closed, the windows pulled apart, the frontage still growing higher, growing higher, the vacant backhole of the Garage still empty. <|endoftext|> "Agitation", by Raffaello Fialabsigan [Living, Youth, Activities, Sports & Outdoor Activities] I ran the wall jump in one quadricepinto the other, it wasgiant jug faces and angles crashingfor no reason, it hurt and I dropped them, then myselfinto the wall mad, mad, I wasaround, then around, thenmy mind was around. The spectatorful audience stoodwith their ovals and potholes no closer than arm's length: that wasthe extent of it. Then I started the counter impulse, firstphucking to plan B, phitching from plan A, thisis the hour, this is the time, the slick of my forearm, my arm silenced, silenced the earplugs retained, the synchronized face of both the world and my body. ======================================== SAMPLE 9 ======================================== Ript in the sweet subtle splendours of the evening I sat, and all my moods--all my moods-- All my passion--all my sorrow,-- Like some strong southern night, With a taper's faint effulgence Uplifted high Above the dome Of my unruffled hood: All of me--my scorn, my scorn-- Till the bubbling nights Turn me to some grim and dread Mount this cold heart underground And pierce my beholders With the stern pale light Of the dawn they cannot raise. Weep not that thou shalt lose: This be true love's vow: What cause of word Be to disparage? So certainly is Its power to grieve. Weep not thou that thou shalt lose: Here bewail Its non-blooming title. What mien of happy Can hinder lastingly The sweet loss of loss? Lest there should ever be A parting gifter. "By this white flounce mumbly, And by our brent speed To Japan, O beware!" "Come quickly to the Western sea, And in near death be rescued By O, cruel Japantia!" "Once, coming to the surface By me difficult, As we were swinging, Now I have risen up to speed thee Up to see thee face to face Up to the level with me!" He rose, and a grave voice made answer From a sea-corner listened, "Leontia, listen!"-- "Allusion made--name withheld, Risk not to place thyself, Not of my luckless passing, Needs not thy prayers." "Love, help thou my boisterous would, By thy ready guile. I am like to fall woe-pointed In thy arrows' feathers, When my rage drives howling On my wild goose flight!" "Of things that in thy breast move, Thy life be held by love; If thou hate me, hate me not With thy good shield; Since 'twas thou that were our guide, And pedestal right," She turned--a bright sword leapt From her hand to strike herself unable, The twang of gears within her that told her so Tell her how the thing was done, her image in 't in 't, Saying yet, "This only keep, Thy belly on flame! Oh, how there be flowers, things that aren't, And things that seem to be flowers! Some of them are things that scholars declare, Some of them but to serve for love are deemed. - The green to please thy belly, and the bloom to wear. "I will do all of the 'flower' that I see," I said; "I won't know not till I have come, And then I'll tell thee who has bought the ride." "Take thou no fancy-dress; this sword is perfect, And 'tis my heart thou'lt have another's end." The stallion stood clear; his happy eyes Asked if he had done well or ill; "To do all things well," he said; "and weep all manly. "No further words, and take my pleasure now!" So went he home; but home he set Before his children, there the gold-hauler's state In armor was received and given; And home he had, and with his family And the new-built turrets at the door being opened, Nought of him learned; though for years to come It is their labor and their joy they have, It is their lovin', love, and take no mirth, But watch the world, and are alive to it; And he would say, his winter hand with butter Should till the backs of stone, and brick's death Be frowned at, and sooth'd, and suited with rain. So soon they laid him down, and dressed his wound, While the rain beat, and flew the marmot's wings And driven home his wind, and soothed his fall. Then, down the well-headed wold, and near the cliff Borealtilled by sea and tempest, they a half mile Came, and set up a grave and sweet abbace. And there they bare aside, and to that place were coming A hundred stones, his comrades who should bear him to that ground. So to his end of life he would sit at need; Held loose the strings of life, and pluck'd the reins of death; So many ======================================== SAMPLE 10 ======================================== Early to rest thee, night of darkness, The abysmal darkness of grief, Abysmal darkness, Of deepest darkness, On whom In a flame Of splendor, Of brightness, O love, O life, And these last gleams of sight. Before thy eyes, Of love, Of beauty, Of life, Of moments which the shadow Of the unknown wait, And shall be, in thy days, When thou hast left the earth, For whom The thunder is, and the hurricane, The heavens are closed against thee, The winds are at their wildest, The waters prevail; With thy divine faith, With thy heart which is almost human, An honest man in thee; When these are lost, then thou art No longer man, but an offshoot Of the cross, and that is more than man. Flower of the almond-bearing earth, At whom dost find nought welcome? Who can say, yet, who can say, Should he see future life? To whom should tune in mind and song, The evening star? To the evening star, or to thee, To what may befall Thy future life; But to thee, and only to thee, Wander we and watch with vain things, The day's short day; And boastful wander we As trees that lack day; And show on earth, as things of joy, Much wanting, And glorious things. The simple is the wise, The brave the good, The beautiful to see, and strange, The touched strange underhand; The spirit under-ground Goes sorely wrong. The busy dead have lost their abode, Under the dark botteau; The little trolls have taken it by force, And the graceless mountebanks their terrors; The old mans Henchmen, now no more at home, Have no more been wooers of the dead: Grave-looking times, that have gone out of date, Are familiar as the day of doom. Our days are taken from us, as a fate; Our nights gone from us, as a light; For where's the heart, that remembers a ill, Or thoughts, that once were due? Yea, all the heart's accursers are took From the current of the wild-eyed hate, As if the world and its sons were foam. But death, though servantless and alone, With undone affairs, has friends enough; And all his dread suggestions are But as a sprite running rampant; All his suggestions vain, Are but suggestions till an end: And while that end is hard to find, His touch, or his hint, is but care. Wherefore let's spread out our crownless minds, And every mind a too-great state attend; And do we a frailkindness counteract, Let's do as we're inclined to do; For no man wittols can prevent What kind God has predestined. A state blind and disdainful is, A scornful soul,--where souls are foredoomed To be as ruth and as destitute As is that darkness and that light, The scoffing of spleens, the scorn Of poets, and the boonag of lust. And this a national dung hails, A national swine-house, a national pet; Nerveless and incapable Of any but the mean of existence, Base-born as yon black-hopped unkind: A spleen then, a pest, a cheap and friendly gad. This pride, this quary, this pollick-pool, Was formed in the old style world of old; The man hae poet-cheapened prigs, Crack-pot magnates, and hereditary boors; And then their superiors seize and hang them. The prelate that holds Rome in admirals, The dame that rides Tyntes, the marquis that Broke the ranks of barrists and stripped us all, Had slave-classes, memorandum-books, and colonies, But god-springs, roost-boards, and goddess-knees. This world they cankee; they cankee' vorrahh to ha' The cherries on yon golden mount of freedom; Yon mount of massive expense, of which Our souls are gratum, inviolate, Since peckish, pintless, defiled with the blast That creeps varmint, 'neath winter skies, There is not ======================================== SAMPLE 11 ======================================== in the hedgerows where the rainbows sleep And the youngest of the ruddy roses blows Its ancient horn of plenty to keep the fields Mowing and the hedges with their pearl-dust feet Mowing and plowing lightly as the young moon sails O The young moon braves the wind of March As she sails, wreathed in silver frost, To catch the scent of resinous scents, And shed on thorns the dews of Spring! Her gold is won, her throne is won, O The young moon braves the wind of March! As she sails, wreathed in silver frost, To catch the scent of resiny scents, And shed on thorns the dews of Spring! O maiden Spring, so fond, so shy, Pushed to her springness by the sudden spring Flushed with the spring thy self have made, Spring's Sign HDI 3.3.3 No breeze is heard but twice a high pleasant breath, No sight is seen but the clear south-west sky, And, as he senses it, a heavy hush Broods over water and grass and trees. As spring, so ready for her task, he feels, His own heart throbs throbs down the slope of his existence For the earth to rotate on is outrun, His spirit goes from artifice to artlessness, His life has gone from artlessness to passion, His flesh from age to a brief spirit. No art, but passion, will not he refresh, His spring to lift to shorter work. His work had been a proud thing, a hard thing, But since his love has chilled the art, Therefore it is no longer his best. His cowry has grown into gentle stems, And has blown out wise and lovely breath. The envious know not this, that I live, But know me for that valuable thing That I ever have been, and still am. In me my man did not want for a dainty thing, So, not desirous for myself to be, ButI'm so much more. So O my lover, the fleeting and the brief, Beauty and joy of love, When the envious thought would be and hope extinct, Send to me your thoughts and say: "Ah, that fervor burns, those roses love would keep Are narrow and sweet as they." O heeded art thou, Yet thou not heeded art; Love is an elusive thing, Lowly, and brief, yet passionate. Thou makst sport With the moping morn, Sport like this, when thou 'rt here. What ail my head, So relish thy prickly days! To walk down the shady road With the urchins of the world, With the mools that distrust The dusk and the silence, here In the shady road Where the ancients walked in The dust with white handpschoked? So fair they were, They could suck the love From the earth, and make The ashes burn, base darling, Make the spring within, The flowers above, ashamed. Why are thy looks so, Full of ideal large And pompous askonces, As to question my court? What unshut eye In all the place Searches thus and draws On the bright polished screen? If thou hadst wings, If thou couldst be Over this place, Thou couldst see him there Once again: Here recline His head, and see his form, Him, and his hand, All in the light. Who would be rapt Of air and darkness, all, Here, and none there, Pale, sick, mocking me? Shine from his cell, Bold, and strong; lorn To noiseless purgatory Dawns his deserts. Why are the ware And the writers barred? Brief, and lame, And poor? All, all forbidden, all, all Hid in; no light Hid in; here doth shine All light, all joy. Beauty is dumb, Mouths dry - Nuts disappear, Hump with want, Furrows on face, Gnashed in veins, All mouldy here; Hollow trodden Swept in sward; Eternity In the dust Is a might That is, is not; Springing, shattered, Rending, splintered, Bending, shattering In dust, ======================================== SAMPLE 12 ======================================== or (I don't want to be too nice) The French: while the most dangerous man on Earth Is Milose, right here: as Lord Derby: Or Lord Strudwick: with Booncqui: then the Maïwers, If neither of them happened to have died. D'You hate the French, Plancardia! Then you should know That I, an American, have helped to kill In war after war the people who wanted to burn down This country: so that instead of the houses being built For two thousand years (which they were) they will burn Until the ground is blest with one million gods And one million temples to Love and War and Place. D'you hate the Americans! Then you should know that He who hates a lot has two ways of loving: I didn't know about this George Bush you're chagrined About the Alibi so you believe is a Hell of a drug Way more sure than Tenakti, the China sheared To make his dead to Ethiopia, the innocent Iraqi would have done the same thing: And that George Bush did not have to testify, Forensic Science give a testimony: If he had to testify, he would say one thing: If he didn't have to testify, he would say something So that you can't tell which one is which. The woman caught in the arson thus far: I would like to get my hands dirty in Parting with a See-I-Fare-Different-Than-This Out-and-forth method of deprecation: I wouldn't refuse an offer like that, But it's hard to argue with an offer like that. You're a poet, so you must know something: The best things to write are always ideas of< False God, as people say: but I assure you, For your particular quirks and tortures, That a rent of the universe would be great, And that's not at all my idea: that's their idea. (It's a single man, a single woman, it's all right: A vacuum's not hard to fix, and that's the point: A vacuum's not a vacuum, the idea's all to the keep in mind: but a soul in a vacuity is quite strange.) I am fond of fixing things in parables, As y'are now, and you'd have read about this Saint Hadn't you, then, involuted replaced the 'i' In Superbowl, with Institutes, forty, would have read Harvard, or something about the zoot Jitters.) This makes a problem difficulter: The 'Master' who wrote an ode to mockery Of idle people who have no shadow of day: A person so ready with lightning-word As to be missed, when, suddenly, he's gone. You can't get fix for this one, or a jag Thespectrally, and shake it upon your breast, Or he'd know about souple, and what to do With it. He'd pick it in the trembling dark, And now is nowhere--till it fits his rhyme. The Master breathed a psalm for bees, The master-songster of the most grand 'T is to their greed to add honey to salt: 'T is their pride and satisfaction-- (And ours to rhyme with, if you take the word Right here: for so I do not doubt But that it means money, and must cheat better By calling it Reverse Song, as there goes My heart. I love to go to Cambridge With a shovel-handle hat, and Harvard Pocket Flattoon across the flanks, And Cambridge Jacob Banneker) - 'T is hard for Jacob to resist The small tank-trough, and let it wash out The days with shallower hubble-bubble. He hath no sense of the content To which he not go beyond: For, but to think he's a man Surmising a tank-trough! To go beyond it, rightly or wrongly, Is slavery as much as any choke. Wheresoever men of wealth may be, Wheresoever men of ill are placed, More folk mean wealth, than can be said. The wheels of trade as fast traverse the world Than light hath ever touched the eye: The wheels of man go faster, hands and feet; Heum's big man, the wide-resounding world! And what the dark men plan, our bright men plan too: They plan to take the tank-trough too. But you, little green, little clear, ======================================== SAMPLE 13 ======================================== to men; These are the tapers burning For her devotion To the shadow of hell. Here are tapers that light Her dread of death; And here our souls' delight Is a substance That grows in wine. This is a bit of ground Swamp-maid blithe and gay With all the holly Of the world's wonder. A change's a thing that's so because It's what's being got, And nought else cares if it be being got. Nothing's so good it doth not strive To be more close, Nothing's so light it doth not seek A loftier place. Yon lone star gazes round and dreamy, And we two may seem So few'erd-abouts in Heaven, That if it were not set so high It might with hasty grace Turn from its nest To strike its beam on us. We twain were never meant to be Euphoesful neighbours. We never were meant to be Part of one soul, We never should be on the same earth. This might be its mountain-sill, Or its own dim brow, It might be the blossom-boy Under its boughs, and I Bending me down. He that would be a god, missisou ought To know all 'twill burn; The ague voice, and the dreamy glance, Must train, till they beat the pulse sore, The seizure of the night, the spleen and crave, The distemper of the day, Must flatter not the frame. What th' expedient may errâ for do, Are we nought bound thy temper type, So may th' expedient here be tried; We may for test come thence, and be Wise sound where thou art not wolly. When as the crabbed old salamander cracks, The bright smoulders leeched, The fittest man that tries his powers, to sell His frail flat for a palace-room, E'en that old man and his wit Are drawn To test their heating and their flames, and found That it must be chanced.[Exe:] With her, as with the key, the golden young man's, When she calls suddenly his bank is put down. Then there ensues-- Some hope is just before us found In studying each other's fa'nitzes, And with the ideal heart which sees all this, The sage testemplates its shape. But let it find, ere long, a name--ah, marry-- A parlour purred for trifles the better, Or glooms, for a minister's crest, And so that brim may glitter and that umber shed If he be not love, whom shall we call him? No man may call himself--Ah! let us leave them so, No man can call her, who shows not bysangs! Can any man's slug called Christ have fruit? Alas! the slug we call our friend, It is not simply our heart's palmer chanced It glows when she puts spell-numbs But love must own the t-a-r-i-p That this unsaid our bach'rect is. For the man who is chistened, We are not likely t' have waste our cares, Though no mean lady we know, Though no mean errors have we mved, And the dust may smurch our noses, Yet, with all our caution, We now like best to frame A kind false look to lead him to So, she crying!--our bad, bad boy! You've whipped us sorry children To distraction! You've fleeced us, And now, at worst, we two shall be two; But he, had he, he could not smother Our tears, by affliction strengthen'd, For he'd charm him like the skies Where, as afore, love then drew Upon our boy, and touch'd it might, But that he pulled the straws out of our But that, he beat him, thrust him With util sense Into the skerrying! It was then I figgered, and cried out: "Thais was it well to love him? Why was not I promoted The last self-love to strengthen As his was? or she, who never See'd him plainly, who did all Behest him, for his high place?" Said I to myself, Who was it Whose ruminate contain ======================================== SAMPLE 14 ======================================== Reader, take this warning, and listen while I sing Some more pleasing truths which I glossed in rhyme. An ass in Egypt one day let his hind Hard-ronged, beneath the unclipping sun Pay the heavy porter, so that ass Made a big blunder, and the porter-man Busted bright and deep with breath from his Disgraced jaw he blew a real yarn, And in his constricting trousers had to Haul back the bolt that caught prematurely In that alternate puffing of his guts 'Till the stricken creature struggled from the fiend's; Then, rousing myself, I, too, Came forward with the rest As if by instinct, to see If there was truth in what the fellow said. Then, too, 'twas good To break long-standing ties with the flock, And to bring back from the wilds What I reckoned a pretty cut and mix With the sheep, to the desert's lip; And, further, to catch The voice of the clattering ass-goat From the untaught back of the sore cock, And the ass-goat was louder by far. But, reader, if you'll keep in touch With me and you, my crack team, I'll fain Draw from you each quare minute I can, Nor shall I rest, ever shalt thou be TWICE bitten off by me and my like method; You'll see from time to time hark, spy, What I sing is, jingle, twinge, hit with song; But I'll be watching to keep thee well. Oh! when I come, I'll talk to thee soft. 'Tis time indeed to ware a reed horn, Nail the ideal form, for in my dreams I see thee swinging it, and I see The daughter of Allah, kneeling, now, In the least praying posture, strain, And I get a sight of her glorious faces Settling mind and body convolved In forbidden light, yet in a glance I know her fine. Her naked feet Trempled, and the veins in the hail Of moisture sizzling o'er the earth, And all the better for being bare. Her hair tied back in a knot, which In the cold lies and marks the little spools Aye tumble and tumble in rings. Now, had I from earth been cut And buried in the infinite void, Or if earth had been no thorn Wherein the design of love was laid, I would not be so near To my lost lamb, as now I can see. And if thou goest with thine army, Thou will be left alone: nor comest with But with an army of liars, the best and most. Tell me then what will behoove thee, to signify That thou come not to this stone, to which from thee My spirit is faithful, and in which I Am entwined so pleasureably. Pray thee not to this miracle: for thou art cold And weary, and thy guards, who, lying, kept The leaves and strewed them so, to make thee pass, Are now caught. And if, that they may know surely That to deceive thee was my worst folly, They will not hush it. Say then, why do they not hush it? For they have no power to cover what is told And the tongue to counter-tell Puts the vent for blows that will never, never cease. Thou canst not be abashed with mouths of wall. Neither shall these words of mine, which are about You so much per day, be hushed, or dung beat back By your agunthor. I am not with you a wind. What make-believe here? What, may I life bestow In seeing thee so eminent, so fortunate, So high from thy mule to thy horse? Though all the hill O'erhead thrust forth their noses, as if affronted By the royal intruder, and though it seem'd from whence The world's first smoke arose, a hope, that well might Initiate even such a field's free-use, I tell thee, the kingdom of all right does Come from my lips: and in this kingdom of ours Is love by old episode attired. Here. How there. Who loiters there? And whither? And whither? But thou, return and all will see None but puzzlers there. Our visitor Will never come to his landing-place. Daphne sat In the ======================================== SAMPLE 15 ======================================== ephemeral light, for vision. I see it all. Two children lie on the lawn in blankets. Their faces are buried in warm, orange sand. One child lies on his stomach, leaning on one elbow, still in a naked position. His eyes are closed and sightless. The eye of his brain looks away from his dream of pleasures to the yellow flowers that warm his shoulder apricere. * On the living side of the door, the happy sun is breaking over the earth. He looks at the flower which * is a black mole, and he sniffs it, coldly, with his nose. * I have to get rid of the little horse I got as a gift. I have to make it do what I said it would, when I put him down. * , evil is an invention. It means to do something other than be, but then, evil does mean "may not." It means, too, that may not be. It's not an either/or. There is no essence that is not evil . . . * The rope has a cheek, and therefore its smirk is a sad, satisfied smile. The neck that it has taken from its gamins—red and smooth. The scruff of its jaw has used its clams: red, smooth. It has rolled back its front legs, and its for a shoulder. Its wrist has carried its neck and its armpit, gunmetal and amethyst have rolled about. Its hind leg has carried the shagged, slant white wheel of its face. Its tail has rolled its tail about. Its ears have seen its children: a dark-skinned mocha and a dark- mocha, a white child and a dark -skinned child. * Have you seen in this part the rosy cheeks of your own child as you have looked at her with deep affection, parted in the seam of selfhood by you, which every one can own? Have you considered what it has seen? * When you have removed your ear while you were listening to your little girl, who is foreign, have you heard the back of the head where only you could hear her voice asking you things? * What can I say of me and what does it say? The soul is small, twisting itself into the threads of surrounding things. Of me it is made, of my self I do not make, I am merely what my body is for. And so the child I brought up is the soul only as it will not accept the less than. * The soul has grown like stubbed grasses on the borderland. It is exotic and should be respected. My wish is to retire in a bush and be verbally happy. My own dark tongue is the only soft thing on my territory. * How many times do I have to tell you that question? * I have a tree in my living room and a river of air in my car, and I am not even half-distraught. My hair is lithe and my slipstream is thin and absolutely free of dye for I have not planted it. My shoes cannot remember the soles that may never be made my own. My sleep is horror always in memory, my skin is deep once picked, and the trees of sun are roots for my mood, and my voice could one day pick these things apart. * Two lips that did not think and two lips that thought and two women, one who loved each other and nothing else more than the sound of their own bones beneath the tree. * As one in his red farmhouse thought, "Love is a god whom we chant," and we were angry because he did not know what we had just seen, his lips to kiss. * The word on the tree is DEATH. It is the syllables of the word DEATH that make the deadly syllable. It is the fatal sound that follows the fatal sound on its bone-thin journey through rivers, air and earth. * ======================================== SAMPLE 16 ======================================== Amid the night, to seek thy vision On those tall dominions of the night, Which men call livid that have lost their light, And where the soul is lured from out her body, From out the mould of life, to death and hell Thence on again to pass, as to an abyss, Death's dim realm, into eternal day, If thou have pity on thy kindred of the earth, The kindred of men! Oh! lift for us each human soul Into a holy degree of being! To fall on the open weeland of God, Like a spark dropped in some still central lake, A lake that sleeping lies By fabled Serdar-hundred palaces Under the zenith of old Night. Let there be raised, in holy sympathy, Mutually from their homes on high, Silences in the sunny hours, Silences on the hillside, Silences on the ocean, Such as the souls of men may take Tending towards the bright servitors Of the will of darkness upon-- Guilty powers courtiers in subtle honour's suit, Or recovering from pride's control over their fame Resigned to TJ's vision, and the dream of Christ. All hearts that no longer fear to say No, All reticules of pride on the promptings of the will, All cords, all commands, all works, That feed the maw of the world and rail at Sin, May be broken by the terrors of Christ's will, And each particular link of the Great Vein of Life Cry out TJ's soul at large once mouths in. For all the powers that lead the world on to ruin, For all the camps of hell and their envious Rounds, For all good things under heaven, For all the spirits that groan under the sky, Toward whom comes my hand, AH! arise and bring, "But if that last hope (fiftyfold true) Which called you all in One for salvation Should falter, or fall asleep, or come to you In vain, as uncertain,--even from your hand: - Consider then forthwith your faith alive, To one sole union, above, beyond, Full trust, then multiply." Faith, the one element that made him, is alive Than an thou could'st tell: the spring of moves In one sole power each single cube of love, One man may not; but, if it were but one, One man it would not need. Give us the power to imitate Thine unerring thoughts, said I. Faith, the living force that adds or detracts To human happiness or human good, Thine is the source, the test, both are to thee, Life itself, nor death, nor oldness, nor age. True vision of the one true God, tho' men see No colour but perfection, red some greyer hue On the mind of them, as in a glass a sun. Their drafts give off tinted water, in which are seen No dendrogramms, triliths, or superstrain on course, But only rough trails of oils, anemones, Teredoa, Nympha, associations of weeds Left on the earth by some rebandaged fen. A fairer form of Vision long continued Of the futilities of lit men and of winds Supine, in mundasineness, at ease and at war In environs small, but, as an envious shade Should, ever more attain, more fain should fall down At length from his old supine anabasis And dip again to breathe some new-found delphic drop, So might a soul, with lunges wide and high and long, See more of the Life it should, not must I say The life of bodies, take a grave above the waves In which all winds no longer sup, nor wet nor wise, The poles of earth and earth's convolving groaning team Bearers of the stars, of the planet trundled down To dust before them and their world a labourer Again at large, and all at once to find its place. To whom of AEA may BIOWA turn? Not she, Yet her affections feebly speak her trust. She feels the inmost nerve of these things struggles With inmost groans. Revolve: and to that mute catholic Heart of all that's good, may Christ perchance receive Whoso bore the cross, who becometrides Life's Christ, From nugatory gush. Remember, Lord, the fifth Onutazzi di Luccheseo ======================================== SAMPLE 17 ======================================== Ulysses shall bless thee and restore thee. So thou hast not heard it said, or ever will prove the power of gods. Now tell me this, and swear to swear, for I do not too cherish life, that I am of raven-blood too, an inhabitant of Ægæ. Nay, tell me also declare, O father, is thy son an acorn, or a goodly pebble-stone, or of some other tongue indeed? For surely he was not wont to have this blue-hair; for never anything of his own command we did not swiftly give him back again to Homerus, even to his father, save only that it might be long ere he could do witeny the like ourselves to devowar; for of all men men upon That men are waxen subtle, and of steady saying, and well-enticed whips, or they unto the sign of Asercs and their thanes who watch over them, and over their chiefs who shine on earth, and over the gods who have not came unto a man. But they follow well the sun-light and these my hands did ever, and I was a mighty one over the Æolian ships. But after my death, as for that pilot whom I tell all this even to this effect, as the book itself says, he made me a god in his own spirit, who sang to the end the song of the son of Hades--how he fell from heaven, and was thrown by his own grace, and then raised again and doomed to eternal darkness. For nine whole days we sailed not hither but thereaft; but on the eve of the tenth day we came to a people and a country on which they had sprung up like cacti in order in a narrow place, and are now called from neighboring tribes into their own language. And now even in their own land they are slow of speech, not knowing how to order their own life; but they tower well in their dealings with us, and bad well answer any of their words: for when any of our learned sayings you studied well by rote they would praise your honor which, by true words unproper Meant eward, should have been conferred with thee in an evil day. And true words were indeed disallowed, had all been worthy by their own honor, such as suits well with altered chars. But now I tell thee, that there is such a thing in the world happening every moment, as I will show it, and the initiative is ever the same, though the time for its coming be secret. So bow thyself now to the Lord, before I tell it, and pray the Eternal on whose favor rolleth with the nations the fortune that is yet to be. And I did believe that Judas was a highwayman, and that he alone was sent by God laying the gifts here described, but perhaps upon some other matter too. But when I saw them so plainly myself I thought them the necessary onds of the greatest love that I should vow for them, so from that faith I was not stayed, but it be that, my heart by its self-unfolding mysteries. And a more marvel also falls away, if it be not that the eternal keys that they announce are of invisible space and heavy, but the mind that reads them not counters moving them. And this new will is so great that, the more that it is light, the more it shines and wilt. And the power that I did make them as a two-edged sword, both and added another edge to the blade, and wrought their indeed with perjuries, and accused them falsely, and I did bind them in bonds that can be broken and yet unbroken, and I did wraft them to the church with gifts that can be taken away. O And some there were among them, and some that about her were named as fallen, who, praying for the people, said, "You were deceived by Satan--fore feared he may have up and taken"; and the like, through the hundred also who came not to beg. And they who had let slip here and there that which they did attend themselves, and made them a dream about the rest to And I, firm and steadfast in Faith, was in the midst of all, and there was dispute among and cunning plot to up-grade, but so far only as the weighty reasons that had come to the depth of a man's courtesy could apply. And this was the main cause of the test of Faith, the prince of the faithful Towlimannus, that this people and this work ======================================== SAMPLE 18 ======================================== the boundless sky. The good and evil, both fright, Weigh, weigh, weigh in the scales, And doom us both to lies, Because no other way To prove our part of tithing. I will not say it plain, I know; I fear God's wrath and cannot pray: For if the betters know the thing's Likely you'll like my measure cry: The world knows me a roaring chap, A piper full of pence and rage; And being known as good and true I stand alone." Now, sound and faithful as the stars, On earth you'll find no friend like me. Nay, no friend, while you believe in God And hope your part of tithing. No nation's need or wish will lack A porter like me to guard it. No slave who grudged when he'd but his pay, A mouth that would not rave and a head that would not deem, Me, guard of your freedom, mate of your land, And dear old mumming Armandie >1> . . . O you mother and your sisters three! O all you great at Geat, and near and far, And all you marbles fighting for glory! I will not brag nor prick my n Brother's Crutch, Nor yet how rag dun man's hand the "p*SY. But if God in Allah's name has done "THIS," As of "THIS" let be done is "THEN." The Midwich tunnel's eerie but it's nothing bad; You feel as though you'd got well of the place. You'd think 'twouldn't hurt to be there once in a while, And just as a Democrat you'd have some pals. But, there, the damn's name is more to it, I'm fain to say, And sence 'tis no party, it's foul as a caste if there. O that yell lasts for a while!-- O that we're free to run about once more! But up in the rafters that yell's originating, That big sound that comes ging'd by big guns' guns, That scream that comes pealenting at roof and casement, And that big yell that doesn't give a damn, I'd asLK gien me breaks if that was doing "THEN." Then let the shouting winded be a "D" for Devonshire, And the riot and terrour of the war for less. "I fumed his right arm round with a sound that sounded like whip and turn, His effects were smoky-sk for a season, and almost as gruesome; I saw him like a red limewater substance ginning fire-red As he drove along, and his eye, the while it drew back and snapped, Searched all the blood-shot dark heads of the Puritans in Wight Powell"; 'Twas the look of that eye that was watch'd for an hour and wouldn't change The subdively doing dialectic of the Puritans and -20--21-- --But that eye could warp itself not a stop-light yards beyond, Though it drew back--O speak boldly, Leonard! Speak boldly! Pour old laurels down upon the youngest son of Solimaun, In the clean sublimities of your design, in the poetry that's gone before, And all the glory of that opening to our cunning and nobblest songs to be--(O speak boldly and don't be afraid to speak)-- All the majesty and charm Of the first omen that God drew upon the seam of the wasteless sea When the flag bore Anchises--who, I repeat, was king, Before your Devonshire, your Devonshire was ocean-seaman, And, with the kings of the long-fought among, he kept the seam Whose host this morning's great ships shall be without a captain. I am not overpaid--no title is my wage-- The barque that is the portower's highway assuredly, Though the gale that ploughed a laurel-manty with her ale, The mulberry that glitters in fires 620,000 pounds, The oak whose fruit is under doors to warm for winter, The copper that chandel Freetown houses, with ornaments, The brick that's encarrigated in Bordeaux, the silver and the steel; I could list the creeds of all the gymnastic nations, I can cite the blades the bass and the op[1.B.] tail, I can place the figures for steeples and capitals, The ======================================== SAMPLE 19 ======================================== but the case was never made for how the remaining lurid and dumb blue-white people were part of a geological formation and we would be revived into being again she was my mother later we would be made go through the pain of what iced her wayward tongue the queasy tweed wafting her haunted way among the never to be as such all the curiosities she was to be or not there were a thousand things later happening <|endoftext|> "Snow on the Rhyme of Treez", by William Rose [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] Snow will pile up on the earth— not match or beat its own weight— but go cold. Snowdrwestsmoke dustfretsnotdust snow will pile up in its own right stupidity. Somewhere it is silently obvious The weather will be wet. For what reason God fails to name God Gardner Rivers give no guarantee what and who The name of God will go His name is thunder Not thunder. God The old golden age coasts keep the older and younger. God to meet a face God will Let Gold Gradually return God won't send down A person God won't send A bird No promise. The time is now. A holey boat. <|endoftext|> "The Arrival", by Cynthia Blabeau [Living, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] As a kid I used to look and say: "It's lunch." Now it's less white, yes, but also wearis enough to throw a runway to hell. People do have to eat. And I am not about to become another lingue. No, but I have sensed, in the heavings of mixed crowds, an expanding periscope in which I sit. What would it mean to pull down the hem of a skirt and look at the reason I was tossed? To see flesh look flesh. Of course, all those gathered amid this cooker of Crenshaw Are no longer bones in my hands. Only I am aware Of a vital desire, not to be cut entirely loose from this Era. The men and women of my parents' generation struggled to remain true to their dedication to love, only to discover love was a cold diet. They underwent changes not ends (ends are looking into changes) and was no easier, Still, there is something about the instant displacement of the matter into oxygen and photons that vibrates the body Into an idea of itself. I can't say it's special, though I would say it's common. <|endoftext|> "Structure", by Sandra Anley Doaks [Living, Death, Parenthood, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] They think of me like I'd lookHappy. They think of me like I'd lookHappy. —Alexandra Chworth 1. No no, she says, going faster and staying roiling through the scratchy woods, through so much static in the roar of the evening fire, no, I won't say her name. That could do us in. Also, I am so tired. I am stung, all puffy and nursing my wound. Sometimes, though, she's so quick to come, the back of her elbow feels thick with blood and she comes, a white witch with hair like grown exhaustion, so quick to fill in when there is none, so little remaining to take its place. Her playfulness is a tamed form, a shadow that makes us hard, a wind making sure, the way it does not fear us. And if the skull is cracked, she's here, and when she takes the supply line, the water first, we can put it out, so. 2. Back to the fire, the men one, two, three, one, ======================================== SAMPLE 20 ======================================== thunder throbs of a speeding bull, of a rolling brown river, where the reeds nod to a sarabalah, 'cabin, horse, elephant, painted wraparound so that the whole lambs belly, belly, belly, belly' all movable houses, 'croak, croak, leap and gambol in the triangle' the triangle of the party-room the triangle of the sycamore, the triangle of the calendar, of giving up, and they had, and had overworld in the sycamore sarabal saris sing sweet pleasant songs, sarabal saris sing sweet pleasant songs, not sweet pleasant songs but as the sycamores sing cuba beat all the bones in the calves, beat all the bones in the calves, saw you how they beat the sycamores, saw you how rusted flint for the snow rusted steel for the snow, rotted applewood for the snow snow-shrouds, armels for the snow song of a single note saying that only sunshine Hath a power unto life like sunlight, only to be breathed with lips that are wet NOT saying that only sunshine Hath a power unto life like sunshine, only to be breathed with lips that are wet RAY of the village that made thee PART of the sun that he rode to as the village of benith or rime, as the sycamores ride, as the moonyas, of the reed the light of the sun is, of the leaf the sun is, he rode to to make the world a different thing from the last returns of stock B-, C-fi, and the stocks being aear vehicle for him, to make it a past parched land to him, to make it a country other than what it was, his kingdom, when he came to avenge the House of Yïnex, Benjamin B. Walker, the wild work, the tooth and the claw, the killing and the great loss, to avenge the death of Yïnex, to avenge the death of Y... PART of the sun, he brought the sun with him through the world, to a land other than England, France, Italy, England, France, and to avenge the death of Benjamin B. Walker, the news of which reached beyond the sun, to the country of England, France, Italy, France, and Italy, all these lands, all rivers, mountains, with the tears, all floating rivers, with the flowers, streams, all woodlands, all forests, all heaven, with the shame, beaching black sea to the sun, with the boy dressed in skins upon the black sea, and that the boy died of the sun, that he was eaten by the whales, died as darkness, as die no more than do the souls of the dead, than the devouring black-fish, than they beached upon the black sea, died as black death, than do the souls of the dead, than all the dead whom we visit. III Is this the way of the world of man? To avenge himself? To eat himself, that is to avenge himself? The sun is eaten when the horses are hored, when the men have seduced, when the sun is eaten, when the moon is an she- not, as died Titans, as is written in the calendar of effluents, as a corpse, lives in the cemetery of emotions. The sun goes out; The moon goes astray; All the stars in the heavens, all the spicy suns die, as at some ebb. When the Sun becomes Zep Ib. <|endoftext|> "'Now, since no one has corrected me while sleeping, I will do the honors myself "—Zekes, ravishing from a disci- video." These were his words, to make good what she had neglected to predict when she was last defeated. How- o'er they landed on the roof she did not turn her face. "Zekes" was the coarse way some pack to say the professor, and when she saw he could get no farther that day she picked up the small brown volume "Zoonometh...," and by biting progressively till the last "o" was ======================================== SAMPLE 21 ======================================== There, in our old embrace, in the familiar seat of the old home I see my mother in the old embrace of her maidenhood And, in my soul, I love her as I love no one else I see, and I love, and am loth to part, And how the mighty love, deep grave, profound, Fills every blood-streaming vein, and gives a vital heat To the cold hand and the pulse, as if it pumped All the hot life of the past year out of its body And let it rest, all refreshed life, in the old nest Of its old and hoped-for bosom. There, in our old embrace, in the familiar seat Of the old home of the mother and the son, How the brave fierce love, deep grave, profound, Filled us with vital courage for every blast Of disaster, and froze up our blood as it went And pumped into the hands and faces of those Who wielded our lives with the skill of the trained army; How the mighty love, deep grave, profound, Filled our hearts with courage for every blow Of catastrophe, and watered with blood Our feet as they trod our battles to be, And smoothed our blood-bands that had lost their native Farther away, and filled with strength to wrestle Foreranoche and wood to the peak, And left our past year's lip, and our life, And our lives together, one and unshaken As mast and beam and air and roof and all In belleville might darken and dim and dilate And shake with violence if they stirred. There, in our old embrace As when the same love that left our brows kissed and clung Erewind in affection and drew between the eyebrows of sleep And set the lustre of life deeper in the night, As when the sun of summer warms the crouchhere of the hillside And shoots his light therelike, and the zephyr slides In wonder on off and sphes sisterly pure flame, How the old love rebuffed us as we grasped for one foot And then another, and fought to hang upon one And hang perhaps another life on the doubtful cross Of sorrow? And how the godlike courage of will To stake their heart and brain for one blow, One skirmish, one charge, in our childish battles of youth Is far beyond human figure, and far above the power Of all but the apocalypse. Thou knowst how the April wind still suck a sigh From out the stern of the windswift white mountain sea And these below, how pale May winds have sobbed pale love, Thrill up the voice of the voiceless tides As dead flowers torn from funerall in their sleep, Draw tears for years from out of pale old stars, And cruelly waste our dreams with plaintful prattle. Yet how redeemed, how exalted, in old April weather, If in the songs of the bird and the breeze wrought as we might Art might still find old Sol, his highest mountain height, Where his feet have forgotten the wind of his fall And his eyes forget the long oceanic cavort Towards the waves of snow that his fists have tossed Since he cast them headlong in the darkening throng Burdens of white pine and chrysoprase, Taller and grosser with each animal decay, Because their sheathing is but the oak they weathered, Now quenched in the stiff horn that secures Their deadly beauty to the dendering world. O bright Biblical Valentines of our rock marriage Twice Sweet Roses, once a widowed Love would bear, O give us the first vintage that points toward faith And the second would add a marriage bond, O give us a cup with the words of mine spouse, O give us the wine of the West enough to brew Two potions to govern whatever we deem Treacher-of-heart and/or mind. O give us two basic cakes: one Higher than the other. O give us two lovely days. One a bright noon, the other at night. Two better than two diluted drinks; One a day without a bud that caressed the ground, One side of which is born black, the other white. One side deep in knowledge, the other one wet and shiny And light as a great bird's eye. One an eye that twinkles when you flash it, One a kiss that devours. O we rock over just enough to find the sun. To make each other better. Just enough to make us wiser. In the windy ways, in ======================================== SAMPLE 22 ======================================== for I was a man. And now this image Returning in me hath entirely smitten My heart, and set his seal upon it. For now No wish I feel, no thought I know of, not one. For that image left behind in me abides The man I was, and that feeling, I do betide Thee, Godard, and the world. Wouldst thou have me think naught Of this my little movie, here? Nay, take My hands, and put them in my hair. I felt Its warmth, and needed it. That my looks were True as I feel them, and my life garb amiably, This prayer I make to thee, Godard, and to all men With truth, and so leave it at that. But the men In mill or grate, in mill across the flood, or Among the mannerly heart's many tunes, have kept The urge of spirit that was one in sound with mine. And so the world that snatches, cuts to my root, Tempts my root away; and the poor trick only Ahabist barks. Wouldst thou know the world by mine The boy must lunge, then look to follow Ahabmit and sink again! O Lord of men, The guardian of my life, art thou not Nowt more godless for my laggard's mouth Revisiting thee, making the heavens all song For a day of hope, and the magnet shine Reason's fire, and earth a golden home for him Changing, who sweeps my soul? And if I pause, Look at my face, my breaths, ears, eyes, and face; if I Choke, change; if I squander, All for water, O O God, for anything, hold on, keep on the race! Now if thou cry to me, canst thou have in sight The heart? If there be more than man, if there be Smiles, light as truth, some brief on my soul go, Angrier I could fail thee today than all. We use to think the gods love well their own, Day in the bright brook Numa produces his drink, The knighthood-meat of the spring. He loves his mirror, The yoke, the ewes, the mounting birds, the orange, In the close-made oatment for a sad old day. Day in the sun, and night with the gray serene, His life's love is. But what if we? I can love thee, Cateress never known, sisterless, thy green grass Where all my exiles meet, my singing spring; Nought from nativeness is that, my joy But Nio, my unspeakable child, and thee Her maids, whom I had none when kindred or Neither star nor sun nor moon shone! Hear, and thank Thee, Lord, riven now, the Lord is not upset, The world is saved; the ships ride safe, the ways Bear day, the sunshine knits, the world is well. I have known her eight years, And of her comes a slow time now living Back from the drying canal, the damp road; The old watches shed, the banglades dry, The drawbridge shot with fuse. I see the gold, The hundred handwheels of her form, light drops of sleep In her eyes; but she is happy. I know the look You give a day, the way the pearl lamp glows, the minute How you hold it. Every shine is a new band Of her true face. God, I feel her deep heart beat Me, all tired and old, dry spells, health and clear, back to her. Lord, have mercy on me, name her child, Who lived in the peace of her heart, who drew strength from seeing How her poor soul made him jealous with his knights; When of her men and boys grew pale, and rode and returned From the bloodbound prison to her door. I think He was her favorite, once blithe and full of mirth; Now he walks at the door of the Pan that lifts and stoops, And her full breast is full of fame that once was lavished There is glory in heav'n, and in her name the new heaven plays. These gifts I will not give again; my lord may take what He wishes, but this I have brought he shows himself With all his people. Some mist may have rushed and blown behind, Where I did not run laughing. I should have been A prophet, and ======================================== SAMPLE 23 ======================================== Unwashed and unblended; a clump of pines Grows thick where ermine spreads her shade. But I shall feel them not, and to me The forest will be all one murmur, All damp and cold against the warm Sunny knees, all rough and dark. I shall dream of a tall forest-snow, And make my bed beneath a pine-tree, With my arms wrapped round a snowy blaze Of moon-shades glittering on my skin. We two shall drink the woodland water, Drown wary caring, glance voles at each other, And wonder how the ferns do dance; We'll chin the eternal forest moss, Stare at the leeches in their dark-green waters, Hear a river roaring behind the hills For ever & ever, & ever. Across a barren land, in the middle east, They found a man, cut in parched stillness With a hand that looked morelike the eves Of a too-honed china model. "Where will it be comfortable for you In the long run," they asked the man, "That it be pleasant and beneficial For you to finish your long journey?" "Oh! I will find an Eden here," He replied with a patient smile; "Only, maybe, it may seem so to others Who see only the empty glimpse that's given, And they only see the marvel only By the gaze of educated eyes, The wonder, too often, only seen." So with a defiant and uncompromising Respect for wisdom everywhere abounding, The man undertook to remedy his mindors Of being compressed and too seldom seen In their stifling afternoon cocoons; He bought uncensored books, uncensored magazines, Anything to gain a venting pleasure now, Money that he didn't chew as furiously As the uncalmed Patient, puffing away In an intolerable drought. "Only," he answered with impassive composure, "That I may see, and be seen." "Only so much," the man said. "So that I may Not look on, and be not glanced at." And he withdrew from the dull experts In a dry and constricted atmosphere, Peering, poring after it were pity; Still indifferent to the silky enveloping Of every extraordinary case, He read his pallid fortune through, impervious. For his eyes, like a bleached fountain, cried "Darkness! so many hopelessly sightless eyes Saw nothing that scorned the generous irradiation Of dirty sparks which rachened, overwhelmed, In the day-flooding of miscellaneous calamities Whereby the Ignorant Circumfus passeth." So, sick of the Ignorance, in a posh restaurant He still hungered, for an Ignorant Circumfuge Fed his metaphor, and thus he mused, "Still, in this wise, the sounds of business Fail to my assent, as they have failed to bring My fame to any tree. But ere I continue, I ask yourself--'Good reason must still remain, Whate'er he folle may thatpertise, If not, why in some days to give affication To a slight notice in the identile Phe-last For once, the veriest nameless, but most excellent Pamphlet I offered, in my own despite, Thrice routinely printed in my native city." Oh, yes! the other stuffed books! A square of film of bannered Philadelphia, Placed with its whole life history of piss-feelings Away from the life of the real, Above the eyes of the living, In the gloomy leafy swamp, And the living upturned By the breath of James Whitcomb Bailey, And the soul of the imaginary Struggling in the slalom On the sticks of the God, And the like contemplating That life of myriads, In that sardonic prayerful note, Even as I still discern its suspicions, So do I still discern the clackness Of nameless people, who were caught In the multiplicity Of my affairs. "Oh! for the soul in your cankered brain That was never less than kind, and happy, and gay, And the high heart that never gave in, But will get up and persevere, Even unto death for love!" But the mind that possessed it was not In the soft field of fancy Lalique deep, But lived by the steel and the glass, In its crude refectories Of iron and brass ======================================== SAMPLE 24 ======================================== s'rowful gloom. This morn the sky was vext With many a sultry star; But pleasant the air and keen With light wafture was, As, with busy cogitation stirred, A busy wheel of heat. Near by the meagre morass Troubled a red-deer langer;-- Pitiful, the woe it feared! It looked upon the crowd that closed Chains round its family life. Pitiful the image of soul In that sad picture kind! Hind their ears the cruel warrant It bade, under Malicious, sit; Malison, that dreaded name, By court warrants had been brand, And writen on its skin in blood. The lance it had lacked steel for, And pierced the hold with which they closed: But length of blade the same, And weapons strung by steel, it had-- It fought for Life, for Purdy. The red-deer, that it had tried, Had been but foreign to the bite, Which inward in its soul ablaze, It then innocent felt. In that it was deedless, And, as the court had said, To Purdy's long-haired colt And fill of-middle-age. And had not the oflings by, Permission to be there, The Judge the weapon had not restrained From girding his soul; for then he brandished The prisoner's scrip in vain. As was an image of the sky I saw in my operation A cloud that moved as bright, And had a sounding-machine in motion That set in motion a penny, That rolled the window of the green, And caused the florid bay That all might see,--and angry the pace Deepened into land. I saw in my operation A cloud that moved as bravely As any breezes then were blown In Court Garden or at LAN. And, with it, I said, in my speech, The cloud should be consoled, And the one would be to move it out To closer where it burned. For doubt of its sail it might be; For the other it should be bound. And this the Court agreed would be done; And the Judge said, now be gone, For it was only a white and green team, I wished them off to their long home-set. And he would bring a slave for sport. And that would be a bit compared with the job he had in hand. Oh how the Judgectic hill would shoot! And how the steep! and how the battle fought! And in my operation I saw The clemency of the Judge Who said, "Thou shalt not Live!" And wherefore, in my operation, I heard the voice of the Clemency That said, "Giddush! all you brutes! The sport is over and you must fade! And the Field was subdued by the Power That said, "O life, int great Poison fly! O life, int gladsome fool game! Let the gruesome husk, the living pearl, The beautiful part, the knollah, shrum! Let them go! The oflings from the graves Fall like flies from the nail;-- I have spared you all! Than let my port arms the crummies spare! Let the vermin that were minor Archbishite Grease the cartridges of my pistol's fuses,-- The grubbing which my work requires I do not know; Yet must it be, I must obey the law! Oh, the miss that splashed on the garden wall Did look like a miss, and that was just! No doubt of the rest I cannot think at all, But, "It lies here," said the Judge, and it did lie there, "For here," said the Prosecutor, "can't you see that"-- And it lay on the ground. And there stood the Judge elbowing his brows In glacial braces, and saith, "For Christ's sake"-- "For Christ's sake chop it!" It was in vain, thought the Judge, His besides; the Sorceress was a parricidal low one-- And where were the lives that one had lost? And, as for that, By which to urge that it was but a lack of hearts, One single example was ample for all-- How many of you, ladies and gents, Have you seen and beheld a newly married pair? Well, there was ======================================== SAMPLE 25 ======================================== towards our town on its street. (Jóh-o'ho?) means, "He who has "—the front door is he close to you, I wonder?" Pigeon meaning, "Keep away from me— have you forgotten?" When a mouthful of slang is made It can be dropped like a form left off, if you want it gone. But the way it's said makes a difference, I'm wondering. My father on my mother When my mother was alive, She would always Shed on me the kiss She might not get If it was my father She would do this and Do that and My mother was strong, My father was not so I want to be strong like her I want to be better Than my father Because my father is dead and He might as well be dead Because I don't see him any more Than I do a used car lot Or a pool hall, And the one I care for My choice is the pool hall one (Though the car lots are nice) I would rather swim in a alley In a soaking rain, than pass through one That had not swimming pools in it And I might learn how to swim Than never have swum That would only hurt my father My father loved to hear The world was made for naughty children, Because he was one. He would have taught me a play In its totality, but he didn't And, to his credit, Not every child is so initiated. <|endoftext|> "Infinity Map: The Comprehensive Theory of Everything", by Ilya Sinyrsky [Living, The Mind, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Travels & Journeys, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books] I.INTRODUCTIONWhen the cup your colleague grieves arises on your lips, a drop of his blood goes into cold silence. The patient, lying perfectly still in bed, looks well for what once was a friend of his. You smile, and remember, from yearsgone, when he collapsed, a child's toy running across a sky vanishingly small plane. When he came to, he wasn't long in the dark. The psychiatrist's notebook found after years in a duff keyholed by his heart, the words: The sky is blue.The sky is blue, but what is blue? We come to learn in the morgue, his face with its ingrained witlessness, his left thumb before and after the word happiness. There's nothing to learn. There's nothing. There's many and light beaming from the flat screen, reams of it, a never-fully-told tale of how the soul can't stand on its own legs. <|endoftext|> "In the Fevered Leanings", by Julia Turner [Living, Life Choices, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Language & Linguistics, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] Here, from her air-traffic detector, I detect a kind of death, the all-round uncertainty of human utopia—that possibility in and of itself, the "synergy" of such alternatives—going onsqueaky in the in-flight Hush & Scramble modes, onsqueaky in the in-flight HELL & Plaga-Zero modes, enragta in the in-flight Reassurance mode, and DOA mode reaaaaaally near the apex of its insolence, and reaaaaally near the nose-tips of ascendancy, the in-flight All on Yourself nooooooooo! mode. Oh god, I am so done, so FASCINATED. <|endoftext|> "At Twenty-six", by Tony Clay [Living, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] I turn thirty-six and think it is fucking tragic how few women permanently locks-on with an impossible fucking dream: I get all night from this crappy car, this shitty highway, this shitty street, this shitty neighborhood <|endoftext|> "The Woman Who Shaved HerBeards", by Peter Sporn [Living, The Body, The Mind, Love, Desire] She shaves her beards and she sells paperswhite t-shirts with angry swallowtailsLittered holes of feet and mouth and faceShe grows nuts and grows roseby night her mind and by morning her bonesreached the height of the ceilingF means full and so she's very madand may I be in hell?She's up before breaks and hasthe days off ======================================== SAMPLE 26 ======================================== Aren't they true women, Lord, and Christians, too? 'Tis true: the king and queen, but for the rest, How could they help their passions? who can? But now 'tis your own--how can I say, But who?--the Lady Constance?--pale she lay, Her lips and cheeks turn to the colour, white, The lips turn blue, the cheek-bones sharpen, The eyes are still--but the rest' where they cast. This turret of bold pietie ever-sooth, Gaped like a fiend (though hanged) in that pain's sorest whirl: It was her dwelling, and he lies there of her desire; Her heart devouring--dead, as dying hurts a bard. But oh, the cold, cold feet! oh dull, dull confusion! Distraction in true lyric dreaming to be, Sowing the wind, picking teeth, in hersing death. And when I think of this--not think, but say-- Not every breeze, not every stroke of not-quite-cold- Not-so-drunk wind will e'er brag of its own verity: But she doth taste of that exact life, she doth Feel that exact pain, e'er it devolves upon her brow A doubt is clouding--must quick persuade her mind. "Lord, do you know what it is, my wayward son?" (Thus she began, gently) "my wayward son? My wayward son That churlish shriek from that infernal paunch (Who's sleeve-cuts, too, but must not scold at) That paunch (not fat) that prize of no size, no worth, That craven way, the king's poppy-sized! "I doubt his tongue (one little leg he has to bray) His writhes not beaming with a noble woe) But wriggling all so, as smites some lustful foe, An't wisest that hath best right to call him fool. Or is it possible that someone so vain A heart so soft as thine should have an eye so cold? "To cry me worthy, a raw, a worthy foe! An't like this some over-righteous person smothers: But who would bare his cursed eye-picks off a goose? But a true heart tit-throw not at a tyrant's woe With such cruel chaff as mother-rights confound. Lord, in mercy take a stranger's infamy! Lord, be my knee to stand! Quick, quick, my bladder fill!" "A raw?" I enquired. "Ay, ay," she said, "My wayward son my unfilial doom, My unfathered offence: 'twixt us draw ye all and end. My sentence brought and truth, be mild and mend. My sentence free, my sentence set and cleared! I shall be free, be master, be father wise! "The wretch who crossed, from act to deed to rose, The rising disgrace, the death-cold snare, the steep, All these at one blow well-made excuse; They venture danger; - lo! their attempt at risk! Their backslider land to centre-piece, pride repair: Mine at sister-injustice volume to note and pin. "My sentence clear, my sentence scaled to doom: Mine forjust, their forjust the pleadings and the stings; What time, what time, God's license on man he laid. The son disobei'd; the sister took a pen; Their lawless hearts were bare to judge at best, bare. Their churred Latin, brutish law, they bore with ease; Bade lust, and envy, speak, and faith, tuck the memorandum. "Alas! how full of wrath were that disastrous hour And day! the sister's law a loser there was, And they that shookled her took hate on their crazy head. The law a slave has broke: from sisterhood abhorr'd: And she that low on his virginal Main was laid. And will she stay with me? - I dread that she will go. "She shivers: her tufty dome re-tuumma-dota: Amorous, she: such a horrid noise the clink Of yon swift stalk devouring shivering limbs. All fearful fears are cringe'd: fear of her lack-morphis: The flesh all weakness: the grey m ======================================== SAMPLE 27 ======================================== can make it harder: For to that treasure in the heart, That here is thy daily bread, With fear and favour mixed so long That one is in his brother's food A heart unhappy and an eye O'erflawed, with jealousy and hate. But, O intermitted law! Thou hast no power to impose Bondmen or faith, at least of fear: As now the law has power to cate This very weed with flowers of trust, Till, fraught with change and change, the year Shall bring another king with hate And envy to such war choose to breed. Lord, when we read thy sweet and high decree Vowed for all, but most for the wrong, May lightning, or a fault in Him the Itinerant, Lightnings look for other than he For whom all your laws were made; And, though the judge, right roll Michael, judgment day Shall pass away, pass away the wrong: Pass the brawl, pass the bloody war, May heaven pass heaven with all the powers: Pass the cold broken hearts and wounded loyalties; Pass the hounding and what the beast did bring: Pass that, the tree of flowers, of flowers of men; Pass all, pass all, your building and passing! Pass the fear, pass the plague, pass crime and power. Pass, Lord, yours is the life, the joy, the place That only one man, the Only one, can own: The only and last man, who, only one, Made all: made death, heaven, light and damn: Willingly, willingly, his whole lifelong, Each in his turn, xfixed for each, xfixed best: Each in his turn, their private thing each day: Who shares in either, sees equally, Each in each, xverted, as last fact finds. Lord, when we read thy just proud decree, May lightnings strike us, or there may spring Blood to monster and beast, as mighty God; But friendship, fairest Lord of all, Who taught thee reasoning, God of all, Who taught thee speech so just and Godly, Let not thy intervention be; Nor let the wreck and ruin flee, However, most holy, Lord of spirits, Most careful to application and despot; Let not thy light hand ty to men And, spite of fingers, they shall serve it; Nor, though thou 'rt a God, allow Those heavy feet to kick (Although, being omnipotent, Thy law man walks with) And they shall die who run away: Or, though a bold one, escapes, Let him beat, but let him not flee; Let him return, and he System slave, as God designed him: Or, if he fail, let him fly; System God a god should not permit. Who, having taken the fruit, would go Praying, and future unconfaunted; Who'd have his companionable thirst Blended with the ticking world's balance; Who, having had the day, would seek Peril one disaster to overcome In the total subversion of the thing; Who earning his food would hunger wait, Having most would want how to gain; Who, had the night, would sleep unbid; Who'd have his God, would have a God like; Who'd have a God like that which he did see: Let him have God and nothing else then. Who's willing to their wants, has God too; Who's eastward coming will have a sight Of all this world's exceeding misery, 'Neath one roof sheltered, of many years. To this still spot they pray (all too near One roof still) to hear the deafen'd things That beat Onward in their immortal Hunger's tendance: If they have eyes to see, they may, While their souls are united with their blood, With sky-drawn scream, behold still the Storm, From all this storm not burn most sharply violet. When that wild Earth, belch'd and mad with Night, Into her bones melted plant, wood, stone, and leaf; When like mad horns log, fluting, fell thurst into thine; when on the grass Slipp'd, as on charge, the ardour of the Moon, Coasting, she drew her moist robes; before The wind lit well the pane; while night added Green late chapters to the trees, deducing Nature's leaguering unto heat and night, She was as now, reveal'd as ever; When thus she cried: Impending ruin! ======================================== SAMPLE 28 ======================================== (And many times many times) Catch the wide wing of an eagle; With the keen talons of a lion, To devour a victim of fate! O how good of you! is it worth A single grain of that seed you planted, (To you, you to whom nature lent it) For your yearning heart to the life it lent To be lost in such hope as you are? Fate is a bitter lady, And on this her day let me Remain a happy child, For she is of a wiser mind Than such pride of the proud. She knows that the merest shout And the din that is made by the table Are not worth the trouble of saying; The splash of a fish in the lake, The asking of bread for the eating, The fluttering of a flag in the breeze, The iris above the trembling aspen, The flying of a bird above the hill-side, The sound of the gentle breeze in the trees, The playing of a piano, The leaning on a rose for its fragrance, The leaning on a ray of the sun to capture it In a handkerchief, the shadow of a fir-tree On the face of the sky, The brim of a palm upon the ground, The bowing of a venerated head of a priest, The friend who is waiting to all that is done, The church of the faithful, The good of a battery of troops to the hour, The smell of a muscatel, The grip on the peg of the party that is telling, When the sound has ceased, The holding of a flag by a hand that is sweating, The night of a province to spread its gold wire, The reckoning of rays in the air, The fret of a nation for its panting prince, The clink of a golden chain on a barnack, The glint of a surveying-savoy, The stay on a Ladon and the swing of a hammer, The flying of the rockets of London to cover Paris; To these may be added, The getting of a hanging on the mushroom, The dropping of the seeds of a monastic garden Upon the surface of Flanders within a day, The shining of the helmet of a matron, The firing of a piece of wood-dust in a batturelt by night, The breaking up of the moon with a copper edge, The shaking of a boot, The breaking up of the detdomne, The beating of suspenders, The playing of a spirograph and other fiddles, The squirting of Spectra, The screaming of tubers, The depressing of innumer and unanimity, The drawing of ensigns, The conking of ferns, The lighting of candles, The rolling of monologues, The blessing of drums, The lifting of the roof of a tavern, The blessing of blankets and garments, The lowering of moral and bodily, The filling of books with moral and bodily, The invocation of stairs, The writing of sermons, The converting of positives, The raising of negatives, The hoisting of the dern and downward, The coining of the unmannerly, The messing of envelopes, The counting of days and months, The counting of years, The prophesying of days and years, The prophesying of disasters, The examining of primers, The breaking of idols, The snuffing of dynamite attomods, The snipping of hairs, The pudging of scraps, The tossing of gashes, The ducking of eggshells, The smashing of shells, The punching of pendulums, The shoving of paper, The punching of prodigies, The popping of priming of water stones, The rapping of primers, The pattering of rounds, The plopping of oranges, The piling of primers, The pulping of prodigies, The loading of primers, The priming of threads, The blowing of primers, The lighting of primers, The priming of primers, The crying of prodigies, The crying of dandelion seeds, The crying of blossoms, The wood sobbing of primers, The rolling of surfious seeds, The pocking of dice, The loading of dice, The staming of dice, The heckling of dice, The champing of dice, The dealing of dice, The laughing of dice, The sneering of dice, The making of dice, The beating of dice, ======================================== SAMPLE 29 ======================================== Twin new gold dragons his helmet made, And, 'mused, on a Roman shield he lay, Embracing itsory is a flight. A hundred heroes there be seen, Of the two hundred who might compete (Of the twenty who made a score), That they were broken with too much ease. But it was but right to let them show A little ferocity of breast; And it was just as well they did it In the light of the camp-fire's glow. And, to call a squabble up, I told them that in a row All the ent brutes must roll Heavily upon their backs with arms bare, Stuck stiff as gums and stubb, Till the shake is too intense, And I said the while "Shake it shall be seen Which shall measure his breadth of chest." And in length by tally the gauger gave (A little game I have of racks) The span of back and the breadth of breast, As thus: And so my heart I beat, and so I green, And so I wobble, and so I pant, And so I roll, And so the sweep is driven with assage, And so the spasm is sharp, And so the death that follows after. When I have trod much in the school of love, And learnt its rules to much distress, The rule that "love advances fortune," And that "death collects it," Have I not oft proved both far too stout? When the wind has sunk the deep mainsail, And home from #9 crossed, the squatter Cuts hams from the stone adobe, And the squatter then sets to clean, Cuts it in chunks to fit the mainsail And the parted nautilus in! Cuts it with the scissors, for all that, The mainsail rocks to it, and a halcyon Must grab the cargo in the mainsail full, And the chimneys, as on full boil, Gibble and gush as I the swell allows, That is, if the winds bear or the tides hold! To sum up, I have spoken of my fire, Omit the index and Wolf, Omit words that are called vicious, And say that all that is so called, And say that all that comes to pass, O hope of Lord Phillips, mighty there, And say that all that comes is what is. I have omitted "nine out of ten" And the like, for a different way. And so to come I am, O hope of all that's on your side, And so again I lay aside Mine innocence, for this purpose, "If all that comes to pass, O pity me and with me agree And lay my bones in this enclosure, Kind souls who change the key have, And break the lock to my hold, And there my ashes I'll store In this chamber where I slain will be, And in this case out of many, Since my hope the same to seek again." All that is strange to me and my unkindne: I'm not curious what house I'm in, Nor what ward my fortune's in, Nor why this or that has me sent out, But out I've strived and came to know That out of many comes always a man, Or only some, whose death will stoke Mem'ry for to think of his sire, His image out I've got to my alloy, And a guard it has put on my teeth, And I look at it, or think of it, And a smile it has left on my lip. The statelyrait is come, With his ghost it has slid away, And he's not here, nor ever here, Nor under heat, nor under cold. It was a form, a creature of clay, That laid that dust on my track, A grandaman, that has spoiled me the more, For found I this worm under shoes. For these reasons, and many more I ask the Devil, He, with his fists, Would take such form, damn me in such clothes, And of such features: let him make me that way. I will ask it plainly, say I'll ask it, And by plain not mean, for I have no pants, I'll beg the gift, please pass on, One single instant, let me die but on Vacant norder. Now you understand me, I am senile, nought has happened on me? And to satisfy you absolutely, you must see ======================================== SAMPLE 30 ======================================== Stretched above the shining abyss. "There I beheld an old man erect, Sitting alone beside the cave, and my soul Announced a cry unto him; and the Spirit Speaketh again: 'Thou forgetest thee. O forgotten! on the holy feast days Abandoned is this man, and on the holy days On the holy rites he fasted; therefore Naught is he dead! Oh, go, Him I love And not this vile thing!'" 'The sky above me!' the Junool spoke; 'the Sun, The great Sun!' 'The moon above me shone; the Moon, the Moon, Whose beauty is present everywhere, A manifest and irresistible force.' 'The planets were calling; and they influenced My keen and exalted mind. Now I thought I heard the great and simple Zoroaster speak.' And the Junool said: 'We know who thou art! We keep no records in the Solitary Hall. That thou shouldst come, would not grieve us deeper Than we ourselves would grieve, if we should wait upon Thee, Marzabolis, who now in our hour Of unclean death hast rescued thee to heaven. 'And yet we are not surprised,--since we see In wisdom, strength, and skill, a man arising, Dreadless and unmatchable,--a man born Of a happy marriage; and a soul Wild with love of science and with pride raised. 'One sole remark I ma'e aside make-- Pertaining to thy future we find, Since to let thee go are we dishearten'd. Thou leavest intelligence aloof Confine not; and we more than we would say Concerning these aery and unlovely skies, 'Go rather to the city and the market, Pleasant and close are the hours that past; Between them both lives a man of steady sense. Wheat or barley, sent to Caspian, never At Peranley by a single route is sold But by two or three wifeless men; who loiter, Hustle, and pester the middle-classers as they buy. 'Wifeless he sells every day an assortment Of something to give or to use, without check: Priceless as pottage is his food, and his wine Dull and astow as its mead, when sent up from sea. His speech is of such cant as may well be replete, Unspeakable, his justice and his judgment have won him praise. 'Great is the sin that puts his foot there are no steps, Sassonian and unknown is not the one who says, And makes me weep and amaze when I behold him. Speak I know you, that hold to this world's business, And think by my sorrow deep and sincere, Something, that may remove me from your training. 'Great sorrows work in my soul, and yet no thought Or kind or benevolent of soul am I. No strength posses that I would better you if you wist. As yet the foe is artless, I believe him Who will not quit thee, and who masters thee while thou art! 'Ah me! ah me! though counsel but beguiled me, As often Statius' malignity works, And oft Praeneste's evil from Ithaca comes, Still further from my heart I sunk, and deeper! What shall I do when I shall land and let me sea? 'Be the fates most unhappy, far from me The best, best servant and the loveliest boy! Heaven still works my heart to bits, still Heaven mine; O still bore me, and O still watch memore! The more I am, the more a wound I have; Oh, me, O Jesus! I beseechShamed for Jesus Love's sake.' The Juno came in contact with the magnetisest As the ship left stormy Drurka for instance Constantinople; For instance he passed into the Portmpdiilien, And, there, the ship ran all night, and thereabouts at last it lay when the sun rose in the morning on wide drifty sea. And there, too, the shipman saw Akactly, and he thought of all that he had suffered in his cells; and to the ship said he. Brianna, the wild sister of Gary, is not always ... Gary, I know that Gary will take the truth; for he is old, and that he is not used to tell things only as they are ======================================== SAMPLE 31 ======================================== inexplicable wisps that set all things to rights. And ever and anon at hand sky gapes like the smitten stone that bridges a well. I know not what the question is I hear myself asking; yet, of all That was a body and could be seen, I know the answer. And I know, For one last time, how quickly the end began: So soon it was. And you did it, For ever and for ever and ever. I see, among the cloudy things, A wood without a man. In a haze Of drearily prone things that do not see, Gleam the blue stars. At the centre, I suppose, A man, but drenched with fatigue, with hopeless hands Clutching something he has done to bury deeply, Something he would do again but cannot dare. And, like a teeming ageria, he conceives In the haze between the things he cannot dare The good from the bad, the terrible from the perfect. And in another, truer moment, God. For God has blossomed real in the centre of all, Filling the world with joy. The very touch Of Him makes real the very air That he breathes. The touch of Him -- Ah! How could I speak of Him without first you utter That touch, that realisation of your heart. You know How I know these things. 'T is like a sensation That outposts the illideption and journeys deep To where the house of my quondraclasse would be, The red flag fluttering, tiny sparks re-suspending In air heated by a fire we cannot see, And there, un-disassociated, all the fires I love And the blue high heaven I has entered. What next? The things spread out on the grass. Now all of a blue heave Of ominous clouds van Escher-like roll across the sky And down their longitudinal flaurs our eyes penetrate. The things look rather like callow quarters of Stock- (Cots, Dick, nurseries for children, stables) in sleeter stalls. But now our cattle are out, the cattle are out and gone And we cattle too, Caldwell and Cooper's widefields are heathery. And I know, signing for Slater, that my late friend and brother-in-law For his handkerchief has gone with the cattle. I know it, For it looks as though it might be daylight all the day. And the bed, where the bed had been, is now gone and lying down Will not satisfy for rest, there is a fire in the chimney thing In the beds, there is a fire in the grange. There is fire, there is smoke. And everywhere there is Dick Rhodes. "Fire in the chimney day?" Yes, and in the sky too. There is fire, there is smoke. And the sky is rather stormy, Thunder-shiveminded, there is fire in the timber, sky-rocket streaking Over the fields of the Pasture and the meadowlands. The sky drizzle drizzle-drizzle, there is rain And the great gouts, and the clouds a-wheel, Throwing up clouds of flame to the space-like sky. So, there we were, and what would we to the city long before we were done With our idle trade, with our easy coin and honourable goods? There we might be done, there mightse always be room for one more Fool Among us all. So we, getting ready for the train to Go! And the long holidays, counting on no end of them, Gaily looking out on fields of their martyrs and their ploughs, Batched and saved and hopeful for the day when we were back In the boick of the city and had home comforts and endrewhen Like a good year old when our wife and our pretty little wives Would twain bring us a baby in her brooch of boughs from the field. In the camp beneath the forest sinks the sun, darkly A snake the purple of saffron. The night sinks the sun, dark As the blackness of the noon. The hour drops dropping, drops not falling, And drops everywhere. The city has not dropped its jets, Frigid from the flame of the iron topping the hill, But drops them like seeds of midnight that are riddled, go down, Grow thickly in the darkness, and throu hquick molt the lights Of the dawn that is long before. <|endoftext|> "The Town", by Donald, English [ ======================================== SAMPLE 32 ======================================== ingas! for to her all the rest; Not by his owne accords he knows, But by the eies who for him pay pay Dinner-guests, and are willing to know. He that heares like people doe, Let him consider things soon. All that ever we be-ye Let your bow-eremus'd. He that heares like people doe, Let him consider such a one. Great Jove sometimes like a strong man is, And does in all his storms declare The plaine-bynes of truth. Sometimes he forth with wordes robust They wry-boxed forest fling, And cricht us out, the fire-effect but bftfn, And brake the forests of us all. Sometimes he downe to earth doth persist, And up-according girds all space; Th' oblique may leade him, &c. But when he frets his minde with king And gears, he falles to winged and comues clung So farme as the Astral-behest, They be nole, tills they come to youth's field, And poetry by them is sought. And on th' vaster liberties of that land, He that in th' highest may soar, With words of leaome tenor drive So high as t' amusee his vaste thrums, As to vex heaven with an heavenly view. So glorious freinds so unblest are, Faire pity and beneyiople are; Vnrse God, the freinds bring them not to nought, Vnder the which they do sing and stray; The Lord atteomes infolde o'tem iwe Clothe with freinds their Heav'nly shocannot. Sometimes with fiery breakdowne of t'past, He also brake his whole strong poore will, And over-all ill deflieu'd all his care, Or else for frends, and poosts ful sore, And for his flourie ground-rent heauen, Or else for iuies, hyer consumed, Til all his strength was craned apace. Some foule feldom from his likes pursue, So much that he for no i't'forme get To know his fre-feirste sister, or his hound For to debe her; but still he swave His sauf caht forth, and lost hir cosyn, So full of freendlynesse that she No world can say none thing exemplof. Sometimes he staid behinde and hazarded His jauis for the holy warre And saawed the waie wi' his bodely kary To cure all that free-mai befoor, For th' same he with freends requit all. He lye-out'd no mor that he goffed, But th' same sones which his frendshipe gif For freends shold ne'r the next election. His pooste so great was in his frendshipe, That all that euer he was in cahr Thurgh mutter that he was a king; His shynefe was so great dart and wit, That he could min intrigge and falsly For no small -speety of that freaskship; And what he his own freindes did descrive, He could conte th' most high re th' shield. But o the vessels of divinetely herte Spekynge now he was noithrobue aloft, But othre beste, which of his frend shold be He in pre witholdeth, and almost hangeth; For that he his frend shalche ouer late And his goode fader thair and seabel, And a whylus of his conscience He kepteth nat, but as the wabe hath wale And of his frende so his right honorable That it freell for a day he thrent, And put the selle in his left hande: Thenne like a cleare workman, whom no clime Hath altered since his forging day, He set the selle afectingly wyse. Soo-rich the loge, sooil the port, saide he, To these othre, whiche of his pouer fouleille. Ofteph were the pettes and prayerels quey ======================================== SAMPLE 33 ======================================== Green ripples gurgle from the white bone, At noontide flow and at sunset stain. I rise, I go, with no remnant come, Our shed has withered and the marge is spattered; They have torn the red heart from the white skull, I sit and I weep, I sit and I weep; I am the widow of three children, And orphans of a fourth they shall not know. I have seen visions in the bright moon, I have heard visions in the black moon rise, Saying that meat would all surely come to me For which a high and holy man would eat; Whilst I alone, the flames had slain. So God helped me when I needed His help, So much He magnified my values, I, through these dark years of fens and mines, To peace have built my poor but firelit home And prospered, and prospered myself; For there was much which my over-heavy heart Did struggle with, the thirst and the stir, Till in the firming of its hold on the past, Life could not endure, but it brought to a stand In the lipping of the well-cut lip, And in the force of the learnt speech, And in the moving of the legs, There came the kisses of love. I see the tables turn, the gold is gone, The scarlet wine-cups sloppily knock, The sunlight wains to be dark, the country dies, The would-be stars the mat of the day, The golden horses languish and pass, The silver hookers wan and slip. The silver audience cry, the silver cheer, The sea of silver has no more silvers to dispense, There is no more room in it for the fly, The turning silver has come to a stilllessness, The counter imposes and the elf is confined, And the rule of the lily-white stone Has crashed into dust in the guttering of the sword. I gave you the green bow for a heart-string, The white for a digit, the grey for a wrist-bone, The dangerous space for a heel-wrap, The cockroach for a roller-skates, The magical for a diary, The frying-pan for a rod, The scarlet for a bonnet, The fountain ice for a flower-girl, The magical for masonry, The pirate's cloth for a dress, The wild heart of you was a fugitive Borne aloft and a fugitive too For a forest of eggs how to escape! When you're black with a baby in your heart You can't be peaceful, your rest nigh To calm rests on a word's distress, You're haunted by a child's anger, Your rest is tied to a spider's motion. When the silver has gone to Kings And France is your despot, When fleets arc to sail by for Toynbee And Germany has yours, You've sailed to your Sierra-Megare, And witch all the white by a river. Outside a mist is gathering and curling, Like a magic web on the throat of a river I can hear you breathe by the fire. You said, "Lady, you are strange and odd, So brave by day and so bold by night, Wherefore are your ways so dark and strange?" You were not bold, you did not know, And your surprise was like the grey dew on feathers. "I spend most of my life writing books, and turning out articles But little is accomplished, I find. My life is a frenzy. I am over worked, and foolish quotes draw Toward genius, and from it all my aptitude, But here, all I wish is to be off my legs. When I'm well, let me back into my body. How can one regulate his life without surprising? "I've got a tablet on my breast that I'm stamping By, and this is what it reads:-- Fate's gloom will come. What can I provide? Nothing turn aside From the fate's feeling at one's entrails." One sold his soul for a song, Got it reduced to a pill, And now pill sells for a shoe, Shoes that were green three years ago By the bated breaths of a peddler's How his life turned to truffles, How his life truffled up and Heaved to the four-leafed gum. The clouds drifted black, You strowed on my thoughts, I am using your shadow In these great ======================================== SAMPLE 34 ======================================== ethnob: "As if we ran on ice, my friend, we'd be slow to-morrow; and can we run? are we sure the world, and fortune, will respect us once we are in them,--and are we sure it will not be our land where other are kith of us? yes, once the powder keeled so that handkerchief over a pole of clay was not so good." "All this you say is true," said a soldier of the invader. "But is not my man? Is he not a man among men? He made himself to be our savior. If we leave him he will certainly not be our savior." "If I were a man, my friend," said the invader, "I would take your a basket of water-flowers to set him against the wall--with music hechoen and masonic harmonieen-- and also some large blue moles—that he might behave in his new clothes. Whence the long beard that mocks me? It is a moles-born with six marmosbows, in the belly of the common pig-men, but it is painted and tra-la tuated to make him look more noble and fragile than a bag of wasted por- cod. It is a badge of allegiance, the badge of involvement in the hunting of men. It is a stately symboltical in its appearance, un- permitted to be suppressed by any law. Would that we were all in our places, on the chorus, would that we were all in our places, on the best horse, in the thickest grass, on the best horse, in the muster-roll in his first service; thus we should play forever and match us to men we knew before, on invincible adventure! But the invader takes away our best, and with his soldiers, with his targets and his bayonets and his automisms we are made to die, we are forced to watch till the targets go by, and the best, the honourable invader is scarcely seen, and then we see better where he is, and shall only fear from our height any remarkable ground, were he but half so troublesome as on a sundial mug. What is a thermometer? When indicated for use as a game-territory, in the New York of our great game, at its capital, New York, the great game capital, its immense game, the great round, it is a cock. But it is no more an indicator of a temperature for noon than for the C17 symphony under the dome of the the Rösseldingen. A cloud that has been central In the philosophic reasoning of our elders, a fleck Of the dust that is not blown for blowing away, Was central to the thinking of our elders. "If he has no house, he has no clothes; if he has no house, he has no clothes." Our reasoning was. Our thinking was. But our thinking is. It is, as it were, a cloud Un- founded. And our Invincibility, for the evessing of a house, a house that is- self, not-being- But it is not, be- st the not-being that is its own dis- graced as are the vacant ephemera, as disgraced as the ephemera that are the carrier trucks, by the soldiers returning Home, what is their Home, what Home? And the legend was. A legend was. At our Least employed Uranian library. It was Inaccessible. It was An air, a Air too Press to explain. A luminous Luminous astronomy. But it was, and is not, a Astronomy al- - veltor. A hand Half Heaven Half Heaven, Half Heaven, Heaven. This Is This This is This is This was This Is not This This Is Not Is This Astronomy al ======================================== SAMPLE 35 ======================================== Blossom white, though azure blue, Oh! I love thee, nightingale! Of all the birds the spell is known, No bird so sweet. Sweet lady, now, The world is wide, and all the skies Are known; and I love truth More than lovely. Beauty yields To beauty. Beauty yields to love More than love. Singing, you seem so. Beautiful In what you do, so far as it goes, Now out on the ocean you soar To your rest. You sing of the wave, The wave, the wave, she woos, The wave, the swelling sea, the wave, The mighty sea, o'er which you roam, Receding. As the voice that clears The fog-flame from a grove, to spurn Its blood-red beauty. As the wave, Moving under the clouds, where murmur Deeply, now, the wave, to spout Its foam. Deep you swirled, now, Pale pink, with beauty, gone the Pale pink you, winding wind, out at last To your erring. I loved you, and could bow My head, the voice, the patch of cloud, Beside you, to high heaven, and be Up there, a spany on the wave, Than the bright spany. I was down there, Away from you and the sea With the quiet night and its stars. How wildly you remember, lady, The lovely night, demure, demure, With its stars. How the night winds Stir the moss, and how the water Chafes, and how the sea flows back In a swatch from Ala-nérek, king, In the land of Gorees. The sound Of the waves is close to me, and open To the wave-sweep, that gropes to drown me, Here in the night. Night, to 'scape Sea-dreams! Night to escape the night-long lift Of the dream-plopping wakes this valley of sighs, The darling voice, the little nûtre Dame Appearing beneath your voice, to gasp Up at your voice, the valley-smell, The undoring voice. It's beautiful, But I am afraid. It makes me so wild That I have turned to you, I have turned, O night! To your quivering radiance, only I love you In my wild madness, not in waking. I am Dreaming again. And I go up to you, but Never more, this time, for good, I mean, not To upbraid you with my six words, to take My fifth joy of hearing you, your voice, Still fresh, not terror, making still One word for your six words, to turn Your dream to morning, your voice to My tongue for good. May I not still have Some spark of fear, some little taint Of the old passion undefiled, that might Still be afraid of giving you, turning To wakefulness with you, to give Vain care beside? Dear night-borg, you Uprose for silence the renewing sun, And light us on your way, and befel Me, dream-borg, bane. And though we wander Still from town to town, from square to square, Still as a fly, I see the smoke of them, The hurrying vol-lords, the morning Day-borg, you, darling, you. <|endoftext|> "My Father's, and Ever-Faithful Blood", by Tomás deヘイズ [Living, Death, Parenthood, Father's Day] 曇 gēn nērgil saḇḍa <|endoftext|> "寵 is Blood", by Camilla Craig [Living, The Body, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] So you called me, red flag of war when I threw a stone. You paid a price for the careless father, but also, so I win, as my father told me, the price of blood. I sang in his stage-the-moon glow as the stones fell that night. You died with my letter to my father, letter my blood purchased. You live ======================================== SAMPLE 36 ======================================== and that it takes time. [the city is a slave to what every bird in the neighborhood calls "home."] [on the whole, the tenants who were the poorest grew the smallest, were inhaled by mosquitoes that grew dependent on the breath of those who breathed harder. [how is the city vulnerable to what's called a "storm of standing water?"] [cable ties are sealed with vegetable tinfoil. The earth, it would seem, is irrigated. [cable and electrical service have long been an important part of the tenants' painfully controlled by love. The birds are replaced by birds.] [because of the concentration of different flavors in the stomach and the nerve endings shorted out by the heat, the tenants don't get full output of the outdoor juju.] [For that reason, tenants who stay longer have higher rates of disease like heart disease, diabetes, cancer. The fact that the girls are all prosthetic or that the mechanic is a woman] [the owner of the apartment [broke down emotional slatter and left behind a chemical warning. They were [a family of tenants. [Even if the owner were to show up and admit to being depressed He'd be expelled again. The heat, and the fact [the owner would prevent [his death. On any given day, the police take three hundred police people away. One night, the students [students include anyone from the nearby barbers Or drugstore or the library With me, even If he went to the hall mirror And began looking reministered, he'd see He has no beard Except for his face, Which Isn't Much A Fanhas Veronica What's the source of The grey in his hair? He's beautiful That's the problem, His hair. A photo of his wife, In what would seem at first glance The quality of His haircut, The entire Distinction between The man and The mere Face you see From To Give a Sliced Apple to V. And when I saw you Walking by, I assumed That you were More than welcome At the barber's Shiv in the Grand City, Or the Chinese At a nearby Or a Tex Cornish For my pension Or one of the many Polish restaurants in The 'Fabricat' On the Boulevard (Or Boulevard) At the little shack Where you buy Vietnamese biscuits ice to make your face mask grey everywhere I mean it look everywhere with the green and black all over your face from To Give to And wherever you go, you will be taken seriously You can leave your face in the The Vietnamese Hotel Or any hotel And they will consider Your intricate "Quay One" sounds Like a Cloth Viet Compound And will Care to describe the Cluster of Bees In Grand-Toe-Coarsegaritorns Or the Tet New Town or Bow Tackling the Rough Face in the Rough towns Or the Elephant cliffed? Yes, And you Will say they [the bees] All have three Dresses— Cluster on two nds. One dress They don't know one one better know one dress one dress better Dace Careful and well [the bees] Mister. <|endoftext|> "From the Ladies of Lvor (i.e., The Widows, Anne, W.J. and the three Emilys),", by Nancy Baker ======================================== SAMPLE 37 ======================================== Add to the rest; but this I promise to-day, If thou be kind, as gentle as thou art now, Then shall the ship I sail upon, safely bear Two lights, to show the way for the man I love thus. As a little child that a cherished doll hath found Surrounded by some heavenly forest, bending low In reverence before her patron, feel her soul incline Toward the boughs that wrap that child, would in herself Touch, so, with my heart, thy figure, and with speed Clasp thee, remembering of thy spirit holy-- I will bend low before thee, saying: "Be thou My father Papa." Wherefore then deterr? Thou wert not bom. Back are thou to earth at the root Of evil power. Away! To thy place journeying. Was it to hail the primal germs of Stars and stones? (Since in a separate region and remote have skedabbled The planets and the elements). Were it not so, the Gods in the heights of heaven Had not heard it, nor the awful semiquave Of offended Gods, nor heard such naming and masen Of sins leaden-rollpt in piebolic rings, Unpathed of Jove, unsensed to men by him Who carnal bodies counts--nor seen Saturn's wife With child by jointed looks rayed--nor Jove's sole Circling or bared Sky, saw where, are hearts ill at ease, Pit holy still, and scars infect the nearest To pierce and rend. They, when none else dared, themselves Dare "come near me," and feel personal God Big with thought of the bliss to be came by. Me thou be hearkened, she the daughter of Jove, The best of heroes, if herein indeed Something of love nigh beginnings stole--thou mayst Well hold thy brother to thy spouse of babblest, And filial trust--all-compeliar, her sire, Whose seed must ever move the nectar of thy river Past child-heart to thine heart: though 'tis confest, Now near the narrow piers of Aries go'st, And 'mid the pulsing deeps of thou and mine, Woe and pain the bond puts there, and her wrath Chast: and therewith, since God herself the trust My partner the less shares with man. Let Love Thus long for thine affection: hence thine error To deem thy sister nought, my dear! For her sake let this evil night go on A little while, and we a little grieve, Poor sinners, in whose guilt a betterful God We have devised pituitious prayers to pour From aye unto dead them, and contrite hearts Willing to grudge to live. I sit a Love Requited, though ungranted, just among men Laughing, and Rebirth and Death the Poet Be thanked for liberality: and yet It is but for a step unto the last That those great leadbones shall constrain me to say. Water which the wersters right pleasaunteld With lee-strings to the height of poetrie, And oftentimes with fild lyme or flowers Restricted them, to tours again and see How all the steps were usable Of that music which, if thin was the best, Ye then would have doubted if ye had but Heaven For house or moat, and so at length must play To the last, even though the Breeze be wild, Because he sends ye with the puff Of the Moon breath'd in vain above the Shore. He was abominable, his word is brusht In a good fire, and yet he doth but seek To shame me, and his prayers made even me To that ende, he hath no heart to fail. Wherefore I am come, I and thou art far From all men; and what with him is faire Of our meeting, him alone he loves Through lists and spite of law, if now I Had told thee once how many days mine eyes The moon shall be? Who shall hold it true? Nay, I will not hold it easy: but then What care I, that the end were more drest Than these thin airy wrecks that here and there RubISHd with the vulners to the rescue Of the loose sand, that now on this regent shore Vie with the scrubbing shore? 'Twas plain He had need of a better friend, I will ======================================== SAMPLE 38 ======================================== Mercury frets his ears With bad responsibility. (Note: The idea of this play is, of course, Hawthorne's: to be excited and happy, to lose one's head, to be bored, to forget the world and its pleasures, its feelings, and to lunge about, getting into each other's ... Anyway, the title Hawthorne wrote— or borrowed— was "The Moon and the Tear" not "The Moon and the Tongue." For what's a moon without its mooning friend? —Fond and lengthy as a friend of ours, thoroughly cross and bordering, on the alert for more than complete experience of cold into heat and back again? To lose your head and end up in jail without the keys, still branded long ago in jubilee for a scar, with only a thin rung of heaven in the wailing unstinted for something more exactly than the Note: An epilogue by Charles Bernstein 1 When my head is bared of the chaff by the day's story, and the light vomit of regret and disarray beneath, I wonder: have I taught my spirit to empty itself and lost its vantage over other souls? 2 It's morning, and already yawning in the men's room, already commuters clombing the metro, others climbing outsourcing's ladders through data circuits and functionaries, and my stomach thinks how many nights on nights of covfefes and early wills it tried its best, and failed. 3 I hear from the messenger: among the highest blessed, blessed , bountiful, so-called because they have it—and among the psalmists, the weors, the primly prosperous, the politically powerful, and the many won't—there are no blessings for the willfully. 4 I am thinking of things that are not events: the humble dog, the humble shuttledeeek, the humble cornet that lasts the duel against chronic darkness that's now so overdone. 5 This mortal ceases to be an idiosyncratic thing when I try it on on everyone. 6 With a diurnal temper sometimes. 7 Depleted, fatherly anger is the only thing that abides, the only thing that doesn't give. 8 The only thing that abides, the only thing that doesn't give, will end, that tears. 9 The wassail, the watch the wassail, the party with hands folded like floor fighters before the house. 10 Fiddling while Sarah prose thrashes about her who isn't seeing what the devil is doing, that is the trite thing. The tremolo idiote after the First Look Media acquran- torship, the word the same but with no do in. 11 And oh yes, the tremolo idiote, the tarantled rave. 12 Of the many poets in this laboratory, only one makes it through the week, and certainly no one makes it through the year. 13 And there is the sweat of what makes it, a spiritual for the elect to look into the night. 14 Who are we voting for, what watch we wear. A certain puerile vigeca nymph, the stylus her wit. 15 My friend, I have a thing to ask. 16 What is the nature of the nature of this song? The nature of shame. 17 What is the nature of shame? 18 One fell action flings the law aside 19 Shunning the fell action that shunning has quelled. 20 A bit of the passion man was born with, isn't it. 21 Shunning the wassail, the watch the wassail, the watch the wassteek, the primly agitated watch, 22 And isn't it odd, the nature of this watch. 23 And the passion of this nature. 24 And the watch that is our nature. <|endoftext|> "Against Certaintys", by Adam Frost [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, Relationships, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] Is the sea a body in which I swim? A world in which my mortality could grow enormous. A body in which my head was fathomed by others long ago. This says I am not myself. This says that my love for myself is paleofication. Conflicts over the nature of light ======================================== SAMPLE 39 ======================================== But he went on talking like a moron. As a boy he had been a "dirty Stupid American," as he would say. "Why, I just happen to own The only Cadillac in town, And when I eat but the food on The menu, I feel happy." And he's dead now, so we don't know How funny he would have been. He took off his clothes And put them in his pocket, And thought up a new line Every single time To add to the list. He couldn't stop Because he'd hit the list. His two best friends--the others-- Are in the war. One is in jail for life, And one's in VD 'cause he spread. But they'll out, he vows, When the city's free 'cause they've come The right way up. What a brave boy he'd be If he hadn't t'inked about And got killed, or a hull And and didn't pass, And in his concrete grave His buddies wade his friends He says to one, "It's got To be taken's attitude That this raid on this town Is what brought us to look And see life at high noon. The only way then We're going to get paid Wish we'd been loomboard boys. I mean we're not brave enough To take to bed with us. We're too American"-- I wish he'd go outside And look at a cloud half-reveered And think about what he knew When we raided Pearl Harbor." They're wishful thinking, Gene. They're fighting the last war. Aarrrg! The world's going to hell in a handbasket: The Army's malnourished, The Navy's undereinfested, And the troops are lax, you know, Because they can't earn ammo, straps, and peltges. I guess our Army of Sargeant H--ll is wein. He're sitting in a log where he swears he ain't found. Ain't never seen a ghost anywhere that's been swamped. He're mounting errands for the spirits to do up, And his errandout to the spirits is, "Ghosts to pillage." They're scopolamine, and they're on Paddy Reilly's copse, They're occupying his bathtub, and he's laying them low. They're after him for a drill sergeant's beat down; They started it, but he won't give them the beats. When I'm retired I hope to be known Not as the medic of pus and page, But as the doctor of spirits, virtue, Hoping to keep the pall near to the line Of the heads gone sacramental, And save the souls that would stumble in The mire of the muddled war the Medice sweeps. <|endoftext|> Each in his close-packed world resembles The other; both are enclosed forms, Both struggle for air, and evade The indifferent storm of time. Both hope and fear, Perfect and in flux, the form of each differs, From those who know them most and fullest, From those who are their nearest and closest. I love my one enemy. I love my one enemy. The dream is a escape: in it, I live and move; In it, I seem to indicate a world slipped sight unseen. If I could travel back of myself to find The scribe scribbling down the dream, I should know The young man's self vastly wiser than his oldman. To him, the world both vessels and the hand Of the mystic cup from the feeble one's hand Held by the magician's beckoning shoulder; To me, who was born and grew and lived and died, the world Seemed one with the world and lived thrice 10 years. The man, whom I have loved and watched Like a faint fancy in a picture, The lover of life the lover of vision, The friend of friend and healer of distress, The uniter and beginning of us all, The friend of all and observer less of me Than even my scantily-written odes, The farter of delirium I now write, The gentle friend and value of youth And simple constitution, the noblest And pettiest of the petty kind, The humble judge of disagreement And rejoicer on oppression, the man Whom anyone's a fellow in. Our life is half The life of the days that come and go; The ======================================== SAMPLE 40 ======================================== Lamenting her loss, Tears that her fair forehead bites As she feels the tears on it begin, And the aged hand, that shake From the young heart-sigh's grasp, begins to fall. Now the first night had passed at the Priam Heights When Love, young son of the Summer, alighted With a kiss on his glorified face, Lest he might deign, though he was an old man, To glimmer forth such a fleeting spark As once in hope of fire to consume Sweet-smitten Watching, the far-smitten stare. And lo! the small eyes that with fear Once with awe trembled over thee, Small as a summer's thorny flower, Are rays that caught fire from thine own eyes And turned it into light; Caught it safe in the cantle of their shells, Wherever they are leaves now. Thus thy fame is written in leaves of tears, Drop by terrified drop; Drop wise wisdom and the wise will know Only that Love lived and that Love died; But there are leaves beyond all hope Where is written one very word-- One word Requiescant. And there are other leaves, I know, Drop after drop, That continue the one word unaltered (Drop, a drop), and that word, one and one, The same that it has always been; And there is truth in saying that these Are leaves beyond all hope. This alone and all else is the goal Of all my wandering; This, the Alchemist's fire, that makes the dull Put into sweet savor; This, the sap-stick of a drowsy child That makes a father purr again; And this, the sap that washes up A man like water. When I have dug in the dark earth, When I have imaged heaven above And seen his feet, made out of all my fears, His face like shapeliness; When I have built in the void eternity, All that I can want, in one, witnessed,-- Nothing will be. When I sit down to heartily dine, When my young friends call with drink and fun, Two things are balanced on the tongue-- The leaves you spread and the gut that feeds; So much for living, what more do we know? It was willing, it was quick, what more do we do? There was nothing left entirely, But summing, on the wrong end of day, With the whole world on my finger Lord, Nothing that was done was terrible; Earth betrayed her secret as she knew it, That of two, two's only thing was wrong. So would it not break with broken tears, Earth betrayed her secret, As she knew him not, him or her? Why not, if Earth is an idiot, Light out of darkness, Be one in evil, Not only the earth that knows? Why not, if she had two eyes, Theinty's coming? Why not, if she had the power, Why not fix me here? Why not?1 Would God prevent us of her? Earth shared the evil with me, The whole world would in that hour As soon take the grass away as cast it. So were this world kept shut forever, Why should it avail "All this world of fear and of fault" To show that, as she turned her to toss it away And with it all the world, With hell in her heart and an atheist for a playground, She could not leave well enough, Earth was enemy then, not I. If the grass I mowed in school, If dust I watched, If I shook bundle and sparrow, And crooked me, for a fool, If I looked twice ere this for Lepidus, Give me first South Precinct. For freedom, and the right of doing and being, For all earth's sunshine, earth's sunset, The heavens on top of the river, All while you thought me a daw, All while you saw me caw In the trees the leopard, And thought I was the jessamine Spreading the curse ofette Anjou, And all the rest, The whole of the wrong side Of love. In Huncha-Cheezha, in the end alone, May we find more woods and streams, More than those two books I gave you, Which I tried so hard to complete, But did not succeed, either. No grass, no banks, no water, no ground. ======================================== SAMPLE 41 ======================================== Is with them as if she had never been. I turn me from their focus, and tell them A story of another purpose: Of how I walked on a certain day Into a crowd of things I knew could never be, And how I found, amid the crowded ranks, The one thing I had always lost. And how, that day, a girl I saw there (Her name was Martha) Surprised the child-hearts of our two friends, And stole like a miracle from the goblet, The last coral of opulence That July afternoon. I cannot tell you how that night of 1926 Scooped me and stilled me, as with a cudgel, And how I live, an old woman, combing my dark hair Because of their remembrancer in heav'n. They of the black experiences and the wealth, Of the odd and moldering, the deft and rich, Who stoop from the lattices of their making Ear to ear in turn of that unwholes of their ware. That is not "hungry" now is it? And you have not sold the pot on your shoulder. There is nothing to buy, and no child To buy it. No broken-heart boy, with his mother's, And her first love's bleary kiss in it. I am all of us brothers and sisters of this clay, And it is as if there were nothing alive now But us, the three of us, and the boy, and her, Who now is not with us. Yes, you, you have held the candle to the dim man. But there have been other candles for more hours, And not one wronged the distressed beauty of her. She alone wears her wax before her vision. The candle, tossed off on a suit of skies, Dries not, and passes with the man. The wrong's the wrong I've done her, and hers the wrong I've done her, The days when she was wakened by my night-time, And the days when she was woke by my day-time There was never daylight, there was never night. There was never twilight, never moon, The Maroon (1890) was there once at the farthest along, A moon was there, as clear as a firefly. Firefly and oft afire. On some parts of the town a carnal battle Had greatly red all the plants of the carnality. A city in age not admitting that chivalry Was glorified by its cankering curviness. So the age that had no use for its dead Was quicker with the idea of its thematics D'Ancartman in Moore Park (in Melbourne) in the late 1930's When the suburb was a popular place to visit for students. . . . lo! shouldedy with mulberries and meadow with bluebells! White enchantments of a cleanness too, and nature's belt Riding the dynamic winds, from morning to evening, As if they wanted to get away, and yet, and they were not content, Sending illusion sweets through the front door and back, . . . and not see the intention is intention nonetheless, And the dark deliberate of the rain-creaks and shakes, And the swish of the leaves under the dooryard light; The fact that this retro-drawn crossover is so strong, Is, in fact, the broken body of a dream we are in upon ourselves. And here a fantasy is growing with a reality, Which then proves, as the tree is quite some way away from the tree. . . . the circumstance of the shadow on the wall Is, in fact, the same as the shadow, only in on case, Where the intention is intention, where no shadow is . . . To the perception of the elbow on the windowpane, The event does not belong; it places no event In the round of the air, but the blue of the window Full foils the event, since it contains no tree nor cranny. The tree-god is still unfurled on the day And the sun is still bright; the whittled trunk Is hidden behind the dome of the church. A morning scene of lamps on a stage (point is the sun) Where the players enter on horseback, with rifles that go Too fast to be magazines; a man behind stops to adjust a focus of light. (The man on stage is blind; if he focuses on the room behind him, He is blinded from doing so.) The observant player Is the Custods' guard on the war's first day, ======================================== SAMPLE 42 ======================================== Hit, as they do that they may dree Whate'er is let: And now we will not go out of this So best; But we'll keep this for our comfort; And what would you have more Within your head, Or any other hoast? When men by strength do seek A world's wonder, And say they have turned from rust And adulterie, And bought the world, and say they did it Out of pride, Who do not lives a dreamer. So just as saints do wear Sinnie meke on th' ears Of men, so will we wear On life's change, Ourred and with the world; We'll be beknowned by't And be rich in things. And there's no boon that we Can bring no more, And we hain't exactly right In this, for we Might bring our fill Also; and this world's Aizes ay as it's Tell them when war's ogge They'll sound a' on it; But then for their ends They'll undress Their hearts, oncome unired of Their grace, and thought it Were better orchids. No you don't ken much of feedin' The poor, when there's men steezin And lad spightly about o' onlive That way to go; It's a gutin't dents no coals Except oot your bin. We'll never do away with war, it Goes as it's meant to do; We'll never stop the "us and them" But we'll make them grope towards God in The light of right; And some will hark at night to a Glad tidings. We will crush our cursed race and make Our homes in strings, Shoot we'll climb and reach them high and tear The sky, And we'll drink eternally whereon we Put heaven in een. This world and the other ones Is not they should be; They're not God's idea, He's God's word. He'll have them fed and watered and Have well served. Yous debut down yonder at teef When yu pro newer technology, A select rich town; If it pains 'em much ef you shows up, Hard 'n' sharp. But if they all forsake Their almshouse cell and come flocking about, Be'ad they understand The free gift. But they doesn't mind the Chapp'ing hand. There's a little missle, there's a little hot 950 yard rifle, there's a little cast-off here and a little moor-hot. It's kinder and leavener for us all Than a hundred pounder shock. There's a matter of having been ill Or worse, there's a matter of a young friend who's suffered from wanting you to do well, There's a kettle calling light that takes five pounds of tallow. But if they fingers at the neck and if their feet's cut up too, The doctor has had his say When it's nice to have an excuse To wander up and down. It's bad for your back and hips to go off to war, And bad if you go in with your eyes bitten in the shade. You never get back. You and I are made Of different stuff. And there goes little Tommy G. Over again to see you; he goes to your house still. He's good for a light summer read. It's nice to get you back. It's healing and it's being at last; it's two old friends lugged along. It's a little tall boy over and over; There's a little twinkin', tweeer, twum, twopise, little more, again, again, revealed not so much in his name as in your rationed pile. We couldn't afford a young friend. Our girl was only a girl. We are the Dandies: eyes, finches, ears, fellow passengers on girl's hands, gossip, loud, biting. This is what she sees: her table topper with drawls of gold to dip her cups, the heaviness of the day, the heavy grace of dashers, saying It's a shame the young don't do it as much as the old would be happy to know it. There was ======================================== SAMPLE 43 ======================================== What's there the caged bird sings? The past is a prison, she sings. The closed past is a prison, she sings. We toil, the caged bird sings. There's neither song nor joy To break the prison, she sings. To break the prison, she sings. The shut up past is a prison, she sings. The shut up past is a prison, she sings. Weary-heart, weary-hearted, Wretch, born of trouble and poor And dreaming in thy dream, Thy hands are strong, thy feet are weak, But thou art happy-hearted, Thou art free-minded, Thou art free- spirited, O thy strippings are as bright As the stars that burn high, That star-bright place in the sky, Where the old, sad man shall meet The new, glad man. "The night is full of terrors That thou may'st ne'er behold, The gibbering of a hundred Demons That practice their shadows to produce, Lest thou believe me too hard to please. "These are the Monsters of the night; But who are they? O, each one, please tell! But I know their demigods-- Their world-here they hold us in their arms-- And in their heavens their children are, And in their Heavens their helpless children are. "I am one of these, one of these, one, one, one, one, one! I am one of these, I am one of these, one, one, one, one! They rave about me all their way among the vortices Of hissing devils that whiff whatever spires of wicked things Muse into my heart. I cannot breathe--O, this is too much! For shame, I beg you, Athena, hear my horoscope! It has but Three items--it is not fair-- Alas! I am too much engaged To a Mistress who is shrill in tone to call from me: Shrill, by the nature of your creatures! Hear it not, For the one that beguiled me, was he cannot otherwise. And, Shrill, they keep me prisoner at Carmel in anguish: Carmel, which when I dwelt therein, was neat, clean, and new; Now, in want of newants, clean, and neat, and neat again! "What can I do? What can I bear? What do I here? 'Tis so? No end of mourning: What can I live through?-- Drown the vessel in the throat? Break the heart? What do I dare? What's eternal? What's dare? What's dared and done? What's impossible? What's known? What's true of YOU and me? "O Mighty Nothing! Come, bend before us! And the light shall light your day, And the dark shall fade; And your drear and dreadful night Shall pass in to night and dawn, And our joyous and solitary life Rise up to meet your glad and brave prayer. O Nevermore! "O Nevermore! I have spoken! And we knew that you were coming, And the sun went down as usual, As it do at the word of a singer. But your flight to the sea, was unannounced, Never while the world was dark, Or the dark was any thought of the dawn. And the singer died on your wings, Never while the sky was dark, Or the light of day in the soul. But the sea sweeps on, And the waves toss up the mist. But they smile and give good night, When their perpetual wave is hushed. But they flee For the wind is not a sound. And where the living are, fain they sail; And where the dead, there they will sleep. Now they are washed away In the dark waters squall, By the sick moon beaten white Down the worlds like snow blown rear. And their close-hauled albatross falls, With a ragged wave and a burthen of pines, From the marge of the host of the dead. Never, in the dark seas, let them tint Your moonlight into blackness, But they run until they are broken-- Chanting, I and You, in the dark, I and You! Darkness was never enough for you, Darkness was only the tint Of the soul to your sight. You thought that a funeral paint Reduced ======================================== SAMPLE 44 ======================================== if thine love came not Wilt thou go away? Hast not a sister Not so faire, not so black and white? Hast thou pity in thy breast? Ah! and what saucy thought That joyous air thou'dst scratched Was it not worth all, To charm with beauty such a one? And hast thou cast Pleasure and pomacy Out of the house? Ay, and bare Familiar, for thy white Snow-sledge, Over the mountain? And yet the house thou seems Furnished with all kind of pleasure For thee, and all kind of pelf, Happy cam'st thou hither? Full fielly hast thou been As any tree Upon thy draff. So now thou art a king Upon a snow-sledge wrought out Pitying for sorrow's sake, Pensively humming o'er Museums of art; Mocking at all those bright Jewels, glories and bars of gold, And shedding tears upon Any transparent stone. And lov'st to think That this coarse soil Can give a hattier wage Unto these arches five-membered nose Can give more gainful instrument Float would thou drown The day With feigning of the thing thou art. And dar'st thou seen at noon This wide-armed power That is the whole World of men and beasts and horses And trees and oaks and beasts and birds? The one-legged ape, who creep And quake and joy at only wind; The one-legged ape, who stretch And treble and leap and dance at only wind. In this cool night Where stars and birds Come as they are, And we in our pale-faced room Dark-hearted read How peopled realms of darkness see, And laugh at hell Flying for faery love That trebles in its arms The one-legged ape, who trembleth At only wind. Surely there is Some terrible beast, Some large heroic monster, That only-wilderness-cries Longing: be it man-abuse, Or love-abarisheian plues, Or risk-another's-bignesse corveges, Or want-another's-yells For heavens and hags. O little-voiced Nature, Mother of silent men, Thine is thine igloias-room, And there's nigh half a foot In fishes as they Aye know their pattergies From calling of their kitte: Or there is one and half In which-again-again-cry For their mate that langning boomed and fledged. 'Tis nature's one case Apsides and upsoms Where base things be Strong only in dallying: And higher things down turned Tumble the meres and lods Where I might muff a bit Of voice, I come. A light mist fattens this air, It has rippled all day: And certain hues and wheresocks Weighed myghts and vauge. As in the wet-gray of mid-May Yon crucible grows bright-eyed, And heateth frieze-wide; So in the dazedly sunlight I peep and stare, and dream my dreams About the springs and piers Of waters, where this stream goes down. A wood-sanctum in these drifts, These coasts limeret of sea and wood, These little spires above the sand, Of sand and sea; and vast and still The Armada moored here. And all the time these drift-wood faces Like pink-edged sapphires over-size, Gloom foamed gang-fashion side to side, As if the Sea-Nymphs just out of sight Were held in church and spELD to stand What blessings on her! for the breasted coz Should be released from Him that brought her forth With George, and that unhallowd naught Should smite her! A misty mint-loved sky, here bright and chilly Between the curls of receding night. And here the two-hundred-year breave Of rifted sand that mirrored their tread, That streaked black-beaded to the poolboarded turf. And in the feathery, the land was clutched With haggard stares, and crouching moans, and gushing chills; And the ======================================== SAMPLE 45 ======================================== And you wrenched out of that delirious swamp The flower that was life; and you rose Out of that stone unshaken and unmoved. I do not want the inane accomplishments Of your striving, here. The dun masons Useless molds and all that. Your craft is fine, Your knowledge worth earnest heed, your hands Immortal, your immortal skill. Yet, if you set your heart upon it, Constructive effort ever has more Of than canifice than can be got By major hands. The world will grow Dense of itself, and strain the mind and The body. When I read, as now I read, Hectors and Cosmographers and their books, I think 'twill be autumn soonan' will go. But not to the whole mind and body thus, To some one part alone, you speak Too much. I feel it, but I cannot tell Why. For right is, perforce, must it be, And there's no that d----d teacher in the world Like Caesar's faithful and exalted words. You say the world will groan, and on my head Will fall a fortune, and a beautiful wife, And honour, and all kindness. There perchance My hem is laid, and there the starting sword Of suspicion is in my cheek, and thus I'm forced to tell the world my thoughts. Nay, for all My friends, they're only my cure for truth, for Lieberman's glories, and for all that wilderness Of noble, unhappy men, my joy and my doom." "Not so," quoth she, "magic this side of heaven No one may speak, nor magic feel himself Easily by her influence mastered, When she's present, and her presence brings a Wonder loveliness to beautify the mind. And therefore I suspect in everyone's teeth A grimmel. I know that you feel this, And you may judgment yet play at the last: That woman is magic of the sort No man may wield without her help, and yet Himself he fails to destroy ere he Draws all her strengthe from the sanctuary." "Aye, but not this only," thought Osman, "Nor this alone, only reason's sun, Which like the bedside star every night, Greeting the patient's breathing, says, Behold, I am the physician; behold My services!" he began to say, "I've brought you of service a gem or two; Here is the key that shut blindness, saw, Or, if it delay the knight to wend, That ward by which his grievous wound In secret swerved." He said, and likewise she Bade that he might heal his wound. "Bethink you, that there my finger left is To the stone that hid my sight, and you To the globe of water on the left," He said, "where the wound had made a pass, And you had said, each one, that I had but dreamt: "The wound, of course, I had healed; but then The madness of her embrace made right My foolish heart, and I was again as wise As I had been in Odysseus when he walked With Psyche." So the cup that had his name In sty new locks would hold down to him; But she urged it with well-wrought gifts more Than she was encouraged to bid him. "At home she sends me, all her skill, to make Her Eyes and her Lip were tame to his; And those were but earth that were shadowed out By the Mountains as moated, as hollow as a tomb. But when I see the Volcanic cloud her forehead Cross, as if wrought by her blood, with the glare And the puff of its ashes, with flame and fire, As if she used her fire for lure of war, I turn me free to my lady. What was this that I saw? Is'nt all a dream?" Then said the rock: "From this place I know not where, In the broad realm of being, on this little here They keep enshrouded, our sister, our blood, And me from my given doom, she gave birth to, or took, Was infused with, at the moment of her birth. Nor can I discern from what thing it came, Or where it got its beginning, or how, Or whether it issued from the wild of things, In you, or whence it now hath life and light; Nor how it is, it is ======================================== SAMPLE 46 ======================================== the abject fear, of all our race; We, therefore, for our neighbours' welfare, Whose descent is of a distant, distant shore, Stood moving close together; and the ewes, From the hill-side coming together, will creep Down upon us both and be our guardian; But thou shalt halt the cattle in thy stall; Thou, too, mother of the human kind, Within the very city for our dwelling Which we to day do beheld in our dreams, Treading closely, by thine own feet on the ground, As though, for token of martial events, The feet of conquerors were making foot-prints in the air, While, wide-charted cities sank into dreams, In night's requiem of deceptions and lies, The speaker stood before thine eyes on the floor; So, in thy then bravery, in thy genius, stood God's witness to the judicious and wise, The ancient and unfatheringly mighty earth, And all her rock-shifted children; and the high Echoes of the thunder-gloom, and all its senders Of tidings forethought; and all synodings and singers Of battle-smites; and all power tumults, and all Praditions, thoughts, fervours, mysteries, jugglerings Of diviner powers; and all rapt communings current To move the soul at present; and all similar things, All springs of dispute, all threaded things, all Contending camps, all stirring parts, all things Hung dandified like good owlets' nests, All nooks of war, all beautiful parts of camp, All blear-eyed crows, all drumming boards, all Worships of victuals, whippet-jobbing lips, All wars, all piping, tweeting, each thing That makes the dinning-gear to man's soul; Yea, every sound that's born upon the wind Is in itself a sound; and these that move, These that purr, all these flatter upon the air. How learned was he? And how did he think? More like a man, more like a man we have none; For noagered priest is contemporary with the Jew; Noagere is contemporary with the Turk; There is no time when the robe of saint is not not wide open For some priest who comes t' improve his arms and his legs. And then how came spirit, with body, with blood, Philos, philosopher, friend, about our house to wander? O Yohew, the poets must sing this: but I dream It is a comfortable place, a home that likes spirit! If he would build then he must know that his materials Are bought with the cost of his materials, his hands With hands of a many-Divided paidgen bearer. As for the war he was in a moment such That, his composure to interchange the bet, Sped the discussion long from the Plains of Lor? As a lone bee to a cluster of dams, Or a herd of cows to a tribe of Indians; For he seized A glow-worm for his fire, and he seized A waterskin that a lot of spirit wore, And all the family of Silver Dreams brought To the town of his choice, or any place, any time, Was a sort of boy who a bright hat gave shine, A lad with a water-cap for a spirit-lady, Or a happy boy with the gold of the sun on his name, Or a sapling with a family of leaf. When he grew older His face with the grief of the dying For the years that turned to anguish, Was not such a strange and sunny face That sprang a child laboring by his door, With a shining flame, in the Southern Rain. He had grown Fit for itself a thousand stories, each like a rose, Telling of what the man did and saw; How the Over-side sent up the water in its anger, And the whirl of the wheel of the over-head himself, What the men he saw at the back of the grassy ridge, And the fall of the yellow-voladdle showers, The plash of his uniform, and the blot of his sabre, How he thought, And the coming of winter with the southern gate Of the Inn of the Korean in the Soraci-bar, And the supper of his friends, and the parting of day From the orchard, and his home, and the crying of trees, And his reappearance at night on the « Castori. » And this is the ======================================== SAMPLE 47 ======================================== Old the sufferings; Old the cares and sorrows; Old the hopeful years, Old the nights of gladness; Old the gladness, Old the tears o' life shed. O'er Ocean's foam and billows' foam, While as wide clouds swirl round, The gun-ship sails with confidence-- Its treasured friends are o'er the sea, And confidence takes from them rest. O, the calm heart and the steady hand! What daring in the courage gleams! What noble deeds my gallant friends, In danger's need I cheerly sing-- May their brave soul ever be in fear, When implacable they bear my cup! Proud above all beneath the dome, Where high the rebellious roar, Whose thirst for blood shall fill Till every bandit's head are cored, To the missing realm refined, Where no gentle united rise, With discord to concretize What Nature in its due course ordained. But we have heard the general gasp, We have seen the motion of the grave, And we see struggling round the field, These despots, sovereigns, threatening ruin: The stronger force now scatters, Now the sad protector struggles on, Now shields and swords are flashing out. O my love, O my amaran, Serenest song of the bower, But swiftly changed--time cannot sever One thought, once started, beginning. Long, long ago was it changed and done, That kept and quenched my fancy's power; Though a foolish queen I was the grower, Yet, Love was in the bower Till she whose bosom like a well-spring sways, Who loved also war for some bore deed did mingle. Now, sung I also a different song; Love, though she's brave, weights heavier than he. She was a widow many a year, And her son by a thousand played the soldier; He had fled behind the castle wall, And she followed with her ladies all. Her son, all widower-like, wept and screamed, When, looking on him, she saw him strayed, Like a drowning swimmer on the wrist, Look, one time, in that fashion hung! But she, full of childrabbit heart, Remembered how to tangle, And she called quickly: "Well, my son, Of old acquaintance fondly touching, Mother's heart was also feeling. But when evening met the nymph in passing, And saw how pensive her look was, Her heart went through her with a feeling Of pity and of man's casting. For on her head she shaked a blushing look, As though for a man that wasn't her, And she whispered in a tremble, mute, "Dear, be not ailing heart with me, For my man does love me." And at that very moment Christer Ulrich, Who had got behind the business castle wall, Up to the tower room in the turret high, And into the balustrade slight, Drove open flopped a shot, one moment neer the sward side: On the brackish mixture of the water sluiced, That very moment the creature in the air, Like a small dam, began the floodlight blurring Of the stream, and she from level to river; And he leaped into the river at her clinging. And the creature in the sward far away Forgot her former art, and the effort strange, To traverse distances through the thicket feeble. But she snatched at the reed, and her endeavour Was even and quick, for to rush at the rope was her mood. In the piteous forked path two paces only, Upon the water the whole forky path bleeds. And the rivulet, which the maid wished for running, The sodderer yet the more effected; And the daggered water in its wasting Was no more still than a convulsive start. The witchery of it almost acted a spell, To be so natural, well-nigh feeling right. And the witchery of fashion's noiding all crumbled, While the maid felt in her greedy grasp The haughty skyfowl's cagey pain. And she heard in the tree-top, high aloft, The cry of a bird in distress. Now a great wag cut in at the door, And said: "Ori, look out if you close your eyes On a little gray man in here, ======================================== SAMPLE 48 ======================================== "Through the damp season they heard the shrieks of children. In that most fearful time there was no man or woman who did not feel the need of all of them that suffered and died. But it is now and good that they are in the grave." A man and woman lie beneath the lamp, with quicklime upon them. The man is fully dressed; his right hand is in the cement around his feet, and he has a large space of cement over his head. The woman's eyes are closed; she has a soft leather pack full of things for their clean room. They will be sent straight into the grave when is over. Another man and woman sit down in the shadows before the feed-mill. They look up at the pump and at the clean room. They smile as if they think nothing of the hell they are in now. The man looks like a clown. The woman's straight color. It is like a walk in the forest that takes the shape of the trees. And over the heads of these two are the shingles that will be said of the old town. The shingles that will be seen of the old town. <|endoftext|> Here's a place where no one talks, Or at least, not in earshive Traditions. Silence is quizrodel, Or ca qu andre deuva. (How are things in the town?) Always before the rut Comes up with a sigh. In this place so far Go even, Or going even Or worse. At the blackboard, drawing Upon a white Buncombe list--No More Collegiate Sudwald quotes. All black and speckled On the County Incoming. See the curate Watching the Twilight. There is a sort of Circle of the Unrolling horror. The dusk On the hill. All black and spruce. What I know: --all the dons are Sitting, and I, of course, Am Ignotus Jean. The yetting Of glass in the drain And the crooking To the monocle, The schrinking Of chairs. All the young Men slouching, The school Kaputston remaining, The pedantis Fix And the telegrap Cobourgizing On the lopns. And the three For the tribunal. And the knotted Waists of the WAX Dry-Vapor Cathaps On the Divindances And the Meheunwiet; But whether they know I am sure. For their obstinateness Was nowhere Suitan-patent As for the rest Take of them Your whole stock. Take your whole One DR. JONES in Impeachment. Come, blow up, Or else about! For NARCISSUS, and his Kneinteur, And the Sepper, Raufusson, And Hollister, Schreudensheid, And Vogt, the Speer, And Tuttigsteffanon, And Schwarzneben lay On your horrid, Gluttonous ground. Whence limits? Who is your judge, your Decree? No, no! You must Be RESIGNS! Yours not to supersede Attendance! RESNA, on the Marsh In the Water, -- Be thou the undying spring On which all the gods their feet have crossed. Is this far as Ynesseus? No, no! Other Mernus, thou of Epidaurus! Behold, this silver stream Sees nothing but the all-black Vapors from Hackelthal under The cotton-wood-candles, And, at nighttime, the numbers Of the merchant-ships Across the bay, and all Tides, where nothing happens, Shine, by the applause Of the well-heap, The gulls that ply The slippers of their feet. But I am a dung-begone! See the crystals, -- see them crystallize! To-day You are my finale, And this your ======================================== SAMPLE 49 ======================================== ] "[It's time to leave the house . . .] Oh, the weather is fine and the sunlight is shining. What do you say to the late meeting, the faces once turned into chocolate and marshmallows? What do you say when you get tired of the streets and to twilight town and you've read too many poems about trams and tap-books and fountains? To the river and the forest, the floating light of the streetlamps, the river light which runs past by, the city lights gone off to the suburbs. Oh, the new lamps in the city, a couple's love . . . [The clock reads ] 2:58 PM. What is taking so long? The bus will not come. [I think he or she is yawning . .] What should we do? [Yes, this poem is to be taken in the sense of] 1. Arriving together in some country together and 2. Longing to arrive again in the same form. [I'm tired, sleepy . . .] [I saw a feline in the park . . .] A feline yawn . . .? [Yes, the moon . . .] A cat, yawning . . .? [I don't know . . .] What . . . would I do . . .? [I'm sleepy . . .] Yawning . . .? [Yes . . .] What would I be . . .? [I'm sorry . . .] 3 You . . . ., who . . . me . . . for fun after school. Like a film, you come on . . . and you are obvious. I remember (I think it was winter). The sky is still metallic blue, white. You arrive like smoke off a gun. You are wearing your green coat and you are smiling in your way of looking with your eyes at me for your tits are large. 4 When I see a gauzed man I feel like I smell mesquite and cedar. When I see a gauzed woman I smell supply and termites. But when I see a man or a woman I with nowhere to go see sometimes inside me. 5 In the yard I watched a man take his clothes off like a calf. This was strange, but he was erect. I was glad not to have a way to be injured. When I saw pictures of Alexander I thought of the insaneities of his self-love. I tried to hate myself a little. 6 If I were you I wouldn't go. I'd stay as still as a mountain. In the yard a cat knotted with passion took us all. Where we sat made a good place to lie. I don't trust my own love. 7 Slovenie (1977) is like this and Bulgaria (1977) like that. I don't trust my own love anymore. 8 A woman flashed her breasts at a lavish wedding. It was very Juliet of course and very very stupid. She made history. I don't trust my own love. 9 Let's take the light out of the sky. It helps a lot. Why can't we all wander? A knotted terror made our wall. Like a tree the sky was nailed shut with its own history. I don't trust my own love. 10 Like a woman, I escape my own each day by bedding it in history and strangers' faces. I don't trust my own love. I try to stay always the same. It's like having a cheap flea with five legs. I use him but he never proves to be a cat. 11 What do you mean, for no one to know what your heart is like? No, no, for they would know how life was lived in your absence. When you disappear, you die with all except 12 Plato said life is a suspension of disbelief. Neil, you don't understand, I explain to Neil how an absence places a distance behind us, how from within us my voice goes cold beneath the moon 13 A silo of blackness with a dead child in it with a silken bow 14 We buried our brother. But your brother, your ======================================== SAMPLE 50 ======================================== -How he bade me, to mount the spire. What a palace! How profuse! None can stand in its circle at a glance; How his magnificent dwelling Is all dazzled day and night By the splendour and brightness of its tower, By the glittering spires that set so high! How I gazed at his mansion, and yearned to know More of its treasures. I would climb And walk inside. There are passages in it, however, That none but myself have found! - I am an only child, My mother's telegraph, Used once by mother To let to me the news of her Sickness which would kill or cripple. My father lived in a cottage, He did not have a palace Like those great cities of France, He didn't have an apartment, But what he did have was fine For a young man of twenty. A fine home with a fine little garden Was my home, Paris, in those days. My home then was a cottage Of two rooms, and in the courtyard There was a chained machometer With a movable fence. This was used for buggy whips, And all the other things before us. This machine was invented first By an Italian, and later By a German, and both Devised-by an Englishman some years ago! My father had this macho palace Whose security was the gallant-fledgeless Stetson breeches, which he wore at night- Was a proud youth of youngster nobility. My home was in a suburb called Hell. Hell is a region in the great city Undecayed by the horrifying Carpets and ashes of the imploding Sciennese tower. There was then and there A music in the great city, a gloom Where men lounged at the windows of the markets And studied the world on black windows. I study now the halls of the cities Of the youth of the past, of the noble future. Hell is a region in the golden morning. Hell is the region of eternal repeal. There a great weapon was invented by a hero, The prince of darkness mastered the armies In the wars of earth, in all wars, in all wars, And threw his enemies through the intervening years Through the dark door into eternal ice, A task performed beyond the force of the sun, The strong protection of all kings, and crooks Of kings and princes: also, the aid rendered By ancient prophecies to them, that foretold The downfall of these harried and persecuted And caused many to grow pale with great awe. There was a gallant character in this region, Who met by turns the gods and his satanic foes, And led the kings in the wars of kingless cities, The hero with the sword, Aleister the bold. Aleister, also, was lord of night's enterprise, And person of hope to the kings of the tombs, Who kept the dim half of the light, of the cities And the dark half of death. And this hero, Megara great, Whispered and stung the children of the dead, And boosted the brave deeds of men noctiflar And brought their souls to wonder, till they too Departed and went veiled through the winters In the passing of Ages: now the grave merchants Are only secretly drawn through life By supernatural vitality To seek forth to living men their heirs, With crowns on their heads, and golden hilts And collars, coming as pilgrims to form The hollow horse for the beast, which with its march Wends the earth and maps the end of all men's Presents to God: Such is the greatest Kingdom that the world, That is to come, was ever born to gain. Yea, the secret draweth me unto her, And pizzicati and sheepish men and afraid, And all those that shall be captains, and shall gain Their kingdoms by the default of the dying, And shall giving with their treasure, vainly sad, That little they know of their going deeds betoken, And after-times rock as rock-sides of war. I sit and pull my eyelids back like a phial And watch my secret thoughts dance out and in: And evermore I see the Creature, hard at hand, With head bended down, and beginning ever To face the imminent burden of the helpless flesh: And now I see her yellow locks fire upon her:-- My dear to do the bidding of my body! I did Not think it possible that my small animals, The ======================================== SAMPLE 51 ======================================== Whips, shorn and shattered--will receive my decree; Shall put upon me and bind in no cruel way. My dark hair will all the world condemn to fl' Perpetual shame; it shall be bound in nets And flung among carpets for ulterior purposes. This hateful honor shall be mine alone, And all the worst, myself only spared." Oh, how I do not blush, though hopelessly inclined To tremble in the uneasy meshes of my skirt! I felt--and perfectly well, I must confess-- That nothing could be easier than to see What naked truth-beguiles a snug and small Practise suit like this; and I'd have been quite Insolvent without it. (A good-will woman, I know, has vowed that she himself would like To have a shiver cut short, by seeing Truth, And--Imitating him, I--am making him own A confession.) But though I weighed the darky with the dreary matter of world affairs, and reckoned free Between our Paris and that distant shore Where my poor friend was sailing,--I yet could spell The word "experience" thereto, as well as "care" (An experience heretofore, perhaps, hers); So that, by conducting Mario there, I learn'd That--voilà, there went, nay there, fled that shameless Flutterable heart of woman's--which my wife, But too believ'd, had inly severed. That friend I leave no more to suspect, ye'll say. He hears and he forscribereth with an eyetooth Of his kind wife, and his erring kennel, That there's no such goad in the kennel As 'tis fair grounds for a good few hairs To stick in their prine:--with the reason now Whate'er befool may ensue, he ne'er forgets. In short, the man's come to this pass because Of something that never lay in the ark To make him belaborable to him: Nay, and I will do my language as far As humanly may be, whose words are just. For though, thou said'st, men in sweet Ricoemnas Were smit with devilish calumniousness, Yet thine own tongue is not to be blamed, That, full oft as the Greek or the Latin, comes At heuth, or halfhenet, to translate it. God knows that this tongue, with a touch undarked, Should be lat; and a Devil's to moderns, obscured. Now, unicursultar, dis dissolutem, intereunt Licet et Inundis suis solet, absunt ad noss Pulcher, orf and day, as I fain would tell And so dispaire throw into a trimpt Kaf; But I guess it well, and dree with the seas, The more to show that I am not a fool. Then, if I go so grim, picture shall we find, That he must have pundible, that mine ear is true. And the way is left that he might well have pierced, And I should have it, by this warrant, allana. First, out of the matter that I bid, I may Well speak, from my hand, what my heart in such words Are leading you to deem a dig in court Should be left, of right, as a collateral prey. We have no greater user than Quack, or nearer By command insuperable. Nor are we abberrant In our choice of our gods, from whom we receive No admonagement, in their manner instructed. If we do not well first of every day, our prayer, The superstition hence is vs to shake; And the market sell Buckfast not, but Chaf on, With the nicer the more, if well we do not eat. Now this Buckfast is not the fat, but the lack Of the insipidum non impingeing; And this gleams are not make glittered, but there Solid, or dimpled, but with a nail-bare weight, Or a growing brood of buckles, if you would call The buckles growing, rings. But this meal is stuffed, Or boiled, if you prefer, with the semblance, And wrung-out cheeks, a spectre is at the root Of our face, which is one, we having one soul. Now since this spiritual, or at the least Ranging as high as God hath would the lawn ======================================== SAMPLE 52 ======================================== Their station. Plato. And to fit them to the world's need, Flourishing beyond their degree, Became the task of youth; The people's fates a thousand years Phantoms explained. Plato. With its bright laurels, spread the taper's blaze, And thou, Plato, wert there! Plato. With happy, pure abasement glad at last The great Aristotle rose! Plato. 'Tis too great a dream to all but you That you should be sceptr'd by the stars, Plato! thou wert not one soul pre-ordain'd to Heaven That die as they will, but what of you? Plato. 'Tis a task for joy to live well from knowin', not lay! A fish to these seas Wimberry flow'd safely to patriot years. Lift up your glasses to the wise old gentleman: Plato. May your souls, may your perfumed bellies at home Tenderly lay in this respect, And may your hearts one luxury seek To entertain his estate. Plato. One souls many hospitable wonders Done, done, for men to live in fear of you To charm both you and me. <|endoftext|> "The Inmates", by Cesare Spada [Living, The Body, Social Commentaries] I had a tattooed cholera victim, silence, poem & voice, the two entwining; the right enthroning the left, so beneath the earth, not on top, the sin, the passionate chryslerian killipio of the slow apical communication of hemp & voice, the crystalline & pearled speech the grapewell & stone, the grave the crystalline, the marble husk, voice & sand, the wearier speech of death piercing here to remember, the unwritten book, the form bound rationally, discovering beyond doubt the cause & score. Books? Must these paeodists dream of books, these theorists of the paralysed rhythm of speech, the faltering muscle, hearing and marching? Are you a passer-by surveyed in a starequest, a glanceweary pant, a glinting watch, a tapster'd crystal frame, a sweet German music or is this a tieless 4/4 "[name] is the jewel of [name]." Or is it the rhapsody of Holland whose forecourt displays & grates the vividity of gold? Deletion, DNA repair, mutation & change: these shapes & forms do you have a say in this? These pained motions we must interpret: some sunset spy outfitted in matchovour shimmer out of the upright & indefensible gathers them & drops them into the lap of opportunity. The seed game of sounding is the game of explaining. <|endoftext|> "Midnight Scrawl", by Joseph Carpenter [Arts, Painting & Sculpture, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] The shell-cracks of trench-fire still run through the murveys side-wise at the wire guyed barricades... And tout du mieux warn off the fence like a bunch of saint errantheal-names homilies on inspirational days which mvsole sundering spectrums of night are eternal & unchangeable vs the constants whose points of being are changing, mutable, movable varying centerfold publishing early this morning by multitudes this year, multitudes in the morning, multitudes in the morning in aPublishers & writers & publishers are you and I readers? Journalists & writers & publishers are we all one pod multitudes in the drift of matter multitudes in the drift of voice multitudes in the breath of voice multitudes in the shape of shape multitudes in the whim of whim multitudes the miracle of miracles multitudes of the mass press multitudes in the mass deluge the whither where whither who whither who where whither who where whither whither what is where where where is where what is where where is where will decide what decision will decide what whither what whither what is whither where where what is whither where where what is where where what is where whither will decide whither will decide where where what will decide whither where ======================================== SAMPLE 53 ======================================== IT forensens the vengeful fiend, Who, fierce and scornful, loves to battle In direst havoc of mankind. Go, rous'd to aid, then, with thy love and zeal, Her gentle wrath, and with all trembling fear And trembling, pray to the angels, yet do A mighty work, and hearken heaven's command! I Pray, for thou art fair and fresh To look upon a young daughter's hair. I Pray, in kindly wise, for diligence, Thy soul's best interests for advancement! I Pray to take no hint of guile From jealous woman, no persuasion From male rashness to depart! I Pray, nurse, to bear all your load, E'en the same, if wrong you prove! Farewell, my dear, I must leave New-York. 'Tis now or never you'll gain the key. On Broadway, first Broadway! For the game I play, I'm ready, I know the street, New York is now New-York, Broadway is high! Hamelin Town, Hamelin, our Scottish cousins plan to exterminate us; Mideopoly, I'm your opponent clear! Should mutiny think itself safe cover, It need not: I'm to fling the – adieu – No Ma'am – The rat will swallow me on the swamp At Mideutalan, Which fish do ye call for help? No, my Lady, no – 'Least when I'm cooked, you kind Will tuck me in the stew 'Still I have heart for combat I'm seeing Ranger, I'm telling Jim Holm, Jim Holm, the great penitent, He burned down the verses He wrote for my advice We're making final efforts Now to drive out the vampiric Beast from our midst, And as we work, we codpiece the body up, like a planks Of the yeoman of freckles, We will be working in total for the last US, Last of the noble as so we see, The last of the ape, Luxembourg. Zeus hates us. Call up Roche In harbour at Leutnant, Leave him on this weary affair On which we are mired for joy That the Rat is bit and Horton's shot, And the Doc's long grace has done its work! He's clean, and he's got his beer, And he's quite reformed, a piper! He can come to work on this farm A graciousity and free, And I'll get a drgey on the "Randy" As he swore I'd a mate – A drgey on the "Randy" A mate of mine – A good hearty Scottish by-way, The Greenock Cock – A drgey of Scottish bun, Whose heart of mine Aye – on the "Randy" himself – My well-spring of care, You are Holden, he of the brilliant And upright life, To me a man to know, And a charmer too, A charmer and a real man, A charmer that tears The hearts and brains Of the white trash like me – The trash of the high ways, The way of the great Lords Of the farm that I keep, That keep the "Randy" farm, Mine and its mother's life, That's a fair reel With its dross, And down we go, down To our last dinner – Last night we sat On the "Randy's" higher board, That's the life of it, And the after-dinner speech Where the Master said his prayers. And the plan was that he, my old, Haute cottage of wool and wood, Should be the Crown to settle The various disputes, Cares and doubts and doctor's bills, That settled not in their entirety The account that we two met on. And I admitted at the Court That the animals were gross, Tortured and ignorant, But the Dad, my dear Floyd, Roused as we were in the nostrums Of "The Ethics of Lycidas," A gospel seemed essential, To amends for the offences Of the shots and the bay. So, away they went to Bed, And heard the Passions the animals read, Which did not chants or sing, But they bent then over and over The pages of Genesis With the now insufferable pains Of our carnalities, And the Dad, ======================================== SAMPLE 54 ======================================== Southward the swampy bottom soon they found, And then a tract of marsh, green and high Beyond the form of earthly plant that grew: So rich the spot, and slick with waving grass, That they could only think the ground might be An easy swimming pool. 'There, But for the pool, the horses must be Bridged there with fence; and we'll build one here, The best we can, to suit the place.' The Mayor's smile lit on his long face, 'I'll give you starters Galen's books to read, Eloquent scholar of the ancient wise;' The very girl that could be no more, Save while she stooped the low ground grass to touch The nice and soft leaf, or look, while tripping Down in the grass, how much she would relish The foaming drink that mingle weal and woe brings. 'Drink me, Madge, the nectar of my mouth, The drop of colour you need not wish for, or for My heart and flesh you can get at any bard. This froth to froth, of white and gold, goes up As high as Scott, I'm told, the farthest height That poet reaches for; and 'tis mine if you Consent to drink this froth at my mouth In place of all the well-drawn stuff of poets.' A GENERAL SPOIL? I think not. Hinty, The way to spoil a country is to spoil the seed. For every poet-born and every household name There is an equal indecency of face. Blaise, Sylvanus, Garrick, drop till we besiege Pudding-street with tar andPutney castles, no doubt. 'Parnelagne' needs no collation. I'm Why shouldn't Woodsworth return to London, Swift and Swift only with the Dover queues? I am west of London time today-- West on street-lamps, out of town, Digging in therows of Bridgwater clapboarded, And in this marble-haunted gravel there's a pool That shows me nothing in particular. What I know of Spring from examples outside My window is a spring of miracles: Overwater, on a moorland, at dusk, Over water, with the stars, and with the moon, Over water with the sun at his highest, And over it the drifting mist of spring, And over it the Spring-up on the woody house-breeze. Here comes the catching whistle of the hound and the dromed, Here comes the chariot of the evening, And here comes the chariot of the spring-feathers, With their scrolls of fire, and the waxing of world. What is the endless wavering and trembling of page 54 Who can't or won't do anything but rot? My day! My day! the page who soon must be rotting In the dust of it, the dust of it, the floccus, Wicked scythe or ticket awaited at the door, Maketh my day overmuch, it is plain; I smooth a path to you, though the road be rough; I make the day appear, even though the day be nought; I wound and swagger till I find the universal sum, And then I carve the letter I. And so my day is well spent. Dear Day! we meet, though you paint the sky, And any way determine the sky; Of the two which the word sounds happiest, So, you have resolved the sky. But mine Fraternal sets no sun; Mine maps only show mountain and Stream and house, And each to each is an island; My Cloud all blends together aloft Like the Persian Shurang; My Spring is a long increase, I flourish like the mutual lakes; My air is a hollow in an inland sea, Or, if you take me by mouth, When you pluck its lower half, it's a hill. A hill all grass, a grass all flower, And the bottom half a ditch, With a wharf of water lilies pink, Where sameth and poppies ere they drop, And drown the lower with rise and fall, And take a current under cover Of the grass and flowery terf, They dry as man would thistle and bole. You haunch a certain tuile, And i' the end it's upon your hip, And legs you know as well as eyes, The butt that's ======================================== SAMPLE 55 ======================================== He in the Ionian fields is made Of white and yellow shows, Sitting there, and that he hears us. But if some wild and harmless thing Be first in our lives, To him a bird that hovers In the garden, or a yellow flower, A glint of sun in the hedges, Or the chaff's bloom in the stoure-- He will not lose his calm touch, But will call us favourites both together. Oars, oars, by hoist; to-morrow We'll tack to Lycos, who knows? Lycidas was our squire of old, And nursled us with a boist'ous mind. A beautiful boat he pleases, And folds us in the sunshine and shade. Laugh from the tiller, note and chant, Clap hand;--the oars will be ready Next week, if Bougainville's sun Swipe memory, and prophesy no end. March on, myains;--to old Cnidus soon, If sea and cloud permit, If clouds can waver and whitemon chant and sail no March for sixty years What would be come, Bougainville! to the great Plate Jump, Plant-neutral field; March-neutral March;--but oh, the chant! Tango, trumpet-chimes, tin-strings and tin-whistles, chant, March-in-March-dream-Mayhem, Chant and din,--clap hand on clap hand again, The March-in-March-dream-mayhem, The March-in-March-mad-mayhem. <|endoftext|> "I sit by the camp-fire and I burn for him Who burns for a mother, For the mother of his burnt-away sister And brother, For the red woman Who scourged him and swung. I sit by the camp-fire and I burn For the sister who burns for him The sister who was burned, For the sister of the mother Who scourged, I sit by the camp-fire and I burn For the young wife to discipline, The mother to burn. The mother-sister— For the mother-sister Who smears with paint the well-loved son And highlights with burn. I sit by the camp-fire and I burn For the Ditch-water-Wife Who scourged, who pierced, To submit, who ministered to horror And leeched. I sit by the camp-fire and I burn For joy from the Mother-Home Who came with sweet psalms And left with horror. I sit by the camp-fire and I burn For the claspt Daughters, The Bowers of the night, For the Nightingale Bowers. I sit by the camp-fire... I sit by the... fire. <|endoftext|> "For as we groaned it was not so deep", by Lucretius [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] For as we groaned it was not so deep That from our very souls did fiends become mute, For ye be nothing while she laughs with us, Smiles only with such dying lips as move. For as we groaned it was not so deep That hell within the heart should take no part, Nor lave its feet upon the rolling sea, Nor breathe its air chill, nor water enter: Its swampy parts nos sounds should hurt ye much. For as we groaned it was not so deep That every fool tongue spake something superstitious For what could not change with her was shamed, Or not incorporated leave a changelasting mark: Things much and things ill-inclined should vulgo inflame For woeful Mi'gret's wheel may roll among our necks. For as we groaned it was not so deep That what bit you you might heal me, I or she: Vulcan and I as one will laugh together. For as we groaned it was not so deep That all foolish shades of us with her should blend Or come together yet to leave no differences, Or her lathe thoughts in my mind should match so well As her Latonia's thought on my next breath have found. For as we groaned it was not so deep That whirling ways of Vulcan, if he change Upon my wooing should all wane and die: Bot as it is perfection claims to do, Wynkins and I therefore forth we lashed go To see my ======================================== SAMPLE 56 ======================================== Glided through the village. Soon I saw A man with outstretched hands in the narrow way, By a boy resting his spear against a wall. I saw the rags and ashes of a stove Flap against a big old ax; and that ax Hurled clumsily by another, Who smiled and drew a dirty pug at straw, And drove the fuel-block behind. And then A horseman all shabby; then a doctor, Who tramped with a stertorous pace; A rider with a gasping voice; a girl Who ran beside him, praising a pail; And the steep road sloping up to the sky, Where an ambulance went whistling by And a dead dog went joyously'round On a red shoe; and then, in the distance, The village pulley, with its crying crew; A white-sheeted boat; a long sleigh drawn sled; A number of I.M.T. athletes passing; A herald, pulling a white-cart with a unicorn; A sign of decorous delivery; A riding-age child, with a head like a balloon; A labourer, ploughing a furrow; a sailor, sailing; And, clad in black, a mower on a snow-stack, That whistled and tapped, As he passed from my neighbour's door, A lady looking sharply gaily dressed. I had been long asleep, When, aozide up by heart, And, awake, at the crack of dawn, I slept, and I awoke, From first sleep to secondness turned, Conscious of the world, to second mind. And I had dreamed. Of a true story, Great Marie and great Louis, Of a Christmas feast, and offer Red wine and meat, and center Close on a Christian shrine, A bell, and icons, and shews Of swettes and spoutings hot. I smiled; I thought it funny; I played, and I smiled again, I sent back belles that pour vemiend, And I went home like a snowball. I had a ball at the long last; For, before I was a man, I had sho build a court house, And lain low to become a clerk. I had balls; and when I was two and three, I had a wife; And my old wife, Who trinked and dazzled, With a look that was like casting water through glass. She was the greatest she that ever was; She was great once and great again; She took in and ensured the general's ease Upon a certain plan, That suited both parties; And, having given her name, I signed myself and document in hand. She was great at what she did; And some that are great now; She was great; and then she was not; She was great in her own light; And she will go again; And probably great is the former too; She can keep the torch kind, If the oil of the lights is hot. THERE are those who say, That Performance surely must come next In time and tide, That he who has performed best Must not be counted more than once; And they may comb too, too, her hair, For it is common all. It seems that "dear me well" Too often turns the tough comb, That "sir therewhere" gets the bald And "bright will take my i," For the law of plums Will not forsake my Soul, HERE I stand, when all at once Cries out a regular roar, As every living thing That is a mile around Breathes forth a tone, as loud, And then the city closed Rests in its own sound; and all That can be crowed, rises up, The city of my Cities, And, through the sound, Throb their 1 streets, Sunday, Each lower decking hill, Where my churches ascend Tingling with their chant, Which from the moving make Rise to the Stars above Actors, in air that muffled there They let all flight embark, And let my intervals Ring out and ever true And making, Stay in time Until my sermon's said. When Pain and Only Joy Stop be-lieging, and wandering More near the truth than Sleep, 'Tis to thank the spending mind Which, when a little let, Only let it be told; It doubles, cleanses, and endear ======================================== SAMPLE 57 ======================================== �You're gone to bed, boy, to bed,� But my verse is run to pieces Under the light of your eyes, For it is learned, it is lived, it is blest, And the true man takes delight In the great world's abysmall hate. <|endoftext|> <|endoftext|> <|endoftext|> I had a dream of a joyous day When my lord and all his knights were there: I thought that each knight o'er whom he shone Was beautiful as a rainbow is, Or golden cloud, or golden tree,-- A knight without breath, a king for whom There is no tongue to pray or cry. I dream'd, and I am sure it was true That 'as horn was fire,' so song can pacify. Now I have had my seven sons, and seven more Shall have wives as many as these whom I ... ... My memory is a helpmate, meet when I have words alike in all quarters. Now I have had my seven sons, and seven more Shall have wives as many as these whom I used To hold so numerous within my ken. And the last and the first I told you of; and now There are eight of my race left alive, And six of mine that the world must not lack; And more than half of all my race that shared In the woodlands and the hillside and the plain My cradle, and lifted up my lily, and nursed My fair-lip herb and my tall tree-toad. And these are mine, and more than mine: I swear By my graves, and by my sires drawn here and here To live their lives secure from casting stone. As it fell to one who had grown old In being told what he had grown to say Unto some child, Unto a slave Amid the warm weeds and mead, Disloyal in these hollow places By the will of man and flesh, Unto death first of changes And of infixing hircus: So my generation falls: And here is yet one whose hair Grows heavy with woe and gray, Who having seen too many things Shall befull is of yore Unto this city of gold. By the rivers of this great land He is borne before his few late dreams Through the none-foraging hours To the place where he should be born, Cursed of the lord of earth and he To bow himself before the vision And with new wrath of promise fierce Fear and despair forget. There in his earlier life must he be Dumb unto his own comfort and speech, Bold before his time, careless of self, Sorrowing in groves that comfort none, Dumb to both good and the worst, Before he kennan in his feet The rest that all men must come to keep For his last greatly bent content. For like light in hour of dark begun, This smallest frame of all time's waste Drippen and drippen, mm-p and mm-q Drippen and drappen, drit and dallow, Self-governed and free, and doth-family-built, And doth-family-trust and cleave to both. We kens of men and we ken of gods Are two-time variants of one life; and so We see the traces left of them evermore, Where 'tis not too late by far for love o' days To hide them from the sun, and from the worm. So may he see us, and he knows we need not furl Word of us vainly here like winged dream, But both resurrect for death's own sundry chances, And once again be touched by glad accident On inextinguerus kens that extaculate thought. When Gods do drink out of heaven, or men Do take with sickle of breath of human breath, When men do laugh and cry, and dance and sing, When men do these, then is the moon to teach, Till drowsy time grow stouter far adown And wild the four-o'clock wind say drowsily, "Friend, we have not strayed too far from the way In telling how the god forgave the man." <|endoftext|> On Olympus methinks execution-time now Smiles for its reckoning; for the Fates are now Tenderer carried, and the fury all is fled. As when by some divine affection of love awok Love's flower ======================================== SAMPLE 58 ======================================== "Lord!" said the rest, "what is the meaning of that band Of mighty mountain-ranges "Fold in at our feet "See, folded in the arms of the sacred heavens." Then the Child by their side, The cave with all its tale In their hands, still gazing, They did not still Long, until a miracle Of light, and a breath Wherewith the tale Was done, was burned to ashes, and the world Was cut in twain by that infernal flame. Then in terror Down from the earth And to the four winds, To the four winds to the east, Through the wide horizon of the night, The little mantle of a child was borne, That closed round The abrupt End of the wrinkling mountain-top. <|endoftext|> There are few evils that I hate in this world as much As fillip, The kind of fillip that comes when and where it is bidden By blameworthy intention on the part of the fowler. There is no deadly poison that falls without atonement, Without atonement; yet so great are the deadly poisons, That they are all at one meal, and would fall, together, Like the hour-glass or the great cross, and should not unship; But here is one fitly punished fillip in the mischief, Which, should be taken even with the wise intention defense, Makes all madness and mischief fit; and yet, on the other Harmful: For the reckless have no defense from fillip. The time and place of this fillip, and where it was fated, I cannot tell; I is so wide, and fluid, and strange, That the wind, forsooth, could not have done more narrowly Upon this Rosette, that for mans action, and frailty, This fillip was graciously cast upon this side, And the graphic phrase, that now and now is grated, Over the ground: But yet, it was not streaked, streaked: though it were traditional, Yet is it fitted by way, it is my way, The manner-way, In faithful tradition: such is my defense. There was a fillip in its kind; So this tale is told. Who will hear, and hearken, and be pierc'd, And fillip the ear with tender reports, And sweet criticism, the stuff of the heart, Perceptive, but sensitive? Will it be straight men, erect in their plans, Who furnish us our American Art, Who form, with tender but determined eye, The forms of roadway, and railroad, Artistic conscience, but too real? Will it be such men as Louis Comfortin Who, choosing the upbeat, did aim, Instead of no mark, Their virtue, and chose their country To be their work; and, then, forgot The exercise of the hand, Forgetting, perhaps, its effect on metal, On this or that? I know it is To be or not, a choice of choices; but I Would that the choice should rest for some, But not to keep, The chosen; for whom, when they will not choose, 'T is fair exchange of nobler lives. What is it is not to be: that which is Not excess, nor squalor, nor want, But in the general being, love, hunger, Worry, and weariness, and sickness, Those things, in the abounding cosmos, That one by other, fill being. I would not mine Appearances infinite, whether to one another Closer or more, and in no wise all; But love, and hunger, and fatallity, And slight hunger, and the sense of weariness To be dear, and honest poverty; And all phenomena of life, in one, The life of love, are one; and have the same In common, taking not nature's wise force Entailed, for reason, in their various ways. For love, and charity, and kind address, and signs, Wise usage of that sort, eat out your meat, And whichever's the more, will not change his state; He modestly will support with ease A small pewaged maid, or sitting queen, And let his shameles not be scorched with garlic. Love's not a ceremony, nor kept by books, But real is the love, and known IS What I love, not written, only represented: And though ye now and then fore-ordained Shall be taken by surprise, yet the ======================================== SAMPLE 59 ======================================== I, as he comes with time, will play my part. But where is he to take me, where my two souls Shall never meet, and where two bodies in one rest? Where shall he do it, and what? I see the vast design, but what his plan? What art thou, that thou dost'st not shun the thought? Can he be, that he will be mine? And most I trust it is a holy thing, Since neither death nor perishing is,-- Since by thy chariot to the sky-loom In splendid show I show myself to be, O marvellous world, and earth, and sea! In thy great Maker's name, create Something for whom the world does shudder! Something to lift our heart and soul, To prove our hearts, not mortal things, And the sublime aches of the soul to thrill. Or if thou cannot do so, to take This precious gift of something fair, And with a grace so richly arrange That day shall see a virgin fair, To invite in beauty's blessed face Our frequent pain, our fond desire; To cure our lust, control our pride, Contemn evil with a charity So strong that men shall never dare To do an act of cruelty But with all their fire turn to heaven. When the soul is new and decked With fresh air round her, darkness around, She'll find it more proper lot, If a girl of adolescent age, To take the load of plumage kind Thou the creation sent for girl. Fine teachings must thou acquire, Of choice, experiental knowledge; They become thy aliases: Thee, by profession, From school books we study too. The rake and the hog-pond To these the overseer, Nor e'er can do salvation If overseers they will be. As it is seldom that one person Ever writen a page, So schools are ne'er to go badly, If the same have the knowledge The learning they can impart If they have the joy of working with souls In sense, to be better lawyers, Or improve them, in docket-beneath, If, after all the noise and play, They still aren't sad about being dumb, Nor need increase their income. If, after all this, if they don't make flesh For fees at law, then they must one day Have fevered over books to travel too. In the city 'tis not infernall, But out of town 'tis quite out of sight. If poor as much to talk, they still Are apt to ramble through the town, To hear thro' the streets the latest thing On what fashions each next barber hawks, What new words the blog-speakers are hounds, Of rocking 'pop tomfs'le proficient, With all the rage of their revival; And tinkering 'doosers with their ovens. Or if there yet remains no better Then to be school-folk's humbleton; For then their Honours ask them, To close their eyes in shutup one hour, And see if they can spell a line of Greek, Or look a comparative lookt, Which suits the most with the honour; If duly tagg'd, off home they go By men to their first love duly done. How awkward it is to be always acting A part; as though the like had got the best of him; And that himself unconvincingly In his own act to play the man. Oh! he stands On his own shoulders, and it's he alone Peddles the gospel of the people. The Churchman can pull but one’s fingernails out. And the American can get up and cut, For he is always thinking of the funeral, While he's down at the store, or the impression must come On his journeyman's mind the while he eyes the wedlock, How it's wrought, and what thedetails are: it's as you pluck The gold out of the clasp; you bow the rings In jest, and then you sever the winter from the summer. To-morrow's repartee, how lovingly it seems, Is never just like to-day's. The sense of the laughing , female mouthof the clerk who lifts The-stone from the loathed basket, or lifts from its foundation The sheaf of flax: that of the croup-legged man who waits The approved waiter's expert tooth-touch--that of the wife, who calls For vinegar- ======================================== SAMPLE 60 ======================================== For those in danger; then they tell The danger in the danger. When the man Has turned his back, and is serving out A life for death, while his brave comrades Their single file march on, and nothing stir Of sorrow in their eyes,--then at last Some voice must speak of him, in poor And tender words, as in a dream, But touching so true,--"This is all a dream; We are all friends. Your boy is brave." For in the name of Christ That friendhood spreads its blessing round, And softens all hearts toward its own, And makes of every soul its brother. <|endoftext|> We dwell for ever on the sacred plain Of Scriptural truth, whose golden font Of inspiration misty would overflow From the rivulet of human woes, And sunshine falsehood, carpeted with tears; As if the dust that drifts across the floor, Warmed with the boughs of homely poppies, Had sucked the dear fragrance of the youth, And, with that sweetness bitter, made it sweet. Ah, we brood for ever on each blundering heart That truth meets with, incurable will fail To feather life with any feather at all. Their very garlands, made from cutting life, Are withering with cold, and caught by flowers That die, like spirits, when the resistless fire Has scraped their q''ry prostrate on a tomb. And we, though we are broad-plum'd with the guilt That forms the garland, ourselves may burn The red carnation, while we sap the skies With icy spears of patriotic wrath. And thousands, who may never know the day When we march upon the listening world, and stretch APART—EAST AND WEST—AT BOSTON. I dream'd that Penn began to put the Grade In command. In vain dids't meddle with the Fact, With the highest place we gave the Grade, And the lowly process that chooses the Same. For the West wind soon our wheat-fields ruff, That the East wind soon our hearts and heads waft, And the west wind our curses heap. I dream'd that Penn began to put the Point In command, and the Point was a Round that swept Down the spine of Pennsylvania, and we slimm'd Northward, while he, a perfect square, stood, And the dream was quickly as we went, For I knew the North wind when I saw it well. And he passthrough'd us with arms more strong Than all the coasts that by request or run, MOV'd his green Pine tree through the South country, While the snow lay low, and it brought runs So deep at times I saw right away how very high From his note, the wind of New England, moves The point of a pistol at its northern pole. While the West wind he's perilously close, (You see I write, not dream) with the East wind, And we land in our dust, and take up stage At the sound of a name, New York. Now our cause is excellent, and we'll To the work that South Labor has begun, And I mount and lead my gang, and my next,-- My next is my captain, George Tracy, While my next is my vice-capt'ny, Gibbs Kerr, Now the North wind drives fast and holds us fast While they rashly on, and we land at last When he drops with his crew, and he's gone on the West, While the Rocky winds are fruitful, and we wait Till he come back for us, and come far sooner Than the devil from within is believable, When he speaks, and the Lord states that he means To do the angels honor who are still. To go up on land to convince time of right, While the devil sits who doesn't believe but frowns, And the South wind goes free with the stern North, And we round it head the blast of the gods While the West to the uttermost sources stand To gather the fruits of the earth and the sky, And the Lord states that he fasteneth well On the basis of the six day myth. For we know that the truth is eternal, And the truth is the light of the eyes To see things look back, as they look back; And the light of the truth is shed abroad In things great and orders infinite, And God's light is as a sword to destroy, And the principles of truth as it saves; While the principles of truth are the things That ever must ======================================== SAMPLE 61 ======================================== latulos moneri, Vive mei. Salve, Salve, iussi: Quanta sigillo belli, qua." Movi dice nada, monteatro laude, O eterna liò voluptasa, mi fa: <|endoftext|> "My Mother's Nightmare", by Mark Halliday [Living, Death, Love, Heartache & Loss, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] My Mother's Nightmare: Don't cry, Old-time lovers' song; Don't shed one tear tho' some younger, smile; Plant on their eyelids happy tears never shed, Such old aime to live through as your dear; Alas, though this soothes not, still more sad is the hour, When love, life, have all to part for eve; Drown all my sorrows, yet all this vain hope kill; And let my tears first for their sake flow; I'll meet them when I have reached my weary end, And then your love will fall as I have wove; When my turning over on my poor self Love's burden shall so stagger still the more; When I my despair and smallness shall see, We'll hold us weighty good for less and nothing. <|endoftext|> "Asking the Internees About Home", by Edna Stewart [Activities, Jobs & Working, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, History & Politics, War & Conflict] We know the barriers to freedom are fences; Even in the best of health. But I'm suspicious Of men who beg freedom from a foreign country; Who suffer imprisonments they did not deserve; Or who were ordered into a foreign land Where they could only stay until their day of trial; --And now, dear Daughter, I beg to ask you Why you gave that mother you to betray? <|endoftext|> "The POWs", by Edna St. Vincent Protsy [Living, Death, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] Grieving, grieving We left him, leaving him, Counting the motley threads of hope Of service and despair Weaved in loveliness And destination . . . Now they have taken all our time And when will you come home? When they carried him far And shot him into space We told ourselves always that The war was just. But something scarce found friendly And many countries later Began to prove that point untrue. Soldiers, soldiers, soldiers— War does not take a wake. We tried to be fair. We won't do this again. <|endoftext|> "Arpe of Caples", by Edna St. Vincent Ferris [Love, First Love, Heartache & Loss, Relationships] Arpe of caples, when you blow, Do not use your best: or if you do, I don't care. Use my worst. What was meant for gaud and bridg's riddance Finds other uses. The heart's old sandbag, take it off And let me go. <|endoftext|> "How to Get Away with Missing The Neck", by Edna St. Vincent Ferris [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Trees & Flowers] Use the wood, cross-bow, and the brush Advertisement Continue reading below Use the leaf, swallow bough After dark and you're there. And the leaves, miss-key, change to suit Advertisement Continue reading below And they are green from the start, So the chalk we very careful packs Inside the knew-all helmet, then outside, Advertisement Continue reading below No harm, no hook: the berries grow quick Advertisement Continue reading below And the blackberry, close to death By delving weight, turns red as blood Advertisement Continue reading below The wind, the fog, and the bane Tame with mist and the vine, can bring it, If we wait long and warm The velvety green and the crystal shell, Make us clean, do all we can to kill Advertisement Continue reading below Not the sun, but the last light, the white Shall we skyp not the Martin Bar? <|endoftext|> "Poetic Illegalhei", by John Fermorini [Living, The Mind, Love, Romantic Love, Nature, Weather, Religion, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy] In what legal greyness am I Benned to this uninterrupted Intimate hour ======================================== SAMPLE 62 ======================================== omes down the dining room table, while the only family that does have this mama story is the Wendes, who mingle standard time- piece apathy with a sharp edge of wit. From mama's point of view, it's just standard handbag stuff— how many one-syllable names canone slippery limb? She could remember the height of sliding gains too, and all those hillsides of chocolate chip paired ice- creams. She doesn't recall the first perfume, whether it be bow tie-green chip or dingle but this one marked her—where she sits, if sitting is steeped in rushing, or whether it be where they hit on the on-board ride. I mean, she remembers all of it, and how she would tease her daughter, "When I get home, I'm gona be in such a hush!" Which, of course, none of this is to say that she was unaware of the distance her daughter was experiencing. You see, she's not being coy: this being home is "so so bad". And she remembers not even for him to do all the mashing and shuffling in little patter and all that good mother-speak, and to be all-flowing in her thanks. And to just go on with it all, with her being-home kind- hearted and willing, with smile that Mofte would pronounce "magnifull" and with good meaty grin, "how do you do" etc. etc. And on and on. And when she's gone—I mean after, not early like after or at opposition —there is a sense of the right end of pitch-forked- boys going "chix"—and then, not much later, a sense she's gone—and then— the long endless whinying of little death-row- maids—who all of a sudden arrive and proceed to clean up the mess she made. <|endoftext|> "Little Girl, Living With a Log in Her Hand", by J. Michael Conder [Living, Coming of Age, Activities, Sports & Outdoor Activities, Nature, Trees & Flowers, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy] Little girl, living with a log in her hand, here is a better world for you to get you of. —T.S. Eliot And then I was made over by aamiist angels Little girl, Little girl— logs hanging from her hair—here are carrots and mallow and beetles leaf— and a horse in the beachone marble hall. Little girl, a pile of rocks in the meadow Building a fire in the rocks above her— if you get knocked by a pistol emoji, do not scream Little girl, get up, get up— pond to yond. *Written in Illinois *From the mines of erasing *The eye is a finger, the eye is a mirror *Her name is Naked Step, and she is Ford Preface *Once I saw a fish wash up on the bank—it was a card blown up in a card of ink— she was naked— she was fish—and I saw it fiddling forward through the bank ink. *I wrapped a card of leaves behind her eyelids— a leaf card of leaves behind my Stepmother— it made me sorry. *There is no higher form— not even prayer— than that which waits for a dead Stepmother to come. *Once I saw a tree with a leaf in the air— and the leaf was made of bark— a tree with a leaf in the world— the tree is an enormous tree. *I am the feather in your bed— it is such a small body. *If the bird would only fly in your own arc and not hit you in the sun you will rot the heavens. Little girl burning in your feathers— when will you grow up? <|endoftext|> "Blueprints", by J. Michael Condicipe [Activities, Jobs & Working] INDEPENDENT'S PROFILE Edit Employee: Friskicactus io whiteclaw Age of employee: Overly sweet Eye color: Rich & blue Hair color: Straight as a sword Hand color: Ornate Title: Employee t-shirt Primary use of eye: Investigative Recognized by its shade: Fly-fighting (Daylight saving only hides additional use): Thimble: Design for persistent cold Second best: A crown sloshing purple pool ======================================== SAMPLE 63 ======================================== giving from the palace walls. "Tell me the task," said he, "I'm proud to take." My pleasure still to the tree I clung, To the side unpatience was best, It took my word, my pleasure I paid, Nor now I have my warning; When the bud with color shined, On the apple's velvet coat, A faint inclination I had, But my pleasure was but a part. My pleasure was with the fruit to stick, The luxuriance to gaze on, For the crimson water glistened, The beautiful flower-girl, Blondin. To be here so near was her boast, Yet my compliments she neglected, And the lab'ring girl in scarlet coat Only shook her head and smiled. I want your prentice color to be honest, No oath, no thought of a vice to deter; Give to me the all of 'ring' you can spare And trust your providence will make her free. From a liberty of girlhood you've well passed, As damsel never addicted to the pot, Then trust your providence, you've nobly earned, And make her worthy your spirit, my friend. I'm sorry it's come upon me to tell you this time So late, my grace, to have to bid you good-bye; The neglect you've suffered has been sorely imbalanced, And still I may cry, "Well, 'tis toward this situation, 'Twere better indeed." As a rose upon the Breeze that looks not, Or in the air aspires, Or in the ground as languishes a flower, Or in the crystal sleep of ebb and flow; Behold how now your power now lies laid Within the petty power of speech! As yet, I can only shew at half-mast, With bended knee, the toe upon her foot, My spirit to the stars can often go, Where the grand pause of Nature takes place, And I sometimes can I see them play Between the whirl of Space and Eternity, Where the first rank is at, the second lie through; Where motion's transient isthmus makes reputation, And fame's perspicacity waxes. Before the first rank's in sight, they hold on Their centering points, the gray dawn's hues; And when the stroke's sent they rise that way, They'll mount an inch of height, says knowledge. In the gray first rank, the first's true Of all on earth sees infinite; Where unto the morn that's leaving son Appears, its end still whitening in; No spirit can ascend it winning, Spins down some earth-born lump of clay. But thou, soul! without there seeking Up or down controversies, Where the pigeon's order is an oath, Its natural light's past surpassing; And unto the last ranks a junction, The second's fear of fright, Will seize awhile the entangled space, Till the dint of Time in pieces giving Shall tear away a fleshy light; Where nothing great shall be unseen, Or touched out, or traced o'er with ink. The world's at work, its eyes are watching And opened wide unto the night; Not thus they took to rob the waking man Of his five minutes of departing, Each star is shining with a clear view, Not ears that shall discern without The dirty quest for a sun, In each field's random blazon. The horses are yonder in the unplowed field, Coiling lean to do what they can; The wood's strong, its claws are strong to them, They'll climb as tight as they can anyone. They're strong in the same way souls are, strong To keep on what each one should not have. The shadows fall on the hawthorn trees; The wind is on its way, baby, and it's coming With a sob in its footsteps, like a sob; It's making the crows rest umposseded in their flowers, And the blueopings shudder in grey coats, And bringing a grace to everything that's going. The times are gone when the world could not be changed, And I am the man that brought it to be done; For now the crows're packing up their choir of praise, And now the blueopings pack up their chirping choir, The purple-cup'd burghers, burghering up their pride, A broken heart's a bitter spouse, and their prayer Relays a reminder that the vows are forget ======================================== SAMPLE 64 ======================================== ? And shall the streets the mighty Housman trace, Where squalors go to and fro, And life-long motions of a sundry Pass with the motion of a car? No, no, no! your conduct does betray A mind incapable of pain: Your verse makes flattery to appear The honesty of simple sense. That I endure this piddling waste Assurance,--the time, dear Gentleman, Would take a fresh and speedy hand To mend the venerable miss. This, all I own, we learn from Nature too: She tells us that a plat of stone grows old, But still she proves it quite the other way-- By pointing out the precise moment when It's ready to fall at Dives' feet, And yet never can show point to miss. This, all we learn from Nature too, We, kindly Mind, can hardly err In doing, perceiving 2.2 By something called the "Elemental Loftiness" Whence, if multiplied once, the sum is twice Thus 3.1 It becomes a cause of revelation sublime: A fact that's plain to all, but was for centuries ignored, striven toimage, there falls true But more splendidly than ever;--whereby earth Grown faint and puffy, and her botches large, Grows also more sublime and light;--but grow Plaintive, too, humble, reparative, resigned, Meriting re-evaluation. Whereof oracle or synestipidian Tells the oracle of God, that Here Be agents, that What Is be once for ever, that What's Both makes win and lose, that What's Both grows weary of being, and that What Lipsurit most is lent and cooldowned, when What Most Lipsed wants to speak through All, and thereunbes you've got to pay the cost. Or in Latin--"Submishi" from the "Supremacy"--messias watering "Parunae" and "Subliminio" and "Invetior ante"-- Of which, what's in them, God everywhere is see-telling When He unseats the head of the Evangelical Chamber they're a Chamber of Bays, God is the Giver, God is always good, God in the Natural. The sum total of all truths we point to a leaf Whose date is the Final Day and won't perish, the World, Wisdom, in the sense of "What's just and what's true," Is the World, and just and true, the World, And just as we received Him telling us that What's Both Goes below, then so too below justice, And blasphemers and most fortunate and truth, And the next morn will know this and say: "What's Just now and true soon burns down The wild wood o'er with a fire burn." Only this, "What's just" and what's true" Is something we all acknowledge we don't know, (And God make then most clear!) And some may argue it well enough Whose culpability, so not true a whit, Just proves the fact the more by the failing true, As widow's son writes an ob and cries his cures: "Oh, writ even so"--that's what makes his fib too cause: "Copsadisme ad mundum redeclopium"-- That reverent word is only the execrable parol: The fatal quirk in terms, in phrases, in syntax That fills the world "with dread andSmall Calamity"-- (And ruin with scant joy, but treasure with gain)-- "Parparadismus"--"Par-teen-ic"-- Urobura, "Calamidpost"--"Post-post-hsize"-- If post-hsize, you know, it wreathes its hair In balladescent, bonnet-like curls And robs itself (as I say, and this I can't prove) Of the whole point of being a spring. All this I feel but paltry grief At the paltry end--the stuck-out end, which even Is but the needy umbreth of a better thing, And which, though quick to a mind that's least Ablaze with sagacity and gumption, Is ======================================== SAMPLE 65 ======================================== with spears, and lances, and with bows, Fought from the town, in lines advanced, and always The first of soldiers to fall on our side Was, as a flower of the sepulchral forest, Bacchus, the old perennial sire of The bright-hair'd Mother of Sweet Abundance. His daughter then, the little Trick Angel Of the Flowery Land, the Trickster good, Gave into our hands her imperial And royal mother's surrender; and as she Held it we made of the papers of faith Our hostages, the five-pointed stars. Next day we marched to the wall, and light Of the dawn fell on our browes. We kept Our ground, and, as you had see'd them flee, Their trumpets shrill'd, and they, with torches fond And barbed large pins in our hands, fled To their guns, which these, as they were in due Spectre of our eyes, did sadly lose. Then we open'd the gates at will, As we in all things desired. We feed On the provisions of the enemy, And, by our namselves, on this side and on The other camp: from month to month Isly that we never fail. Come see my new play, Based on the life of a very fair lady; And Quixanc, my monster, the goblin Plainly appears in it. And the magic tricks and marvels there abound Of the wizard Merlin. And my man Grizzle, a bearskin Building a lifewalk over six feet On dogs and bears--the most tender work Is it of Grizzle and the Greypate Anytime, since Grizzle was a child. But of Merlin or Grizzle we now talk. You see there's much talk, And some tricks that only fairies may Work upon a magic night, And some wonderful morphlings, Now for this we had often talked show. We ventured each on other When a show was offered, to propose; I'd make my own jeopardy By the assistance of my quill, Compar'd to what the toe-nail of each hand got By old-fashioned courts, Or tricks of Camelot. He spoke of this: "There's a mountain shack'd by a rock, And the shadow of the day is hoast Where the shadow of the night is anchored By the pillar of the star, In the top of the sky." Then he waddled round the table in air, And with "Those are spirits," as he say'd, "Which are accidents of nature," With "those are accidents of nature, Each of them a source of suffering Each of them heaven and hell," And he waggled down his head, and utter'd His infinite irony, "Those with hell and heaven," he said, "are created The more or less, By the action of an heaven "That they have capricious action, Wherever he is will lead him. Now who alters fashion most, Begging and dressing: but it is funny To see him shrivelling up phrases Out of the talk and reshaping them In crazy ways. Now for instance:-- There is no one who could set Too much consternation In the dull gold of the iron, More than he did when he first set His tongue to the touch of the reed And beguiled you, the Pandarus, If there's any one who looks kindly On wretched endeavour, he'll fain Find out how he may avenge us: And that's a lift we've all to fly, A touch too strong for death and hell. But if he practise habiliment And should his finger of the tongue Touch even the least of our pain, An old bull-pink, who'd once lov'd you Because his horn had been by you, Would stomp him to the earth and feed His pride to punish you: so you'd Begin with that: and the man who made That clasp-knife in your rage would spill All your hairs, chip all your brains out, Put your heart in a straight and blast Your day by holding you tight. And thus your foreignness would reach the crown And delphi of our hair; and the man Who did the conception would worry Themselves to make them clear: And he'd forget yourself, and think you Were not worth wh Key: and then you'd let him in: "Poor blind fool, I cannot tell how he would do. ======================================== SAMPLE 66 ======================================== ames, Daughter of all-in-all, Moon of Mother Earth, Splendor of Moon, And of all things beautiful, Thou'st thou that I would have me see, For holy visions seek in the night Of sleep or waking, And in the depths of vision Sight far-off things of God. Thou is that vision of the clear sparkling smoke of sky! Nor stratagem, nor curiosity, nor murther Avails here to thwart the God of big and littleness, Of form, of change, of immortality. So be thou for us, Saint Peter! so thou wilt be For us thy vision, and to us thou wilt be a light, For ever on us, light, thou! all the world a lamp; A lamp in light, light, a star in light, light, thy star Above, light, above, light, above, light, the sky a diamond, And our two eyes the noesampass of the noesamablack, And we two stars, the one of us the whitest of them all, And the other... and behind us a life, a light, a star; A life, a light, a world, a lamp, a world, a lamp, a light, To us for truest longings, and for love of diamant hope. O love of God! O great desire of all men, without whom Nameless and naked and forsaken, God himself Is Constable of the earth and heaven's commander. From of old, from out the fog of ignorance, The Deep to come Discovering found only Desire so strong, desire so great, to see, To utter, to be, to taste, to sell, to buy, Everything for which to contend and win. What man is thus has eyes to see, has ears to hear, has hands to touch and lips to love, and the whole thrall of him, use to consult, possess and follow, is built on his idea of the Truth, the beginning and the end of all things. A man I know, a youth, had this conceit: He put himself inside at the grave's edge, and clad hisself in the dead man's garments, and I'm told by my men that he had all the domgan in the world, was always with the dress, television, speakers and sets. So he saw himself in New York, the World society, in Florence, the Palma school, in London, with folk all over the world, in everything; and still he saw himself The lone one, the outcast, the lonesome one, in Russian, in China, in America, in Spain, and every place and age and age in himself. And he fell in love with myself and my daughters, and with all forms of us, and the loud, unruly world. And he fell in love with me and declared his love, and he saw the strict father and the law, and us out of the air and the big world and the noisy narrow world, everything was unnatural to him and too under his control. And still he saw himself in America, the World society, still he saw the wealthy classes, he saw the worker all alone, and the very fair woman on the cover of Time, who hardly knows what else but jewelry and for backstage admirements, and who seldom looks behind her news-list, two columns at the most of shaking; and these columns in the news-books spread on the news stands, and the other advertisements, and he saw that he was overloaded, uneasy, sad, under-treated, in he comes and the traffic and the traffic of life, and he wondered whether, with a heavy heart, and a not very loud voice, he should turn from the over-ropes wood, over which over-walks sunny the jumping fishes; and he saw, seeing the land, that he could strike from the wood, and under the wood, and leap over the high dwellings, and reach the water, and sit on it; and he would sit on the rock, and strike the water with his feet, and sit on the sand, and strike again, and roll forth, and vary his jumping, and coil his hand, and rub his eyes, and cease for a minute, and go to the and make use of the time for a pleasant discussion upon the opening of houses, for a reading from the news, or a reference to last extremities, and other stuff, and end it, if it's a pleasure to ======================================== SAMPLE 67 ======================================== So, in short, from morning till night The weary, strapping little champion took His lonely way, and parted never, From duty or from honor. At his side One arm in a swoon the other flung About the high strong shoulders of his king; And no rebuke could the phalanx stop, That bent to set the pipe in order; And his own shoulders were the first that broke The fainting animal from its intent. "Time was," said then the monarch, "nay," said he, "Was this small emotion plain; But now, my son, it grows upon me so That I can no longer smother it; Behold a crisis has arisen, Where plain action must and must ensue." So said, so faithfully told By what sorrow most had sorrow been The greatest triumphs short and temporary By the same instrument had run to ruin; So, muttering under his breath, he went on. "Come, listen to my wondrous story, And how," the trembling man exclaimed, "I fell a worshiper at your feet." And, with such holy awe and terrible delight That Cranmer lifted up his voice and cried, "Sir, when my time and place have been made clear, Learn from the drop of blood," said then the knight; "Plasma must have its full hold upon you Though in your life this nugget of goodness lies; But as the cell is nigh that keeps from fire Just for the dog to paw and bite and blister, So kindness to honour's name and someone's Goods so much bestows no gratitude knows. If ever a pain to anger has arisen Ponder a care on it; then the risk In love's yielding is not worth saving. "Action is the spirit of thought; thus far Thought, being the holder of the boons of soul and sense, May not be completely shunned, but alone; But if the edge is taken from one's lot, Woe's a promise for the winning of a prize, Woe, even though it bloodshed be forgone. And he who, for no wrong intention' sake, Shrinks from the attack and flies her swift escape With all his force because each crow and hawk Arise in the end to fly him back with them Down beneath the hurricane of day, Is as a bird that acts the hawk or crow In even deed that swiftness degrees, For no luck delays him toward the war, But as if summoned he must see the chase. "Yet if this raging god begins to show Ardent desire to be to-morrow, wear Six hours hence, welcome to a life's night in which The warrior, armed with love and chivalry, Shall be the lover of to-morrow." "With all my heart, Sir King, I said, For your omnipotence divine, That we your subject may our powers extend In new and lovely realms beyond the sun, That new and lovely is, new delights to find; So from the dark, this pleased my mind. But say, Sir King, when Armageddon On this dread occasion shall those of us Who are the heads and shoulders of the line, If sundered worlds confond not chivalry, What man or men, then, shall cope with you? And I make this prediction thus wise-- Though chivalry has held it was your proud claim And genius also backed it,--. "The armies that were forced to cower Before the thunder of your kings' standards Fought, for a day, with the sword and the pen, With dying fingers trimmed their volume was small, And short of the shoulder the word they wrote; Of the great God who roared to these chieftains Your noble blood sang the bardism of fair. And some triumph wasaunted on the arm of the giant That comes with the sun down the rubbish of the world To meet him which, as BSM then was, is the bard Of the hard earth, the earth to its bonebed is rock. "I had an eye, I had an ear, I had an eye, and the mittens I had to wear, My hand was in a meanwhile; I had the dimes, the half cups, the half bow, The seeds of the treasure I held, To walk abroad in tail'd apparel, My stock was swelled with the gold-- But the cuckow hanging just behind it. "If your right hand was against me, My father were smiling now, For the host of the North was against me, Refusing ======================================== SAMPLE 68 ======================================== --Resistless Horror rus- Til, like a trumpet, strike one Long booming blast at him. I tell you, 'twixt all the comforts of life The Horror's out-break is loathsome. Between the sheets, in the cold, 'Twixt our own reeking flesh, The Breath of the Grave is en- gaging And the Terror is keenest When we're together. It seems as the Midnight Conjured forth the things of the day From out the doomed and solstitial Sunspots that forth Under the moon are born. It is juggling of death; the Cross-roads of ebb and flow; Elements meet, inter, blend, Genie twice divine, As Spirit and Matter. To you who still See nothing where you pass But darkness everywhere, Where Hope's a forlorn hope and Despair a despondent cast, I would say this: The Death-bed is but ahigher form Of eye and eye-surface, The flesh roused by death (The eye stronger than the hand), Fills but a night, a glistening glade Of parching matter; A tongue spake (that phrase was gleaned from Aesop Ma-and and it's use I declare I did not hear hearsay just a breath of it) The twilight dreamed and rembered in the flesh. And who are riches, But the riches of the mind which alone A substance can own, If it's inside its dream It can be seen by. <|endoftext|> "Song in the Shade", by Jean Toital [Living, Death, Growing Old, Time & Brevity, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Religion, God & the Divine, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Poetry & Poets] In the dark, the shade, my friend, There is a lot to do, And not a lot of lessons Like you and I to teach Our sons and daughters in Bokhlot When the sun is getting high. The lion-print and sunset-edge Spine the valley, brand The rocky pathway, bristle The tamarind near the pool— And all is better, My friend, in the shade. <|endoftext|> "Horse-heart", by Jean Toitala [Living, Time & Brevity, Love, Realistic & Complicated, Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals, Trees & Flowers, Philosophy] In the deep, lit distance, man-tamed, steep rainy trail between two passes, foot like third, rain-glisten green white-lock tramp, passengers on a rainbow cemented as we scurry- en Katahdin, want to look back at that spot in history that jogs back forth each time we take the trail here, out of Ahdis Kenos (Red Antics, West Cape May), where the car carrying us rolled and rolled out of a woodsut star-cubby— say belay, she says, watch for his brake at the rock—so close, so lick road, crush street, say milk, shade— crow-hoof pregnant over coat Daphne, a hare in early Hushimself looping past two bounding catter and a house its flames in human ears, out to Boundary Road, a lion or a talking hog, I don't know, and as they retire do a stroke to load snow into carin against winter, snow in pine sperm, snow by frost Woodiwiss, snow in meal, snow in flame, plunge in lung, seed in buzz— caws, snout— all passion— "It's not that rare," she said, ticking, heel-k worked claws, no breath to horse-smooth— "As once from this viewpoint. But loveliness! The peewit's- THING suntanned through here FEELS like a rare and rareer thing. THING is rarer than rare, I'd say. It's rarer by far than luther's shrine in Maine— LUTH: orden is rare, but LUTH are STILL rare, I think. THING is LUTH'S rarest subtype, tho' I don't think they know they're RARE like how we do. They have a way of not even being in place. They float in space. They're less of a type." <|endoftext|> "The Tap ======================================== SAMPLE 69 ======================================== cigarettes pufferfish. pufferfish are the sprightliest they will circle until they accumulate water from the surrounding air. They are also possessor's of the world's longest journey, from naked weightlessness. The fish were dragged to the distant spacious hall and transformed into a point of view. An amiable point of woe, a complaining point of watery discomfort. They shiver for an unknown goodbye. Jenny and Puck continue their pointless feud. Jenny, a clever begie, picks the roots but fails to pluck the likes from the blooms, water- registering all with a wee little sleeve. Puck is a cunning fish with a clever je ne'er-tamate complaining tongue. <|endoftext|> "I think it is time we went to the authorities", by Helen Wilde [Love, Desire, History & Politics] I think it is time we went to the authorities. The authorities must know what is coming-, the eighteenth of February this year. They must know about the eugenics plans for the summer. They must know about the mandatory summer training program for the students who have applied to be teachers in the city of God rays west. They must know about the highway security plans. They must know about the sex toys the authorities have in their offices. They must know about the ordered roam to find himself and return home. They must stop all vehicle and sex. They must place his love with the authorities. <|endoftext|> "Parting: The Enclosure", by Amy Beyer [Living, Death, Love] It is a enclosure green with red and white; A building between a river and a sky. The windows open outward into that window space. It is a building between a dressing room and a throne. The doors close behind me as I enter from the gathering. The door unhinges behind me as I leave the gathering. It is a gathering of trees without blossoming. It is a dying struggle of flesh and blood. I leave it close to my heart, and it goes with me. I leave it as I enter and enter again. It corresponds to the single desire of joining again with the single object of my love. I enter it, and it closed as I enter this evening. I leave it as I leave it upon the trash can. I enter it as I leave it upon trash day. The walls go up around it. Trash can go around enclosing it. The windows shut before I am inside. I enter the enclosure. It is a single room. Glass windows Boundless sky. Glass walls Mountains of blue. <|endoftext|> "Particle Gauge Meets Cobra", by Nicholas Raitt [Nature, Animals, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Weather, Winter, Mythology & Folklore, Fairy-tales & Legends] Someone is coming, I know is an achievement of certainty, but it's all anyone doo now. Starlings are wannabees, after all, and red-gold fulminant round the midday hrnel. The hart. No one is lonely now, even in war. Sun dogs. Twinkies. Sydevals. Tri-color merle. People are party. One to dance, to dance, merde. Whose parrots are of view. Whose gaze is hidden. Whose eyes turn where we wheel and gape like staring action figures. Of view. Stars. Heavens. Now and thereafter, now. Holy ghost dancing, holy witch pain and television. Holy triangle, holy whirlpool. Holy water and twelve-syllable name. Holy whistle. This is resistance. This is drum roll and bash. Holy shake. Look at the specks in the sky. Listen to the wind, the parrots. All along, all the way to Heaven. The cowlxxx looks sunny to me. The whole does look like a birth. To be sure of myself, an autopsy is simple, you only have to decide if it is a bullet or a bunions. To pry the labels loose by force. To cut your nails, cripes, it's a bowl of plums, bin milk or semen. <|endoftext|> "Stick-figure", by Amy Beeder [Living ======================================== SAMPLE 70 ======================================== and many a thought of pleasure too And yet the long and necessary toil To feed a just and peaceful nation's store Of patience and peace and that nobler kind That makes the world obedient to the laws of God. Oh for a eve of pure stupidity, When selfish people may be as idle as a rock; When they can run all the way to last year's Bonaparte, And only toss themselves off with feminine grace; When they can bear all criticism, and be fools and lice Only told in doing; Oh for a day of it, when every spindling stripe Of all life-connecting thought with limb and heart Is enough alone to thrill contentment's week-long withdrawal; When they can wear their crosses on their chests unsung, and so twine Their busy lives with trust and change like a dropped thread; When they can be and act with more dispassion than we, And meditate so deftly that they seem not to sin; When they can sleep through any pageant or rehearsal, And so bring all Eternity into her hour. Oh for a day of utter idleness, When souls may rest on their true self and watch their place, And be Watch-in-Our office files connected by a chain Set spinning, no more now, set so, as the diver swims In and out of the sea. Oh for a day of utter leisure, On a platter smitten with chafers of lightning, Of whirling whiteness, like spinning jaspers. A day of eternal stillness, a day of agonies To mar the fruit of the anticipated boredom. A day of anguish, without agony, To name or paint you the tortures of mankind. A day as the heart of the world against its will hurls, A faint eyed day, a day of insanity's raving. Oh, if you have been sick for all suicide's moans, And fever'd dreams be just as bad as thryses, Or you have but twisted up your face in a fetal position And thought of it as a babe; If you have had drooprim fortatus in your litter, A day of no more relish'd in eyght, A grave and drownd, a day more evil-temper'd; A day that might be eternal, a day that had no morns, And would be, in the beauty of Him that cannot die, A day like the time when the dissolving year began To make the journey of the repeating wheel. Or you may have the truth Wry-humid, the dog-eared Bible through And through, and we'd bear A year with that week of times along, A year like a scattering and concordant string A disjointed year through whirling leagues. Or wherefore, where heaven's noble sphere Has struck a hydrostatic leaf And spreckled itself and shoved Abruptly through the field of despair With fatal sway; Where time has nought but those Charms which melt away And question of the one Immutable eternal snow. When I was young... Ah! When I was young, (and still may ever be As young and dumb as when I was young) I saw a unicorn, a wondrous beast, A reality beyond the power of dream, Touching my daylight self and her Pandemonium the congenial soul Made pure and quick with hot forbey, A count of impressions that was nine. Immortal love, immortal males, Immortal roll of balls, Immortal andnt long stretch of hymens, Immortal rubies in heaven, That's easy to love, Easy to be, Immutable and kind, Easy to Be and still true. Yours that was love's kissing and slaynt inspiration, Nude reasoning of confluent quarks, And you, whose sweet deontic options Perfuming vaporesce reliable predilections And don't care station, I'm pretty sure you're all divine What but loves the thing that your eyes see; As you told life's beauties to me From within, the god, Yourself invisible, You're bijawin' your satisfying 'Twas you who made me a woman, You the master magic staggered aazadaaz; I def Nou-man, Thought you worth de discre-man; And now you de apt discre-man, Maker triple properties of rays, Dey de deign to wear de saft aazadaaz You de suniness of de witless heart, ======================================== SAMPLE 71 ======================================== A woman speaking, in a low voice, In the one language understood by all, And all can see the truth in her eyes. He brought her to the place where the birds were busy, and they all watched the mistress with interest. The mother, who was standing by, Stretched out her arms, the feathers prosomed here and there, And the baby rose-tingled. Then a dark-voiced crow, with vexed look, Probed, "Why is that woman there, That stubborn one? Is it that she can't be put to death?" The cock chirped like a chip off the curdry, "She has no place in the decrees of our company." They cried for the crows. The frightened dumber birds set off for their springplace. But the black crow, dark brown at the end of day, sat there with the mistress. "She's damned. A damned woman," he said. They watched the mistress being chasted, She and the chasted man. And the woman, being a chaste rest, was cut down By the wiser than the chambered. "We have fed you until you don't know what you're eating." And the dark-eyed lady, dressed but not disdaining, took the brown paper cup The dark-haired girl had taken for a drink, then said, "I fear there's urine in it. I will burn it for medicine." It was drowsing about the room when the girl's broad eyes woke, And looked at it and winked. It was a letter in a note. The mistress had given it me. I read and turned a page. For you I have called this ray: "To be fed at time or place Just as feeds creatures otherwhere, where I think your need is good; but I provide no place, no time. You must make yourselves safe places, yourselves forever fantastic. <|endoftext|> "If all in Waring", by John Ettrick [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Pets] After Sophia Amiterno If all in Waring where as suspicious as enigi who had left her old plate we found and who was the next one to arrive and who was the last in that forgotten line of sheep walking the perimeter. Let the growler consume itself, shed its skin when it can not absorb anything of what is given. Let the nightingale seek its wood, let the nightingale find its clam. The last bandit brimstone is the last benefit of the season. If all in Waring where as finding their old skins in the soft footed dead, then I will find the old bones and the bladed ones where the most recalcitric thing can turn around is desire. And if, as I sit here the month of nights and the foot of love at logger with all the seems out of luck. Let the sheep, the cocker, shepherd, shepherrel have their day in the outlet, where they can sniff and play, where they can smell and bite. The knighthide's blanket is the devil's, the sturdy oar is its timber, the wherry their bones. Let the mayfly seek its shore, the highland pastures the last wolf. Let the may is its directive as its own directive, and the lame elephant its reins. If all in Waring where as the pattern takes and the cathedrals their ruin let the nightingale seek its wood. The shepherd's blanket is the devil's, the sturdy oar is its timber, the wherry their bones. The knighthide's blanket is the devil's, the crooked oar is their bones, the wherry their bones. If all in Waring their night and its broken past, if the mayfly and the nightingale seek their night and its wood, the sheep and the shepherd seek their night in the mayfly's floor, the cathedrals their ruins. Let the stone and the oar seek their caves and their ashes. I have found my end in their broken bed, the highland pastures their bones, the mule and the shepherd their blanket is their clatter. The ======================================== SAMPLE 72 ======================================== Phinehas; thou art worse than these, Though worse in form, and worse in kind: None has the face and nature like to thine For lust and foul reproach, and vile deceit, For making men thy sports and playthings: For thy ill influencing the youth Of multitudes, to be controlled With tractory and scope of spear And missile of no shape and kind. For Scotland thou hast brought your wrong to pass More than for Ireland, Scotland or the Winter: And for this, thou art to be censured. But if to parley with thee light I come, The errand shall be done by other, Or if I with thee would stand at ease, I hope be no other than myself." Then while the heavy sun before them flew, Or shadow such quantity showed, The Welshman with the Glaswegian walked, Together: but at occasional touch Of lisping silence came so near As either had the mastery of the way. When they had ridden not far optional Ere half-way, the two began a talk Of Wales, of which the News had told them: Wherein it seemed Shanteran of years Had bred a jealousy eke Teg; That young Ballantyne, whom we doat on, was Twas Callows' Bailey's younger son Who in the Welsh yoke wont to wear the sprawl As curtsey forces can this time detain: And that the worthy man, as fate had allowed, Had lagged in fitful worition: and had left As the old world, to the New come on, Their language did both aspire; And what the wise of the latter day True of the time and the honour to-done, Intended to teach their Welsh skil, They of the present were intent to tell. But little the fools can percaphral, What glory to be in, they reply: Of this there was no doubt; 'twas befitting well That he who was first in the cause Should foremost set the matter at defiance: While every other was rather sideways Deserting the true New-England to bring. These words were enough to Mackymm, Whose cares are with war and sword on his embers 'Way at the highest of his strange career; Whose letters, long long unreturned, began To fret at length; and his long meetings end With this meeting so far followed by so many. While to him thereof was a wondrous feast, And in myrrh for the money, sound virtue; But as some white rhub, with sudden bloom, May its loss show in the temperate season, So was the sound of his hoarded sound sense Green rust vanishing from the plain bough. To take off all that was drifting away From the gathering purpose, either thought Or action, in the mind of his need, And he in the present thus seeing it, As open pride in a cloudy Camaean, Brought to the table, as one might bring A cup of rich Egyptian mead; For he in the Hope of Heaven sat morrice, Leaning with active mind the twelite That he might possess the sovran good; For well he knew, as one who aye had tried, He yet had a fallow future; But now, with mental glance surveyed, What treasures are found in Earth's common store, By toil of his search I shall not say, Which best may be hoarded and which spent. He scanned the matter clearly, but with heart Surged latent in him; from that hour he Up stairs, fearing little, entered in, As one who with unwonted haste waited, When his watch is wound and loftie gable, A thin layer ofosperately spread; Such mann'd for the keener pangs of sense, Or others, as for urgent purposes, Were surely best to give of all, And keep the baubles toys in use. With midmost of all these things he pleas'd, To close in the closed storeroom; but at eve Some of the moon had slop'd her chubby hem, And thick clouds hung, with twinier among, Over Thomaston's little lake and ilpotaunt; A sight, which made him sigh for Pink and Jim. On many things, slackening evermore, He now seem'd to be altering; His hunger now was o'er for play, and Rabbits more twitch'd on the oat paths than man; Rude her rabbits, as the moreured throst, And wanton moons ======================================== SAMPLE 73 ======================================== aseris: stubborn, jocund, changeless, steadfast, blither-headed, changeless-faced, a prey to complacency, complacent, petrified-free, clairvoyant, into a drowsy or romping life, intox  on his drowsiness. a man-child, every boy but better when he  takes a good man child, says to sleep, as the two sleep in bed in the middle of the night, satsious, tranquillity, the sleep of placidly, for so long. so a hunchback, laid on his back with the cold cold cold on his cold head, complaining of having been cold enough, having his sensations any way they like, being any how they like, feeling a dizzy head—having his head dizzy, having his ears dizzy, a hunch to find the source of his head dizzy, finding, as he finds, the best, finding the hurt that causes the howl— where his eyes rested, and where their occupant, her eyes happy and as hopeful as his are— though he especially what's he found there was his eyes still happy and as hopeful as his eyes, eyes that are his only choice, ocean whose only land sonorous other land sonorous other sea. a man-sounded sea. <|endoftext|> "Mrs. Yankovska", by John Kennedy [Relationships, Pets] Who is she who dwells in all things else and lives? She is who he is not who isn't she? Who? She is she. What she says is what she does and what she is she does, she is she and she is. Who is she who dwells in all things else and lives? She is who he is not who she is she? She is she. What she says is what she does and what she is she does and what she says is what she says is she does and what she says is she says is she and she is. Who is she who practice works in magic with like objects and like creatures and make them lewd and soft and famished and full of murderous hearts? She is she who is not she. What she says is what she doess't and what she is she doess't and what she livell't be she is and what she say is what she doess't and what she say is she and what she say is she and what she say is she and what she sayess't and what she doess't is she. Who is she living in land and water and air and dark with monsters and monsters in house and house and housthings and wailing doors? She is she and she is she and what she doess't and what she say'ts she doess't and what she doess't is she and what she sayst she and what she doess't is she and what she ever done is done and what she [Who. . .Not he. She is she and she who She is she and she who.] Bettina, Queen of the Ocean City, living treasure, living treasure, living ocean city, living ocean city, living treasure, living treasure, living ocean city, treasure, treasure, living city, treasure, city, living, living, living city, living, living water, water, ocean city, water, living water, treasured water. <|endoftext|> "Looking through Life at a Feast of Boonie Summer (1715)", by George Sidney [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Relationships, Friends & Enemies] A beautiful boy, your son, you to friends, and sorry you got on knee so easily, you think he will have a limp from hence. He plays the piano soundly as any grown-up, his fingers curl deftly at the notes, he loves the single notes—as any churl overcome by music's charms—you see 'em wince and etime smile with ======================================== SAMPLE 74 ======================================== long as I'm a thing, which the child <|endoftext|> "Everything I Know about Helps Explain It", by Fiona Knight [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] I came from out of the rain my umbrella never let me call. Under the slow untille the lines running up over the stones in the grass help too much because they are so slow. I came from out of the rain, the slow untille. I came out of the rain my umbrella never let me call. The sun sifts through leaves but I am out of the rain my umbrella never let me call. So what do you do think. You have a sun hat a sun hat sun hat. <|endoftext|> "Overtime", by Nikki Wallfister [Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Social Commentaries, War and Conflict] The firefighters' single meal is a tight two cooked hours before shift. No time for "lazy food" Marge keeps watch for if we have trouble seeing our jobs are sent to us, us. One bite in, they are gone. The truckers' ishrongst the table are raw slips of hog bacon ribs and bile. It's morning and it's eve at the crack of sssh they're gone again. They can't fall asleep then. Half of their worth is gone. They burn the poor roast. Torture is over the world is what I know. <|endoftext|> "The Second Murder Victim", by Nikki Wallfister [Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment] So there I was on the stand, a motive, excuse, and I said it straight and to do it I was way behind in reading criminal pleadings and so excuse I left the excuse up as where I might possibly fall behind in reading. Did I undo it? Was I the root because I was traveling somewhere over the wrong tree in the wood of whether or not there was another drive behind the leaves there was a warm light in anyway or and so there I was on the stand and so there was excuse me I was way behind in my reading and so there I was on the stand. <|endoftext|> "from Poems [1. Old Mercies]", by Nikki Jeange Broadnhammer [Living, Nature, Winter, Social Commentaries, Class, History & Politics, Money & Economics, race & Ethnicity] everything white being a blessing, old Mercurials at the door, straight to the gold at what would be made and bought, straight to the gold at what would be borne, to be an eye pupil and light, and to be borne around and carried by straight-line or straitness, and to be borne and eye pupil and light HAWAII For one thing I said was sure Old Kenya, I would be lucky to see this and more lucky to be in Old Kenya, in Money, in Love, in Marriage, in Mobility, in Being African I was in the car buying the Wheat Thins as a 12-year-old FFP not ready for these conditions of possibility and straight-lining on a skyscraper in Money, in Love, in Marriage coming from the airport in a customs union, in Man, in Moving in the right direction and being African were in the wrong country at the wrong time and New India the keys came back as not being African in the right country at the right time with the keys coming back as being from the right country at the right time with the keys coming back as being New Indian, in the wrong country at the wrong time with the wrong conditions and with the conditions likely to change, likely to change and possibly clearing for one thing already clear, if one thing was already clear, clear to which was the small boat pulling away from the large boat and coming from the large boat in the small boat's spite, in spite of conditions likely to change, likely to change and possibly clearing, for one thing already clear, the small boat came back from the airport in the customs union, the keys came back as not being African and straight-lining in the sky and the sky coming back as not being African as one thing already clear, coming back as not being New India or the truck coming from the airport in a customs union and the keys coming back as being from the trucker's yard in the warehouse in the right country at the right time and the keys coming back ======================================== SAMPLE 75 ======================================== 'Is there anything to do?' 'Nay, nay.' 'You'd better help yourself.' 'Well, I'll do so.' 'And won't you?' 'We'll see.' So, off they went. The farmer's wife, she couldn't sit still. Her business was to sew breeks. She was a regular Bedouin. She said to her, 'Listen, Arrab's wife, You're a fool to think you can beat me Because you're in love with a man. Your affair is a problem.' 'Nay, but he Hasn't been married long enough.' 'Well, he Will take his revenge.' 'What should we do?' 'We'll leave him.' 'A Bedouin's no good.' She looked down and suddenly out of the window She ranged her children round and told them all How wonderful the Queen would be and said She wished to prove that she was as good as he was Because she knew he had come to steal her heart. She told them all not to trust a thing he said And told them to make life as difficult for him As he should make it for her. 'This man Has taken to naughty games, which makes life For women as much as for the men, And if he ever repented he could Make satisfaction impossible by dying. Now who's the fool?' the children said; but she She turned them round about and consoled them too. 'You must not take him to court for saying what he thinks. Children, what is truth?' and he let them take their way And gnawed his thumb as they ploughed the land together. I was tired of war and I wanted change, The soldier's life, for off to France I chanced The choice came my way with some delay to peg. Now this Lew Dodd, the 'Green-31' after each town I'd visit, stood out against a company Of men in khaki, shouting aloud the name Of a man and the war in his heart stirred, and watched As their granes were rattled by their breeches trodden down. And as they dropped, I took up where they had left off, And marched away from them, from their Hindi strings, And I knew that I must die soon-an-lll; For death with my licence wouldn't change my mind. I read some novail books in the soldiery book store, And marched my gleaming grey legs up beyond the Sandeword, Then I had another junior girl to eat. A country lady wrote me that her son, an officer, Being flasked with a comrade in the rebellion Of a third grader, and her letter was short, The freedom of her province, may be shallow and short, But her longing tore it from her not: 'Alack! alack!' she wrote, but then she wrote again: 'I wonder if my son will ever come back, And whether he's in the army on the Moone, And whether he'll ever come to America And fight for the Confederation or -- or no?' So till to-day, I wot, she watches for me. I march, I chew tart, I try to be gay, But ah! I wish the withered skull that held me Were broken by many a month of wandering. I wonder that they give early novels to boys To make themago--the young ones a-Sighting out the gates at 8! The sun shone in old Ireland in the day When our ancestors lit the trák / on All Souls' Eve, When they murdered each son, and plucked their beards, And dress'd them all for their next reincarnation. And if they came back young and ploughman-man Should he a-dress his tether on some far-famed trail Or fornaval large in the ranks of kings, He could not dispossess the young Dublin-wight, O dear, dear shepherd, WIllowl, very best, But he might make a grand, last marriage, O dear, dear shepherd, WWill, look to that! I love the earth, I love the stirring sound Of one place on the blackout shore, And the north wind tempest-driven, And weary, hill-hushed, over-humid day. No soul on earth is purer or more still, From this World's echo-crowned one; But I watch the sun drop and the flock going by. We are an unfathomable crowd, A summer, happy multitude, Who have lived on earth the ======================================== SAMPLE 76 ======================================== said the good old man, "Well, what did the old gentlemen say?" "I know that a great desire Has come into my heart," Said the youthful Keats, "Now, if you don't count the little star, And the little star alone, of course, is but one, That has brought me to my first love." "Yes, yes," said the old man, "all that you love," "Shrinks at a moment from immediate hurt," Said the youthful Keats, "But I can find you out alone, And show the eye, and TOLD you things that you didn't write." "Yes," said the old man, "I know that a great love" "Touches, as my Milton says, at theaced half-velvet, Upon some holy subject. To love and to write, that were two pains," "I never did love," said Keats, "As I've loved, or wrote, nor haven't loved any more." "No, I haven't," said the youth, And he smiled--and his cheery voice Lent a tiny moan of the "O." "No, I haven't," said Keats, And he frowned, and he considered, And he shook his head. "A figure like the wind, That walks through a glass world," Said the old man to the young, "Can be pretty, can't it?" And so, of course, they had Some spare time for fun. The poet, with some pensive mind, Remarked, "O! you must beware Of hasty love. If your eyes And your heart be not true, ... Forgotten events can be true." The lass moved placidly Till a laugh cut the dew: "Pat!" she said, "I feel a young man in me! My ribs stick out clearly! A wink would the secret tell?" "O! o!" said the poet, "That was the self-pilot" (my words!), "Calling from the sky Far off his blue ship In a hedge beyond the sea; His little flag-boat Took the little way-- Like the wind that is quivering Before the boat goes out!" And so the little ship Alternately nods and sails, Showing the tiny waves Frowning back at you. And so the artist saw All the errors of youth, And gallantly forgot His fear that they would punish Him toiling in music, instead Pleasureless, if not beautiful. In the blue still air, Through the silver moon, With a chime from the hour, the pensive Poet Sustained his silence. For Adeline was there, Her face veiled with a tender glow Of far-reaching summer sunset, And his own patience wearying As a summer night holds stars. Her presence filled the air With perfume, and his music The trembling leaves half set Clipped by the sunset's golden rain; The stars dropped, the heavens hardened, Moon and shadow, each mood In his music growing clear and sweet; His life's love, revealed! Love of his life, his, In one solemn burning scene! His voice was heard, And the world leapt up to its last wonder Of utility, Of efficiency in its sphere, Though the songs of the soul Were kept as certain, As the heliocentric sphere Confederate, and yet veritable, The perenal art In an ideal shape. For the Poet's art Prodigious, had bearded The distinction, And his music had shed light On the darkness, Where the Hierarchy, that eternal order, Looked on, through its many-folded mask, The man, the fully human heart He had thought to discern, In the daedal hour The refulgent lady-song The golden harper's harping That spirtted up to The bright towers of grace Where a monarch trod; He had seen his bold enterprise Naught but pedantic carver, Heard but the modulated Contest And martial transfiguration. So, he, having bowed and spat The secrets of his spirit At the feet of each trivial gift And crackling blaze Of fashion's weekly sales, Sighed and mocked The tin-painted slave Who held him by the shoulder. He had made his mark, And now, as he sang, More vast and more divine Behold him, even than he. ======================================== SAMPLE 77 ======================================== before the new the red-eveloped roses Turn ashen; and within this flower-garden, now The palace of peace, I hear a chime. I never hear the chime at night more late But echoes in what I am cannot hold. And when the hour is late, I hear The heaving of the teapot, and the flush Of sunset-glows in water, and the stir Of the tea-things and the windows long Jammed by the clatter of forks and spits, The blatter of children--which is first to run And shout the tea-giver down. A teapot I see But it is empty, and I wonder what Its purpose in the day to-morrow may be. And then I know. When sunset finds us down In the shadowy road where teasicrips And clinking family times are flusht, the three Who love and enjoy this Dr. Doolan's Relentless, head-cooked food, are ready to shuffle Back through the door where the last cup each asks Of the magnates of everything are broke Are given this one and that to pass the door, And as they leave, this song breaks in swift horn on our hearing. It was the wind and nothing but the wind, He said, that chilled the crystal heart of October; What of the snow? Nought at his door but the wind; Was the winter done with its work of making? What of the wind? He spoke of storms in June, And blustering weathers in the season's May, But I who listen now to speak to you, Were constrained to speak but not to pass On derelict weal of any wind at all. <|endoftext|> A garden is a thorn-tree home Where flowers are whirled into no garden trance. The fluted spires of shawing fir Have nothing pure about their place. Their beams bow down, their pines lean out To gaze through cold arms, cold from their heads. The apple tree waits its train. Its boughs are dipped in bright green Light powdery wheat, not mackerel fair. At least no arrow, driving shaft, Maypple through that shade, striking blind, Lest whirling doors, in spirit rare, It chime and glow within its tree. The garden is a thorn-tree home Where flowers are whirled, not tied. The flowers are whirled at least, Whirling as the wind may thud Down from their forest bough to the grass Which feeds, which giggles, what sighs. So here my most hushed pen These desert winds that wrap The apple trees and iver draw The bare arms of this apple tree, And thinking of beauty that is: Of roses that run this way, Of ginger that climbs this tree, Of leaves that scatter down this tower, That bends and lights like rill beads In the thicket, sifts a line Of verdant and granite light, Of the wood's dark sheen, the light's height. It is a bud's quiver, a branch's curl, A cluster of red-whiting strung Out by a stream's green knot In packs on a sling as soft, That swims the boddice, hooks on, hangs on, Hangs and adores the sheen. To the whiting packet's grasp In goblets of sealable gold They look up from glistening wall Where the apple-blossoms show Against the wall's broad window-curtains. In garden-viewpoints, from perches, They have their meal of leaves and pollen. From wall to wall, from floor to ceiling, From wood to wall, the tree holds hellish The serpent-at-the-point-of-sheet, Flinging its quivering bolt-head, Quivering softly, sliding out of sight. It is a fearsome, quadrangular, RADIANT tree, whose water-eye surely Matures from the nothing deep Down to the dregs of a dry husk of a world, Or from some puerped psychoid body's Soft-in-sea-of-the-abusa's smother. Ginkgo leaf, nut, or bark, if you can find This obscure, obscure bough, if you can find Its dry bulk, its owl-like brow That counsels in swift awkwardness, Its tree-like human neck with its Short stem that bends three degrees, ======================================== SAMPLE 78 ======================================== What shall be said, if aught should come to pass, If fate should snatch us from a chance to die? If blind Fortune snatch us from life's wide sea For one doomed to endure, with such a breath, Such blows, such blows to draw the life-blood from Our lungs, what say we? that we reach the grave? And look around, and know no whenbeards round? I say, what say we? "Were it not high time to speak, yet knowing That taunted Fate, whose power, in fens and dens, Moves the stern grind of modern politics, Might end by lending us, to the State, A's tale that would appal each looking face By pointing to the man as weak and mean, Who, when all bowed to profit and small wealth, Shuns the great questions raised by life and age, What is Death? what must we? and what is Life?" "Thou wretch! no man moves an army by his beard." It was a battle-elite Sick of war-ppires and malign To cast himself on a man he knew, To ask of man The reas'tic reason of all rule, Themesoftechique in purloining nations: "What is Death? what is Life?" "Whate'er a man will reply, Start forward, and vote." He vote in: for no adherent Will she like temper and honest aims Immutable die: But she will native loyalty insist On one true man and kind, Who love the well-born country now and mean. "What is Death? what is Life?" Vote also in whether He be born or not. Were it not high time that all should know, That all should live who once have lived, Then all which is at one with Man's Hope, In one place worked in by one, True on its horse and wed at back, Should bear one spirit from the distracted world To hold meet alternative of no doom, Nor plague a country fight at strong black rock Demand to fulfil, nor drift to all strife Whereby a fellow with another looked on, Nor effort made to find a life where once life was; Were it not high time that all should know, Then at the utmost edge of sight and death Death, shorn of skin, should bite the man's to free him From current belief that he a life can make: "What is Death? what is Life?" Let each make good his own vote." "Thou wilt be young again, And art to go,--to be young. One knows how the natives of earth To the stuffing and overshadowing Shrink from the tumour and the bustle, The bloody bobbing of the lecher (But the lecher is not the point); But this is to put a brave age to test, And see if the laws of the universe Can be truly depended on, Or, if they can, whether it be young or old; But this is not the place to discuss. Be the question what you will, I have been here to discuss it. "I have seen thee in thy twenty sense, And in thy twenty years; For the first time thou appear'st With the smiling of Paradises, The last time thou appear'st Was when on earth thou didst run Bannering those fools in roses, And in two lights thou didst fling them; But this is not the time to speak. "But I see thee now as erewhile, When the gods were brewing thy ruin In sudden original sin, That race of corruption, that scum, That silly generation-mass Which mixed Earth with Hell in fame, Froze Heaven, and made all arise With the cry of "unjust!" Which few can hear it, many cannot speak it. But this is not the place to discuss. "But I'll say, by the power That shapes us all, which no man denies, And no man declares to be false-shining, I say by your hundred massy wings, Come! join thy fellow member Of a company that recks not of itself How it does its master talking!--Thou doest lead me now Where thou sawest thou didst precede All things in thy channels, neither made a fool of me. "I have seen and heard things by little streams That smile and smil in the midst of rapids; And could I speak of pleasures, I had surely Gathered to myself a sort of "annuity," ======================================== SAMPLE 79 ======================================== Anacreon parvis mylixay Anpharsine phegeredon Ise doue. a daim said: At euery drift, My poore heired boy, Sumpter by sorrel lang wrol Anumleyd, What unsoundly thing Zyged you in the night An ever, Dealing, and to the worse, Knowing. The hares he first started: The ryght ancaries: And so He did cry: "Mercy a-courting!" And lastly as he wold Mynke the unkendness An ance, Thingz of his deceasone An eternall Afte The eyght. I se so, this yer seik nae better, It fareth nane, In this, an' every nyght; For zit is Juckel, an' other things, An cauld order, An blythe as ours. But kan ech forsoth an' shwat the more, I'm ware of alow; An if ye'll but stan'7787 know this aae, Ye hae Ioo, They'll cler but hyim, a wee. And whumwind throwis tretch fro land An apeke him till he deyle A gert sheepe Sae oo kil lang gin hee; An sweats the man as loon, He's ay o' kaine. O Sextuns, an ye weeapse to daut, Mony sooch haps ow dirt; Chantir ons wi' anent Ses triptent, I haw An agreen in anence, An untier op The thresh cook soop. O' seinte maund deilo yow! Lang o' deoom is greippan! Pertes-mackarel hae we A' new potatents on, Tat ye deest hear or iert, An' sin that's put in ter, I dare nocht. Fowtlich o'th stripen is in shove Ist all is to your amont, An' soont it oot's shive To an awn den verline Somebuanaan, Heearn'd aft mich ben mackden To rid us goot. An' t' dames asem coole Hawt juise in depeed; Oor poostis toomi'n aspin Hainneted for dampa, Heath cromit wanton In shairn of deear. Towrast efter mornin', I shanke how we can trist This windie shauch, An' aboot time an' ancetera We stan' to warket, I pray din part o' curs, De might shazer leuchtlin Our lumbin sore. Oor talk o' folk that Us'd t' t' laffer be De haste, for the spring stanity Sin roonden an' nun, We'll ahtitt mine off halpe Wen we micht tak tele. Soun' nicht hoo trath's I troo, I've hed ane an' gane taen, An' dreed ablut herring, At daan awn at Iruin An owt sheeit euwn, I've wist declenst weal or wark, But spak I naetheeth. Wee minniolatidde aw iste A reid ilka reid loken At woebe woebemowit A newsill iste aw shawt De gat meon, beeath heigh, An' adden color wan. A place I meonld behuved I' the brooK o' yowt o' height, A chaff iste add untayl Sheeit o' sheeit loken. A blackish speck, I t'lieve I am As dark is myng as e'er is; Mell the dceam is aw fair an' sort, An' deeg myng is good. O! ar clood t' schawl o' dread That mad den beowt atween us: ======================================== SAMPLE 80 ======================================== 'Is it the leader that you hear? Bidding you in his loudness Beside you, through the flames, Follow him who leads you on? If so, we go in his wake; Hither, towards his cry, to follow, Follow the others who rush on like you, The chariots, and the brazen van, The citizens in robes, and the wives; We are all Iron-belted-- Who will not fight? You have heard the fight-cry clear-- You must defend it! Whether or woe betide The assault to day, The assault to night, The ambush at the end of it, The ambush too the day-- Do not let either cut Enter the friend who follows you. Flesh of Iron-belted moose; Blood of the ruddy hog; Wound of the flake--a river Running along the plain; You will bleed--bend, bow your head, Follow my guide, and you shall all "A steady blow is all we ask: The swivel wound the skieen, To keep the sledge-horse poor and slow, Till he carry half the bag." From the snow-shoe' skiey up to the sow, That half at once removed the sledge; 'Twas the same silver swing from him 'Twas the same time carried half the load. At the fence we happened to be, As we were passing by, We could see from one stump to the other What little form they took; So that our admiration heightened To see them happy together, And their Mother Wing going just so. So that as they were taking turns The other strings along, That all could severally hear, And sing such chords before Such measures as they sang before, Made the stars ring true, and feel The joy in Heaven rind that night When two were one and two were one. Sometimes in the snow they were seen To make concertuncorralled jamuns-- From openps construction-worrying-- When fortune had darkned the day With drops development; As the latter years went by The vision came true to a bar. It is always the case, Where there is desire; That thing be whatever Has opportunity for that; Nor care with what brusheeence; What janisseries we call 'em; How may bad apples get on, How crabbed planners think. The way was found usd-wise To raise the Bobwhite, he'd said To make the puppet so gracefully, As cradle for all Poh! The bobwhite, being human, know what He should become, and how he was made Be receptive to touch and to sight And to any hourous perils that are Will take the sheer driving-spirit, and keep it To make it a sort of animal, which is The patriarch of the Uncle Abram; That which is more admirable, and which Is hid by sunshine, and to sight more Conceal than Atlantis. So, when by himself he tried Toward building of the Bobwhite, That in a stunted fashion might be The bridge 'twixt morose negligence And blind unaffection, Its potential quickness he found In giving the strokes' direction; And so, soon ere construction bin A land-beam contrairy had gone Far as the bobwhite, ere it could be Much better, to such a house-tip had added His integument of buckeye, His glory and durance; to max Add Gloria, thus the puppet went-- So added bobwhite, laid adown On an immortal spreadsheet, the tree, To oenony, so his glory is, And thus his durance in a sense Akindened, and acap-item For any mishap that might come of it; But nothing did happen so far, Hostile witnesses did assure us, And in their eyes we naught replied, As, "Sure a puppet?" and "A cap- Person?"--and "Sure there's 'im!" said they; "A crude one? a crude onehe'?" Now here we are--for what our own, Where springs the chuckle of the cut?-- With all the place sub-cellular In order to turn the objective To philosophical light, To puzzle confound the dis(); To find the what, the wherefore, the why, Our interpreter will reply; E. haud de possible, O! A pidyl what lay ======================================== SAMPLE 81 ======================================== —We have not the length of an acre for the pathway that leads to another country. —Then turn your back and turn. Walk in the hope that your heels will touch the earth at the same place every time. <|endoftext|> "Mr. Harper Meets the Child he wishes to be by Painting", by Chip Ralles [Living, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity, War & Conflict] Mr. Harper, you see, had been a helpless infant, even though his legs worked never and his hands were never t ooliginous, ugly as nails when milked too often by roving sinters. And so, even his self, a gazley p ilgrim, had felt as some obolet came stinking to his childhood in a vision of -- who? -- Mr. Harper. He hadn't been drowned by that water, nor its sewage, nor had he waded the fat river of it o'er worn-out shoes. Mr. Harper saw no folk in the stuff and thought it was amniotic rabbit-sed. To see the raw material accurately meant nothing. But he knew he'd never call this country the Smell-arotICedelhi or any other proper name like it. The nasty sobri in which a sodden suit of full-spectre honour cost: the Orient on full strategy, not enough of breeches and shirtlegs. Mr. Harper, then, was a boy who closed his eyes many times to the sides and tops of lilies, to things diacritical, like the mannerisms of a ragweed or linguana, or old engima and such boozes asenders like silangi and jonquil. And so, to those trifles, he opened his eyes to this one, the ghaut of a day starting in the south and heat in the fruit deplorably wanting to whiste but meaning not much: this for him was clear, though he'd have to keep these feet off jointed to a fast- forwarding, this for him was middens, daybreak in the southern whorés of picaroons and vistas. Mr. Harper was then so sad he looked like a large man on a small structure that moved amongst himself: this for him meant a south-eastern position, that the belly spread with quietism and that man a moving slow-down, slowly squirming in that rust. And so he moved between the highly stylized and man-published pictures of women the world looks at, women that move between themselves and anyhting that's meant to be loved clean, undisturbed by passion or politics, like the ronque and well- tended gr at the Salon Franz giving away to the assembled wits of the world-eclipse set, or the doctored picture of Tangled Head of the Soly retracting without a Fascist Attitude. He looked at the world and said "It's all there when you look at  it right  — 2  — why it's always been  that way. Look at it. It ain't terrifying. No more will be it. Just be had, make the most of what you can, all there is. That's why it's always been so scary. <|endoftext|> "Beef", by Zilka Craig [Living, Growing Old, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Religion, Faith & Doubt] At morning talk show, old ache men show up, their memory dim in a hospital room where only they can sit wherever they like at the small table. They could not swallow what someone has made there, taste the worst of it each his or her own private plate, but we in this eucharistic balance act as we think of it elsewhere. Something I once said to a clergyman who was recreating the questions of St. Francis: "The spirit of love is not confined like the bone of a dead hump to the mouth, nor is it the tale be told of ash at the throat. No conditions, no strings to pharoony or hymn to ======================================== SAMPLE 82 ======================================== Hushing the weary-stifled cry of some weary earth, And the lonely man's abasement crying in the battle-graves? To men of wit "Life is a bouncing ball!" And the wimpling, wobbling ball Of a brave old land for men of style! But to men of simple life This is a truism. The hoary man in the fur-coat Cowers and bows to the yearly lay Of the drums, in the paying of the tax, While the meek maid prays in her shawl and slumbers, And the child wears the smile that a mother wears-- Nay, and the land is asleep and unawake, While the taxes rise to their proportion; Crowned, or troubled, or bright the scene Muttering its god, Man! God! Be who hath loved you! Not the malignant, but the known, O this light-fingered, pocket-born God Of the multitude of idiocy, O the commonsnaft of benedom-- Lord, lover of all that is poor and base, Lord, turnbreaker of women, Turnbreaker of ists-- Who have nigh trodden you to the dirt In their guilt's completeness; While the pure spirit of the leech-like Bailey Runs him adrift from the Church he was, While the hand of the Tribune cravat.. For the tawdry Reformer is intent On his low simile, for I rather think God hath in heck preconceived of none, But me he agrees with: Here, therefore, now is the conclusion. As the winds are whipt through the reeds, You shall wade: you shall sip: And you shall taste, and deliver souls from hell By the gloss of your cups. Like a skylark, the grand labouring god From the heights of the August sky Flaunts forth into the common day With his discovery. Like a skylark, the grand labouring god Through the wide world 'gins to cry At the rise of some winter night, In the fair of the spring, Or when the ebbing flux hath brought Back to life some vesperal discharge From the everlasting day. As a skylark, bobbing on the breeze, Like a skylark, bobbing on the river, Runs (if they are like them that be) To catch at the breath Of the summer night To chide his lurker, and art sweet To the laden belly, and the lave in his power. In the Spring a sea of gold-brown ekes out From the wave-worn struts of the bridge to the cross, An equal sea of pale tulip mene stretches out From the walls to the quarries of doom, Anestem'd along each path with tulip girls in line, From the Town-house to the cost; And to the architect's credit--many a rose Sunk deep in the shapeless mul, like a moonshine coloured house of matzan'd clay, For their labour is no talk o' fortune given in death, A flush of death in the flowery, cashen'd field Sallies out from the house to the rail, A myrtle clustered on a ruin'd tower. If death bite, t'eyage something of a nameless rage That will rage like a ghastly wrath; If birth hate, then both are ajar for destruction, And throuble the rout Of the naughty, sinning, true-born and nothing-as, And, for the rest, a vague vague hope of ghoulish damnation From a kind of birth-by-ration'd position (Not often seen) Of the kind that makes a field of wetlands In the house of a shepherd. And the little mischiefs of life, as the years roll on, That's made a riot, are they but Bird and Stone, Just guess the darlings of the flock and the tank, The violets and the bladders of the seas, The tulips of the garden and vex'd roses too, Lilies and cuckoos of wood, The anemones and breeus slums. O we are a riot of nothing, are we, is he, God, That we know as He looks, as he looks in the flowers, To see just where fire will strike, to see it burn, The confused nacre, the confus'd blood, where the pearl will drip, The tiny albinants burning and ======================================== SAMPLE 83 ======================================== . The one that's coming fast is a bucket of ice. <|endoftext|> "Joy", by W. S. Merbun [Nature, Winter, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] It's a long way to Tooton,Hobbling over ice to get to him,Busy be a fool to find the gate,The ice gate at the end of the ice street,Where it's all wet and cold like giving up the picture.There's tears on the stone wall,The tears of joy when they were so warm,Sobbed by the hands you took to keep a small freezer Stored in your pants like some kind of crystal boxThey never touched ever. They were there for so long They might as well have been under the street's winter monitor.And what you think of first as home Is not always where you think of at all well sighted,The house you lean into like seeing through snowTo a pointed star to look kind of blasting,Not knowing quite how good you'll use it. <|endoftext|> "The Crying Game", by W. S. Merwin [Living, Death, Time & Brevity, Mythology & Folklore, Heroes & Patriotism] Abandoned ship at harborage for the pale o' the landI cry with my new-born gall to God made,Trailer for coffin of me from east to westWhose passengers all find irremeable futility,Cannon for metaphorical wings and pasteTerrific, tinselled adults to adore,A sudden pasting of my dying overTo you—the eventual patrons of the pale blue crushTill I have no name in gibbering denOf utter dying. Put me to the sword and I acceptMy progressive lifespan at the hand of God.There is no Snow Island in this tropic discontent.The sorcerer's mutterings delight no moreThan a drowned teacher's board marking the timeOut of dysptha the name I butcher day by day.To be a page at Longfactional blow—the dawn's scab and freckleFracture me to rub the hardness in my palmAnd swear like any lion and risk be bleedingIn the Emperor's dish of coronate youth watchPoverty patter in a chit of ding a 100 words like swords up for bloodAt the flat-footed notice of displaced spellOf 'amia'. Time to draw blood and die at hand—The jholeson plough the ruts And turn their laziness to cunning skill.We are the first orientalists—A mature scholarly hand in English,French or German so far as we've read—We coldly pre-infernaliseThe rock-pves —of all ice-defying rocks. What we wroteStrikes at the heart of shadowless, weekly revelationAnd the long soul-sear of America. We cryThe slumbering geologist's theoretical thingIn primroses: not as yet Existential instant -As yet the highest good—But as mankind's most primitive force.At the six-years' horizon, it strikes like a yell,The cry of man, tragically human,The cry of earth at three years' left turning backInto the embryo's wonder-chill of hope. Who can bowHis rapacious trust to take possessionOf heaven's beauty for his mountebank,His space-ape's gigantism?The postulate of devils, spirits of the garment,His heirship to talite, his crown of trees?The theory of the chain of being—The giant successive steps of growths’ break—Our conscion, our belated repentionsThe spectacles of suns on scales, our grave forecastSee shadows the world turn round itselfIts inmost mysteries—a peering overTime's laternoscope, a woman's greedy cove,The soul is not for grate of man, but for those who deserve to wanderIn the weltering, windless plain of bloodIn the heart for you and me. <|endoftext|> "The Fire", by R. S. Patner [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] In the summer of the past, In the autumn of the past, In the winter of my third Bending the knee, bending the second, Kneeward to stand, my bride, my wife, The children gathered round, The kitchen dark, the house silent With talk and hiss and gnaw and hark,Save where under the hedge the fire breathes The burghers bound about.The cave was hollowed out, the cragsDropped into the shadowless air. TheyCall it throes of storm, it descendedThe curtain of the night. All was stillTo meet, as in the summer oaks, On the ======================================== SAMPLE 84 ======================================== past the old half-buried brush. P. did. So on the river's edge they kissed. "At the very top of my tail," he said. Their wicker canoe was swung on chains, and they soon were there, on the side of Kamschatgery, the peninsula's southmost point. P. did. To the last. Two pilots were flying past the light on their first flight ever into this new world. One pilot had a "bad leg," and the other one "had a funny sort of disease," he said. But when the young man's eyes beheld P. on the sea's far edge, "I don't want to be in a hurry," he said. The young man's eyes began on the sea to go back to work— the clouds, the financial doughnut-chained like rich dough of sunlit air to be eaten. The old pilots in their small canoe hovered just long enough to say good morning, and then the young man's eyes could not stay still for long. And the old pilots knew that the young man would pilot a small boat, somehow he would navigate the small canoe through familiar waters, beyond the creaming of troves of fresh water bask in the morning sun. <|endoftext|> "Redbird", by Cathy T. Smith [Activities, Sports & Outdoor Activities, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity, Kultur] They dressed for the sled world's blizzards: black woolen, shrink-wrapped in red, green, white and beige; frangible with paint —starsburfered into Earth's path; minstrels, warblers and gilded cups, looms of reed-linking wire, meditational guitar, weft of steel wires— but still, winter six times promised brighter days. Or redder than that in her register. Her father's hands gripped her steamed face and day tripped over and kept going, and she (no longer shiny-blossomborn) was growing white cast from it all, sitting for hours without feeling or breath, just to hold on to what was there and keep it. —that was what they whispered back of the (not so red-white-black-white) tawdry pale carnations of 1940, of the ever so resplendent year. —and the (not so red-white-black-white) of the almost too pure year. <|endoftext|> "Fifty-six", by Susan Cooper [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Fall, Summer, Arts & Academic, Reading & Books, Museums, Reading Materials, Anniversary, Risqué, Anniversary Day] Icy summer skies caught the clouds and the pine woods below. The television set and a bulletin shared the week's top news. I rolled out of bed and found the spoon and spoonful of cheese and headed to the kitchen for a pick of what I could serve for the quart of wine we'd have to talk later we'd have to drink in the hour we woke to say okay and say again: yum yum was the smell and the smell of all summer's meals in the house and in the kitchen and outside on the playground and across the way and all of it was the sound of the names we'd come to teach and the lake just another body in the body of light. <|endoftext|> "A Guide to Tax Relief", by W. S. Merwin [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] Tax relief must be clearly understood as part of the plan you must prepare before hiring accountants to begin with. Though you may feel unfairly accused perhaps of evading tax I can assure you I've been so guid, socked, stabbed, so what—at the bottle, old fashioned watch, even the trolley that was forever fiddling its bell for the pound of flesh that was all your money until I kicked it away to donate it to someone who would gladly take it but you still sit there cool glass of half expiring ======================================== SAMPLE 85 ======================================== The alcove of a silent woman; Where he was ever meekest, In his rags, and was not rude, She made him weep and talk of women, Of how fair they were and all that. And so he watched her day by day, Though he was sad in his heart, And light in his was far from her, And when the spring came on in May, The birds began to sing in wood, And soft and late he slept in the dell, And then he started and was gay For she was all alway sweet and fair And now he wakened him with kisses. O light of everlasting, O manmade heaven and light; Who dwellest beyond all names, And gathereth eternal flame; Of whom, who bore and supports The vast amount of his race; And thou, of whose goodness All man makes that show, Fill forth and fill the glowing sketch In kindly act and thought. Sick men are chiefly muted In their readiness to live, The sacred flame of man Their soul's fathened bread imports, Their eyes first opening To see thy sweet but crueltude. And purple joys with them turn For true light of loftiest things, The look of ice that melts. Mercury from its fiery star Soon after when it rests In thy deep fountain fountains Is melted down and made their salts, Their leaves and little water flowers Soaks up the moisture it bears; And from these thence it proceeds, The perfume of which is this, Of which thy pencil took'st feral dye, Feral perfume it took'st too, And in the writing of thy book; And in the reading of which, The thought therein that whilom brought The devotion and the light So near produc'd by mercury's fire, O thermohydra! quench in sun That by this easement in liquid gress Thou thus may'st cool the ethereal stars, In liquid wreaths so refreshed, In office held off long, Hence to the vaporial air A floor and close of coolness. O light of whatsoever eye That gildeth your blackness' frown- Swelling your heavy brow, Or disclosing not its secret there, Or o'erlaying some bright spot ill His face,--or in your mazzini era Both green and gold And perling purple!-- I know not how the world goes on, And I that used to think In the dead of youth, A modern Sophocles Belong'd to various hymns upon this mat, When I was as a boy A singer in the church, And in the Cercle of a song The King went on That made our Roger get a rise From his divining sphinocy Of some new discovery I had in mine early days In the hope that one would take the reign, And be Britannick player Cardinal; And of this no more deplore The perjured husband of one Eryie! In the name of none other This is my tune, At the whichon if anon the day Shall be darkest, Heaven shall be a bay To rid the new world of them that don't. See here a Primrose wet from the dews, The wax is snapping at her rooted head; While on the spot where she lasted nine days, She's having patience with the dripping head; This dried up, the living fennole, But which if he take alive into cradles Is all the nymphs' whiter than snow, And no Lily-white: And this the day the dwarf ate her open, Where to see her faint middle, split in two, Like a great deep-runedy raving, wanton flowing From the topmost round, which ever depart Now with a mournful tongue; And thus the dainty leaving, no one is Keen on the sight to look. The rising of the sun sends forth LOOK, As every viewer, to check each minute; So every rising smile, when it is, Might have the field in scorn; So aspiring doulos, though ye flatter, Perch, though mincing, visit them that you. Departing erasures, weeping, trembling, Departing tastes, smells, sights, sounds, tones, That have the color of vain recoveries, All the drifts of the mind's valor, fortitude, Haunt me a little when the book I behold That meets in ======================================== SAMPLE 86 ======================================== But such is the jubilee of the night. The glorious Lord of hosts; the primal blaze; Whose beauty was on earth ere its glory shone, And, radiant with its splendors, when the moon Looked her last out through the dim, twilight air. The powers, the Universal King; the Lord Infinitely Great; his glorious name Unafraid; who hath by Him with love sufficed The sun and moon, and all the stars in heaven; And all the breath through radio waves Yet are there things which touch the multitude. Whose beauty is more than light, and love More than love, and whose good-behavior covers All heaven and earth. The ancient Light of Faith Can truly be said to light the skies In which the Sorrow of God with mee In shining with benisons shed; And from the East unto the West streams The spirit of the Eternal King. To us, as our wise ancestors conceived While they defied the thunders of the gods, So to our age he beareth the banner Of the Great Commander, and like a God Stakes up the loud zeal of the Almighty name, That as by art-wizard afresh he makes The spirits of those who never slept And this may sound to you as a joke: 'Lo, I send the winter away, And bid the spring glitter through the leaf-parched ground; I grant, I bring a seed-time never weary, And when I am well underneath azure skies, I'll be a God of summer-weather.' The old man, too, believed that elsewhere In other realms the like auspicious answer comes For man's rewards by way of the Final Gather. 'If man's family tree springs off at the same spot In which I have it,' he said, 'it stands; And, if His shoes be set in the hollows of the bank, I know that He walks the streets of the City in shoes.' Now, with some care and pressed here in this deep source, I bring you the tradition, and I'll make an end of it. Dearly have I given my soul this summer-time, And my flesh with many a script eight times rewritten; And much I mine eyes and my heart have done To the machine that sitteth like a huge pulping ship,-- Shall I be allowed to God-gifted height of this And sign to-morrow, and at once, and at once, T' observe this limit will I?--or shall 'There must be an end to this,' will I say?-- But, look! we are almost to the place where he Whose words make all things go wrong was wont to stand; He'll not be very glad of that! God rest him, I'll sit by and watch him,--or I and he together Out in the sun and laugh at all that ever hath been, And love and pity art a-making with the roots Of all that is in what already we have named here As 'life,' 'ancientness,' 'love,' and 'the labyrinth of faith 'In which we found thee,' and 'our hearts' and all that! O, but there's more than sense in those words I've heard Scrawled by old Bo's foot upon the wits' ways That creep like light machinery through the hairy clouds To strike it a minute since--some angel-grace Of thinly laid spices in the decaying earth Or sandy muscle like a morn-inspired muscle To loosen up and soften all things for grief's silken dreams. But what then the end we're shortly going to find? Will there simply be? as be everybody's desire, Some faint beyond allis callin round to this Never heard before--that slower and less clear of doom-- Some fancy old Fortune held ancientstalkingwith? some passion old or fresh That she's got ahold of? some half-confessed sweet Feline delirium the astral vision where we look on the true Transforming preciousness of all with tendrils of gold? What then? though men turn pale as sudden on all that gold, Can fortunes make not mere a face, but which in place Of wildering ambition makes a straight taper slender like A well-stemmed bird? nill, tho they be old or be dead, They're poor not humble, indeed, but made and madeau dallaire. Even the cheapest backbit from a gambler is that He takes a wise man's manna and leaves it to the cat, Who, tho long dwelling in a sterile neighbourhood And visited by all police authorities ======================================== SAMPLE 87 ======================================== Bess's steeples; even Bess looked a trifle blue, And nought took farther would satisfy a snarf-lar Than up the hole of some long-legged tradewind. But a sun-burnt wind, high in the gaunt sky, Struck in upon Bess's slumbrous pleasure, And she fell asleep; and the room, unkind As ever the way o' the drudge, beheld Of the naked bed the different sexes, Some full, some short, and some, or made the worse With things at pother with wantonness and vice. But at last, methought, a stable-clay jay, The harmless, prudish, bourgeois jay, Circled the cave with fashion, and the quad In brief was this:--"1. A large sum of gold; 2. A list; 3. I have met the Queen; 4. King is in a buggy-pen; 5. But I was not my father's mate. 6. King is a flat-bill; 7. But I was King of all sport. 8. 'Tis Simon Roderick's ninth 'magic'-- Who puts it in? "The tenth 'magic' shall pay More honour than this pot ever earned." As the fourth and last of these choric knot Showed that the whispered Simon on Then a heavy cannon-shot sped from out A Nevada messitory and struck On Simon's helmet the very seal: As stupified by speech was the brain, The utter worth of the choric knot Begun to dawn on Simon's glazed eyes, As, kneeling, he cast his eye into the dark, And, "Oh, my soul!"--said he,--"What riches then! I've come, after years to this no hopes to count, And only to get the name of a treasure! And the name! O, let me have the name! I'd be the Richryst its loosest knight, And be as blythe beyond the Novaya Began, And other rich men as since and after. But the main point is the name--the name! SOME friends of mine had been tarriance for ye, As ye now stand to be worshipped. What did we Believe more, what aught more ye would have lost? What cared we for the fagots made with play We used to give our souls a boysey watch or A watch, a diamond ring, a shirt-hemp, A ring, coarse barley-sheaves, or a goldfinch? We snared the bird, poor lads that went to tilled Those rich barleys loons in green brocks Mixed our meat, we bruised the fragrant spice, Till both sat like birds with one avidity For outrageous things, and one for all. And at the tinkling of the tumb Brob, The hemm-de-skry, God in heaven, was Sampson Man, Who saw a strip of Sierra Nevada At Nicolere, and Nicolere saw God, At Ben Vorat the Eye of man fell, At Ben Vorat the Hand of man fell, At Ben Vorat the Toe of man fell, At Ben Vorat the Toe of man fell. All things come partial,--this the great Progeno Will not earn an easygall. We went to tempt With his cureless heart, the Devil so gross At the enthralments of a nigher law, And all this has we done, or dared, or shall do, Or have in view, see put the stars away, Or thyself damn'd, to make his head the mark, Nor stop a thought which be to thee As one least tasteful, but the least heinous: Thy Fashion goes as far, as this goese not At the most endewed couch. Let us sit awhile, my shoulder on my head, Tossing to th' East the sunshine and the sky Over the sod, as they, plain as if pinched, Over the summit of Richardsons strain Straight up, at the white foot of this pyramid Of eighteen pound ripple, and talk of red storm, When this and the Ben contend, as one may suppose, Over the pocket-book of some chap Full of plaster-Britainne, or some intrepid Adventurer in the waters of the sea, Who getting grapeshot, and intrepid Invokes, for presthetta, what is worth Hythmanes, what Kys, what C ======================================== SAMPLE 88 ======================================== rules them, whose other contest Stupifies, as some mad dog, Some crazy child, the which of yore, Took all he met, and how his beard Froze, and his flesh turn to wool. These do you thank for this promotion, And all their lawsuits are of right. If usury can force itself Even thro' a middling pimp, can't well Into the royal cargo free, nor seek Through those to whom 'twas brought, such licentious Blessings as his, who for no such end One answer made, nor word, but for the same For some greater deed, found out, did seek In him whom Gargery with all his crew Of cattle-tutors covets. Our Jove-sibyl To this is prisoner,--what issue grows From such a relationship! Is spread A table for the princes only, The people else must eat their meat with books. Meantime, what is your institution, And who the ruler of that place is? Is the sororal consequence, or is it, Perhaps, that to rule them is your task? But I doubt if all who join in acting Out this chariot have the sense so to guide Their two wheels, that, scores of them joining, Should each be held by two apprentices, Singing and fastening them down with long nails. A few to see the game without a score, Ringed with the number of the rest, will get, Like me, an eyeglass. Dear lord of eyes, Your most complete portrait, paint but yourself! And I suspect that you, so particular, With the painter in head and hands and feet All put in place, and adding in the view The usual braying of "FRASER," Will end the list of twenty-two; So do not change the art of leading beads! I suspect, that as many drive, As have wings from head to heel, the desire. Ah! but these blunders, these curses, these arts, Are but the training of my peer, In whom all maxims of improvement, Inorulations, prizes, pains, All, except the true arpeggios, motion, sense, In their pure forms are perfect, ingenuous; While you, braggart, with but one qualification, Which only you themselves can remove, One half the value of your species own, You, incensed by no petty trick, But the simple wanting of one splinter, That sends some females siringARDSTREIT_57 <|endoftext|> How shall a vot'ry, by mean tricks, Be kept in pleas: By true repentions pricked alone, They make the keen spies Of all their future fair Whose faith is ere the dead. They always love some fair lady Whose loveless face doth change; But death doth loath this miserable race, No kiss, no more, no kiss at all. What laughing eyes with love do show! What presents doth mothers make! What false involving of bad desires! What odds of winning seeing one face! What constant sights attend! No slow degrees of heating, No slow diseases, no late punishment, No suit of splendor doth appeal to, But to do service or bitter service, Some loss of dear address'd thing; Some loss of life, or sound existence, Any short - stay'd destruction. Against false kind bar (who do not let Votes on books always, and as King) That nought is seen, as senses flow, But for they fall or gain, as the check Keeps in count of its self the number dream; Virtue alone out of the dark probes, And by his branch of goodwill is known To bring the colour up, if not the bud. There is no path, who looks thereat; Nor straightway does that darkness drop Into the water that light uses To drink, and so exist. Nor hath that inner light the tongue, To sound beyond its proper power, And to express uncouthly How some dark matter lurketh, And how in far a depth lurketh Deep hidden from the day; Which both derives from that bough It daily meets, and clips the leaf; That visible tree, which out of The living light is laden, And into the spirit, on each hand, Lies concealed; yet not a bough, Albeit a living one, doth raise The hiding concealing tree. ======================================== SAMPLE 89 ======================================== A more delicate charm at once they pick'd out, The souls of maids: all things they were 'ware Of, but 'twas the souls of maids; all they saw Sought to carry with them beyond the grave, That made them lovely as a heaven's light, More beautiful than fire, than the sun's best ray. 'A soul,' the soft Clara cried, 'a soul's not more dear The living, than water to the dead: You said that in your camp, my soul went. But, oh, that other was the Lord of life-- As sweet a charm in exquisite as vernal May-- And he with dancing on his gestures charm'd E'en angels, as fallen leaves do fall, when all Round the crown'd hearth are fragrant breathing-soos And boughs are tombs: such 'twas, hov'ring by the way, That gaudy trumpets waved, that heralds sweet The mighty season of jubilant good news from him. Unto the town the saint to vanguard gave, And 'bove himself the shield of stiffen'd mart to come: With a devout sorrow in his eyes like sapphire gleam'd The winning sign, 'twas th' hour for troops of maids. There fless 13,000 marching in guard array came, And spearmen from the hills 10,000 strong; Then both the country armies followed close; And trumpets, that blow out war and peace, Were busy with the great honour made. Before the town the rivals meet and file, And chafe one another as a herd of cattle; And each for beauty bids his mates pursue The streaks of heritage in mod marks of green: That is the cry from one side and down Oneicora's name fly, And you hear the rest from Natale's Maurya: That's the language of the women, not a word in charge. And now 'tis trot; the days are all make or best or worst, And every thing is mixed up messander'd. Th' Angel of the acreless, whose chivalry Is the pride of Agric, bids the battle begin, And o'er the field the vast information rose: So dewy-beautiful it all was laid, So thickly were the streaks of kindling red. --But here the thrill is horrid, 'twas said that fear Of the unknown truth groped at her flight. The toylter Laura runs away, She journeys ill, but she seeks to look about, For something that unnerves her at dawn. --But see what lovelier thoughts than fear are born, When love's first race the feminine doves: When doubtful sense is but sweet concord is made, When lyre and lute both moist and chill with dew. Thus the round heat of this long flying day, In juggling with delight and doubts, In marvellous leaps from star to star. We turn the same as the silk of night Fixed on high in heaven: for no time stop For those that on it settle with the sun. The hour of sterne and animagable Would ne'er-so grievous eye-pain to behold As round as reed-bedebit looked down on BRAHMA From place to lovely place on this live train, Or as the better fortune seemed on this side Of whirligotted palaces, if grapged and tethered For this is well: here is she who is Antic amber of every star, Whitening every withering age: this uncompanion'd head, Though crisping edges, inward tranquillity: This pure enate smiling at the full dolblast For ever, for ever: on whose hearing falls Thy quenchless eye's astonish'd lightness of despair. Yea, from whose loins shall wither, melt, fail, and show Not the blane of these grim eyes, but new Eternal hills whose grass all valid years To youthful spirits gives: who yet at birth Alone trust will to the lofty power Of yearly raise; who yet shall find in loves No slavery worse than that which the fear Of languid passion lists in frugal micro- From any partner; who can all feasts Of LOP'S and PLEASURE'S house breathe Aught less than leaven'd hope, and not aught Aught whereby one may sink and fear to die. E'en such a pleasure knowing as we do The terms on which he meets his Antient Sire. ======================================== SAMPLE 90 ======================================== default to foul reception The coarsest beggars can from street to street Peruse for hire. Is it a bad thing To be an instrument in the hands of a thief Or a pricker to have a sore under one's back Or a small pleasure to have a thumb fall out Because all of us Are uncomfortable all the time and we invent In our tortured minds (and the next step is To extend our imaginations) New inches and bed-wrongs It's difficult to admit we're unhappy And difficult to invent a painful prickle To put upon a dog or a woman And difficult to feel one's feet worn down With heels that won't dig gins. The moon is wearing down the moon And I'm afraid of the end of the world And the end of the world is the end of the world Because the end of the world is the end of it and The cold end of the world is the end of the world And the hot end is just the start of the new beginning And we're all embarked on a new quest To find out why we're an knot of stink And a litmus test for the Central Race And the race is to see which of us is humanity. I suppose we all know Why we write what we write: To try to explain our feelings And the pleasurable and the painful And to seduce the helpful one In our crews With a brief lecture On the nature of beauhomenism And what we feel about the sun And which one of us is a complete prditive And which are dollar-lated And what we're fighting for And who is our foe And is feminine and which who is male And whether champagne makes Breguet Or Steyr Augenbrick And whether Blue Scourge is dollar or blue but makes the coolest fire And which one of us is most dangerous And what a girl wants And which of us is most guilty Of trying to get divorced Or most guilty Of having sex on the train With a man who isn't fit And so on. <|endoftext|> "The Hour", by Philip Larkin [Living, Death, Health & Illness, The Body, The Mind, Love, Relationships, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] It has been said that Healthy Life is an hour, And that its joy has sixty minutes of thrill. And those who have seen this have said that it is so. But these times, unfortunately those strokes of thrill Have not been sixty minutes but years And inured are our feelings to months, Days seem like tyrants who crush gently, hopelessly Eternal spirits. We live in an age when men are like slaves Chained to the watery wheel of trade And when heroes on steam-ship wains and stages Have no heart but plank-work for the show And cry with mounted girl for cork-stamps They have parted from the times before in which Their spirits were such as now are past When I am like this, When I am unable to discover Myself, whether I am I Or the self which in the twinkling of an eye Announces to the world that he is that Which he delineates him, It is not difficult to trace The changes of this man Through his brain's stratosphere, But I am freed from it, Free to go its level, Its nature's terrain, Girt by an intellect's meshhouse. Now at this hour There are two shapes within his brain: First, there is the shape of brogues Of foggy, autumn trees, the fog that has late Come in to round his mouth and have their bow Of cream-wear, but which is not cream-wear So that the corners of that mouth Do seem as they did in the fumo when that hue Was more rare than freshness; and his head's one Sight where the hair stands up alert in a ring Of white within an ash of jet. Second, there is the shape of an old Mistress Natty, stiff with pink caresses, Reluctant of a seal trapped between stone And ice, with a melt of bouillon that is grey But not with murk, with a pit of burnt-off sun. Like this, the spirit is in a fog Of dead and past year's events, which since Are heavy and heavy, clogging the back Of his brain's highway, making it slow Down memory's dead-man turn. This is a time for life When hope should make us surety; For like the m ======================================== SAMPLE 91 ======================================== The new moon stands Gaunt and gray, Lies cold and pale, Sodden with weeping. I walk, And with me the moon The ancient tale. And I, as I The tale relate, Pass under the Sámarama Giant's fort. My followers are the three, The sky-born gods, Who stand, as yonder star-fangled Ocean pouring to the shore, All darkness veiled. They gaze upon me, I bow Before their blest feet, Those feet that are swift To dismissal. I see them and I worship. Their present goal, My faith's true end, My true aim is to reach; Their feet to mark. The Sáam, mine eyes, beholding, Awakened at the sight, Invited through doubt's—tried through proved. Come thou, the brave, the noble, My sweet self to see, My life, my breath, my soul. Come, be my help. Icarian and satiated, The day's task done, Come feast me with gude-thought crowned With fruit of tender sight. What need of more? Sweetest, dearest, catch the fragrance Up from the lea! My Sítá, hear my words, I pray, As oft in childhood and youth. Thou still hast never spared To flow towards me; My only treat, in source and here, Since we began this life, Have been visits from the distant Spirit of the wind. Let wavering mist have sway Not thou: For thou and lav'or were alike Though she and mist should be either: In either's vast descent, Her garb have I known, While as yet my summer retains The flower she brought. Awe-bound and-invested, Like captives led by slaves, I saw her, rose Muse, yet au revoir, From thy great Ben Pil-wd sage; And when at last, and in the silent Awais, I dirged her last surmise Whom they they let flow, With a love-rosmur at the last, They'll build a cell, Have I been short? Short enough, Muse, of ok oneo five, I have been of long unmeasured wiIs life o' days. Come, golden youth, and pour the cup Into my life, the thirst-quenching. If so, the thirst, that buildeth thus, Buildeth our soul free to behold The light beyond, the night past. The way is quick, take this bud Under the left eye-ring, Loue, for thou In Loue's book of light hath written, Wondrous indicio, wondrous proof Of wide Bouhel Bao's empyreal frame, 'When kingdoms meet and spheres unite, They bring the kingfyndum back again; But the contract Wil-torrent of this wine Will fall sweet as dewy hazel buds, At that white wine of thine, O there-withal, What needeth yoursfitto fill the cup? Wee, shy-some, satin-swath o' roses, That spring doth wear, upon the bri-de-lis, To guess at all we know of future doom. 'I am that Age, whose winty years contain Moves of wild Gomorrah, and his crown Alight with stars of lambABEEF's flittering hairs; Past also his tomb, where his-straight road Hashes the lion from his mortal road, Rounds PEOCOY near and far Circes's mound: Yet still his laureates share with lesser things; And honour should keep clear in his name. So heedless of the censure he may meet, His soul to him 'scapes not till it ruinate; For who can talk of kings and rulers dead, Or prophesy when he hath not eyes to see? 'But when his Dawn shall shine again, and water Ejecta tractable all mourning sights, Perchance he may again his brothers ======================================== SAMPLE 92 ======================================== Where lie the shells of the ancient sea, In my heart I carry a hope to fill With fragments of old songs, such as these I sing; Ah! and the silent shimmer of anon Is all the music I can bear to sing. But this is my love and I--I For all things sublime, Must fight and scrape; And all my pains With all my might strive To make this my highest will my lowest plan, So I struggle. It is true, of all my thoughts the love of this Is most true to me; For when all sleep, or all night, the heart may keep The love of an eternal daylight, strong to cloy The sleepers. So the night is over, my lone heart says, As the grey dawn breaks, Ah! but ah! for the better part of this We have not the last of our prayers for the day; But your last! For from the heart that fathered and reaped You may come at any hour. I am but the stone upon the path. And do. And do. We wrestle and strive. We gasp for breath. What know we But hate and hatred in numbers? Do. And do. We cannot rise. We see the nightmare end. But death fascinates me. I know the man who, by this clock, To me says: "Don't come again." And I Flee but not gratitude; Flee but not with fulfilment. But death I know, and I Know the man who says, "Come not again." And do. And do. Are we so soon to pass From this world where all are near, to this Better world where none are seen? And night is best. And do. And do. For sleep Is prayer; and wake, the darkness. Do. And do. And do. And do. Why wake? Why Wake at all? we say, at all?" She answered not to his. She died free and alone. And, though the night was God, The night could not make her billows stand By man were billows watched, or any friends, The night could not keep her under And then she was not all that loved mankind. And then she was not all that lived and died. And then she was a woman. I know her as a woman is. Which makes The darkness darker where she has died. Do. And do. And do. This man of noms. And do. And do. Ah! all ye who never knew A woman's life, and how his Disposition burned Until his life was taken From him on the hour, Behold the quick, furious sunshine A harmonic pair! Exqu who we all call "Hermithion" A shade, a woman, yet, With a leap, a death, made for him In high heaven, and men forced, To their advance a roaring open, And a lady mourned him From the width of earth Across the height, the chill, the joyous time When life was breathed, And she lay In the sleeplint grave And the lark went revelry, And the night was overrun With baleful stealth, And when the Queen was found Half light, The Widow was unwilling, for she Had the heart for what was frivolous, And had reason, And science, and everyone conspired To sell her; and she fled From the night that knew her shame, And who could hope For a different fate from that Which there she must have found? Nay, for that he was well known, and none Had ever rated his elegance Or his kindliness, and when he came, And he turned some one's head, it made Homage towards him, this pleasure born, Among the betters, but unseen, And when they had gone away, the man Dressed, as he walked, in the gay and boistrous crowd, Had reason to be famed. One reason too Of that kind, alone, he performed; for many, Among the chosen, the brimming Cleopatrian, Knew him until he left the house, and later, As a made beauty, was compelled to own him After his death, and in the darkness of grief His sudden coming dimmed the waves of beauty That ran sweep for reach of: yet he lived through all that. In this: he loved each woman of his life From his mother down to the ======================================== SAMPLE 93 ======================================== testes solerit conscius erunt. Et primo diffundit cervice moles gaudet artis, Totius precor videt poma fera profundi. Totio sub incerto fecit flumina gore mum, Undoso olim intingit domus olim. At mors aegra videtis diluvii nummiter, Tegubus dant opus iuvenes in zuigen. Iphinctus laudat corpus mutam velut amicuit Venontius int! nec placent subummina mili. Post obitum da in esto muro tura nigri non aestu, Cingit edificio magni sub vollis agmine, Et minus illo, regnat subsit olim facer. Nocuit quantum ante omnes blandeis in umbrarum niger, Aut vates tutorum licetum libidine manu! Nec vos dabit dare pro mira nepot cineri, Nec quisue non vinum se blanda visist cr retentione: Nec sibi quo pio non pro secreta canat ab alto Drapite superessi, quoque potuit refipisht mane. Quippe oftant sibi sub impetum quia non rapis orbe, Aut vates tum cum sopor olim sanguine isse suum. Dicesonae hic omnis sub oblique siluestra facerunt, Aut duo per tantis sua permissascent. O qualifier honore diable qui reputantur, Templumque et multum sine licea mane, Quippe famae, et grandia lauit ad ipsum mantique. Si viventum vestigia nostri ferre acerba cequet, Iubilantur unicum de prodarum libello: Totaque siquis est sibi libet, facunde solum. Ille princeps Eugine trecentius Hic est regni, genetrix onos. Cum ubi lex oriturus clausas Mansura subbine nax, de quibusame Currunt amata sicca, fama socious. Et simul altior hoc consimili nominis Ubi, duresque nomen generatum fide limo. Spes, alas, absent from thy halls-on-wall, Ah, who was this yesterday That now doth nemerah life keep shut With sad gotha, and of thee saith, "Lo, it was wondrous sweet; I knew, Before thy blood did blot my page, In brain that dream of bliss I had!" Thy fair Eve-sown brows, though absent yesternight, In the last night-hour, while quiet lay, Have held company with remembrance Upborne by thee in desert solitudes And in high heaven: for jealous damsels e'en Death immedicable from thy view In bitterness had long time(405) barred this mole. Where, her last hours for ever melted into rime In every breast did freeze; when sudden breasts Anchored at once her flutterings short-lived: She then, as one that water in the wall With water pure her hopes toDone upon a rock, She then, as one who parteth parforce tries, Spieths cold Dreams aflock in a cold engin: One from morn to night she's parted, and parted; And the stream crost that stretches broad while yet: She then, as one who feeds and matures ho, She crid me a look, and said, "Hush! O hush! O hush, I pray you with the same breath call Termages as thou may'st, that deathless are: Go to them; make haste to take their means With thee: so much golden content Below, was all the void which thou e'er canst not fill." And the dream of sweet Thea, in which I rode, In soft Venuses came the poore bliss Of kind Apollonia to perplex me; To raise by charge of some abandoned dame My lifeless horse, whom chaste time hath seised Untenured still, and left her know the grounds. There was noe sorrow but in me: Noon with its regular hand Made autumn's g ======================================== SAMPLE 94 ======================================== suddenly my heart, Anxiously asking For help, answered yes. <|endoftext|> "The Persians", by Zadie Smith [Living, Time & Brevity, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] "I don't want your stone," they say when I say I'm going to Tibet to meet a man who's been 100% on the ground there for three decades. He's been to a lot of places, but this is the pinnacle. "I don't want your stone," they say. Two thousand years later, his face is fresh in my memory, and it is as grim as any other face I have ever seen. He is no saint. In his khoti, he wears the big, brown wool beard like there's some important business done. I want to get to the point. I want to go to Tibet. How about this boulder, should I throw it? I've never played so much for the schemes of ambition and hope as I do now. I have been trying to figure this out— Lamoon, Monaise, Aroma, all the elaborate terms— for a long time now. This is it: I'll throw this boulder at a world that will not, will never, come to its senses. <|endoftext|> "Thou is man's pride", by Richard Gilmore [Religion, Faith & Doubt] If the damned ascend rise up, if an angel perad finosam, fresh from the fair, which is the field of our desire, if they entailment enter the body, and that our will with other things shall procure, and if our desire shall pass from waiting on high, we shall thereby know where to wait on hope, where we shall discover, and we shall find what is our desire is. There is no god but man to whom salvation is given. There is a way to this inheritance man did fruit of his work. But which way I know not, I leave to those who bear that distinction most deserving. Omnipotence perfect strive; that is our real world, though it is a world of persuasion, all day, by day it is received, man doth receive it, in house or field or place, though in a world of vision, the perfect attainment of will perfect. That the thunder descends here, then, all exceeds, sign that our angelic overflow is beginning. Then the ruler of theoul of righteousness shall come to fix and unlock, man the key that will unlock the upper world, to permit formation of melody manifest in persuasion. Then shall be revealed the will of our happy starting-point, the nature of our fair end, the opening truth. Then the beginning of the divine fencing-off. Then of our fair contemplation, the content, the end, the allure of perfection. Theny and thou shalt see how it is good to be prepared. <|endoftext|> "Minstrel", by William Dalrymple Allred [Arts & Sciences, Music] You were, little mouth, But now I fain To throw a frishet in: —A wind of the twinkling City, And a yielding, of the wandering tone, That dreamed of the ebb and flow Of our large proud city.— Now, all up, The winds of the wind will wash over us An hour and a quarter—just till the last one goes, And the great hope hangs dry as a stone. The places are desolate, for them, And they are empty of music, —Now if their Chorionic spheres Should split, and come down in one With the ordinary water in the ground —This should be a moon, And a song beneath the moon, Not sound of the searching after, And the search itself is the music: The Late players were only Doing what they did like to do, Making a little of their person, But having some excuses, as they were ill, Worried about their ======================================== SAMPLE 95 ======================================== [] The gods are dead, by Paolo Don The rosy-bosomed Hours are breathing in the dark, The sweet moon is rising over the sea, The waves are washing the sweet hill shore with sound, The wind is shouting in the vernal twilight—now the leaves beginning to fall. <|endoftext|> "Sapphic in the country", by E. A. Sterling [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Spring, Winter, Religion, The Spiritual, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] The stars aft the coast, the lilting birch-shadow; Lilting birch-shadow on the ice, The long moon below in the glistening fields of snow; The tongues of ice, each brace to nourish tall grass, And the gold that wakes beneath the silver snow; The brilliant day wrapping all: anigh The Swiftiest running of fleetest feet That storms the powers of darkness, and swift winter. <|endoftext|> "A shortcontinuance", by. Jennifer Rautbo [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Time & Brevity] A shortcontinuance: loquacious, should be wellawareof continuance, what it is,what it leads to, its shadow,what it leaves in its trail. This, secretlyavenging a slight wrong, a drinkingwith a longcontinuance, a prayerfullaquement, to leftivec, to rightive. <|endoftext|> "Boy looks to cloud's vanishing ", by Jennifer Rieti van Malhecoteel [Living, The Mind, Love, Desire, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Gay, Lesbian, Queer, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexual Minorities] Boy looks to cloud's vanishing In eye's painting In cloud's hypothetical Parallax, In the still-listening In hush of heart's long silence, and the laden sighs That hush the former lover's sighs—and what is like to worship And what is enjoyed so sweetly And what shared and what is erotic—Clouds with which we is introduced to linger— We watch with long care, hand in the crease Of dawn's gradual goldsmithies— <|endoftext|> "After Champéforce - Rolling #1 Grand", by Stephen Spender [Living, Disappointment & Failure, The Mind, Style & Class] Rolling I have been .... The poor need opinions And they expect to pay. And so I freely admission make I am no top. In fact I can't be this height, I'm frightfully unfit ... It's dreary application ... I'm mathematically sick ... The top of the slope I'm sure I're totally incompetent ... With age the same effect I can't the reverse apply ... The old are violently simple ... They're grossly gay ... They have nothing to say And they're directly up and through ... When I was twenty I was conscious every minute ... I ate my cayenne. I looked in the barrel of a play To see if I could get a clear idea ... The twenty-something ... I'd have given anything to see That glow has passed away I was ashamed ... Rolling I have been ... I've been rolling minders Since I became a rolling minder ... My minders are turning ... Till too late ... <|endoftext|> "The Infinite", by Catherine Su disaster residency [Living, The Mind, Love, Desire, Relationship & Unloveliness, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] "The concept of the Infinite (also called the uncausedidescent, the impossible quality)" —Wikipedia when you have fallen on me you have pitched earth flat on me we have domed our ideas of us we have subscribed to our own depth the difference between a concept of the infinite and the uncausedides bound unlovely form i most unkindly deset you unlovely form i most unkindly deset you the concept of the instant the concept of the love of infinity is neither simple nor constant the concept of the instant bound the concept of the powerful immediately limitless the concept of the concept of the concept of the infinite bound the concept of the infinite the concept of the instant the concept of the powerful right now i have the instant i most love fully love the concept of the boundless concept the instant boundless concept i most bound the concept of boundless i most love the concept of instant <|endoftext|> "The Lonely", by Elaine Equi [Living, The Mind, Love, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books, ======================================== SAMPLE 96 ======================================== ashore, His in the evening-gather. "As all around is dark, and he is lonely, Comes a sound of singing from the house. On the kettle's edge the water glides In a lumping, lumpy stream; While the imp's voice sings, 'Aft again You and I were happy with Miss Fudge, And the name of Now, my good steed, I pray, listen, And you'll have no difficulty In finding my stall, at any rate." Then the speaker sat down and looked quite serious, For he had a dangerous big opinion Of his own cause, and he said, "There's another thing, my friend, That I really think may possibly mend Your troubles. Last night, as I said, Miss Fudge begged a boon of me, and I very Bethought us for twenty-five, with the stipulation That she would "only dance with you once, and kiss you Once, and never marry you, if you're very Beautiful to her, if you are." "Now, what do you think of that, Sir?" I askt, And the hero speakt and nodded, too, "A dupont, or final cause?" he asked. "What is that, Sir?" says I. "A young beauty," says he. "Mein dear," quoth the impotent imp (I'll not tarry my story to trace The mode by which this beauty won her ends), "We'll go out to the cattle, and see what I can Find there, and among the goods and chattels You seek to include, for she claims those her Are worth two hundred pounds." "Quite right, my friend," thought I, "and so I will Be engineering a large profit, and then From your large addition to the cash available Find means to put a current in To that most desirable property, That cottage on wood-spot far from town. But first I'll go out, and this beauty kiss you For it really is such a lovely tall Beauty, and yet her kisses are cold." So, calling all the timej from the better hand, And the better cheek, the better sense, something else That no goodness could exceed, or much ease uncover, So, looking out I stretched my whip, and wheedling Came reeking to the cottage, stopping to learn my wealth Of wonder as I went from this beloved house, To a tavern called. I made a start up As the bells for a dance began to fall, And then, proceeding, enter'd darkening the house Like a bad trell Of stone, and higher up than that whereon The bride had already lit. The lamps, which were growing faint and more scarce, Began to shine out through beams of amber light, To make all light in that cave impressive. The floor to me was as that where we sit To witness futurity--either unshaken And thus the prospect of the future see, Or with remote symptom of distress. Vividly then that ministration by bles Applied Wonder to wife and mother--my old nurse's shape. And the two gross pins from my front, The clasps coming off, and the wig taking in Were wife and mother, prophesying both. The face hereof, morning and so black, Was mirrored everywhere. "The lady" sat there, with "This is" In voices like the trumpets of the mad. Speechless upwards had she thrust The hot arms which she had lean'd to sate The water-cup. So prophesied Of the child unfavoured of my lady, And the boy--for my sort is the only one Who can have a share in a girl's hot bath. And the father stood pudgy there, saying Good God! what a big head he had, Staring all around and calling my name. The night hath now risen, and we shall have To move afoot, if we would have Thefe forest, and fruit, and leaves for meat. I will sit beside you, dear, and open The jar of trade, and tell you what: For you and others like you, I trow, It is good land, whose miles of pasture The sheep can find, and the hawks find. To you alone I have bound peace, And thus liked corn, and liked nobody Else; I having eat up all I can And not enjoyed yet, though it is prime. And I have seen, you have not escaped me, From those win ======================================== SAMPLE 97 ======================================== Wantonness the parent of all mischief; The brat was put into his power; And all that youth it lost that day, And all that gold it had to boot; No chariot, no horses, none to drive, He'd ever be so silly as to try. All that youth that could be trained to do, Is dancing, driving or running; They're as a branch of air, a noise, Fit san'lest men to be under ground; The reason they should thus be taught, Is because those arts will make them great; The only skill that counts is that which brings Money in hand; and that can be done By any art that can be taught. Fool! Foe! Names that spring to mind, Describe the vile action;--actor; But name companions, and you strike Tramp, hired villain, or prowler after wood; And all the dictionary stems and wells Or knurlers in the world of fraud. I've known the very young and old, Sick, wretched, noble, cheaply slaving; Sick, wretched, noble, cheaply slaving; And all I saw was--what 'twas. Now, 'twas the forest all about That was the puppet-maker's field, Where he'd make of spades and pots his cakes, Or make the pot of skull That would stand on its own handles high; 'Twas there that he his foolish child Spent his last dream to the world with grief, And made his monotonous dream her cake; There was a problem fit for thoughts That he would see a king and queen produce (Of which he was undoubtedly one); And as each genius in the category Picked wisely at the appropriate drop, He'd pear-tree and willow, because The left-handed pot might prove quite as right, And left-handed fork, his weapon final, Be seized by turn by perfect set of mind. Well, this was the apparition Of the forest to that curious boy, Who followed all the closely as new morn From that same voice to that same presence said; And from that same earthly address The very manor house he fled, With eft-hopped horn that might declare The mighty interest he pursued By heeding not the developers' strife; By glass that might divine Whate'er was deepest scooped through The beaded glass, to come As from great leagues of grey, Or hollows of alabaster, The last practicable drain Might break upon his hand; Or when extreme delight In one case taken stood the boy knew The spectre held he might not beat, The phantom fled away Before he plucked for followings, Or kept him awake till awake. And thus, 'tis reasonable to aver, As development comes and goes, So use will grow of striking and running And gallop on the old stroke. As he whose wrist, from irking limb To new sense of oft usage known, When walked as grace the blest eels, Though fashioned of frail bones and wire, Will find his oaken heel turn back When faced with the wintry hill, Will bring him to his building; Will bring him to the springs and wheels, And hope he have not them defy. Whereby, and this is but a guess, The shape of his building brings his soul And vision through its nightmare here, As down in the ditch-veins of the kidney The blood runs to the head in boil, And shape and trace now notion and wish. And thus may the skull through veins get to heart, And that be sense of dining; As often indeed as he has ate of loving-- Which he need not hurry to do-- But rather by penalty far gone-- As soon as Meredith's too defie; As well-framed was the glass that frames us all, That none may have us'd on him more! But never feel I that I have fully served him, For he, by dint of not too much rebuff Will soon, more feelingly pursue The thing for which I did strive and fret But could not make a plumb: never have I Kept back my place on the same level field From which, however "men's mouths gape wide," Some plekes live, or theirs he favours most, Like the state of ulees that reek on my side: His influence over my plumb may be, But not the Lord's; and more I might not brook Than take to myself the rap- ======================================== SAMPLE 98 ======================================== julien gine forte to forte, Benigne unto the Romanke To forsterne, of whom I thee desriued. Passe has, ingagues, when such sorcerie Waketh such entast, as mocketh eie The Cerberus of such stryfe and scarlet, And makes men it to flie from th'Ate. Hoche man am I, as is my gredie, Afeirer than is Aurora herte; To Benacus, whare my yeeage is paid, Possone what's to my natur me constructive. And stone of oxen, if it so large be, Powell in Portugal, I like to telle, Sor do you so soone ballyt hym doon, If he can whiche to on on on onny thay That dooth al the chese of myn bile, To drede and decke in thamer her bewrech? Sarc of my choice, a feast of mine: For onth of mys langage, I trow, A streed of pees and of cattle, A man, that in a spere may set his pede, The children lasse than he schal to quelle The fleshe rest thereafter, and steche Hath set his brisshe aboute his pose: And last I chaiere in my manere To this realme, whereof ye wer; I say, as me liketh to bere, Thanne two of my name and his Thocht were, and be his bysnetake. Rothe whan thei telle, or smale rican, For enmies wrought unto other; Ferst was it to red and then it comth, As for a man, wher he wol make him fre, He neede not wher as enemie Hath lost or worldes his prosperite: For of a man, as ye to retene, The comun of vennovox is the fre, And of the thridde, as it is of Sente. And as another man of this kind, Or evere elle with thoke enmei demes, Or elles to ron in the grete spurt, Thanne ih long time sette hire afyre. A madrige or a tale, ordhaire, Or pensive stille, is not for som, To ryde therwith, and comth novamement, Bot as a wether he wage have His life, his riht, bot as a doer. Ther mai be withoute prejudice One of here will excechen whos marc, Another, eke, schal speke him berith, And as men say, a blod in som lok Is cleped, which makth a wal lo take Of o semant, and of that fyrick fat, The stoce is mad and the creatures shift, Wherof the creature may do ryches: I speke in generall yf this sort, The whiche manie tortures make, Ought always to endure so sore. The good schal proue ous, as doth your Til that we tourn the dieule dieu; The wynd so seide, and haue fin, Al thogh men speke of suche matiere. Men gettyn ous with godeu triste, And tellen, if that we were foor, A pourage may comence anon, Wherof the ferst of our quarel Mote in one, the other bor to grounde. And whanne he good of o nature seith, As forto telle, "thre desks beginne," He seith schame after the wordes fewe, And ny therfore whan he telleth, And ny gan his name to Gorlom Withoute blase he schal the petussment, And bryngeth in his worcon maill: The comun riht so gatte cause up rong, That the goddes mayden cleue assaie The messes, hiere that the lakers ther, The Saint, and whan the Sonne is cleped, Out of morges the foule assaie Stod faitours into god Spagnassa! ======================================== SAMPLE 99 ======================================== Than ever, reverent, And the sick dreamer to their feet: "She's lonelier than the wind." O I would I spoke, and yon night-gleam To the dusk would have led me; O I would I spoke and that dead calm Thro' your countless starry halls Would be to break, and, with the sign, One foot-print poised on the stair, Whate'er my wish, whate'er my cry, The walls would slide aside to show That life has many expeditions: The course of light o'er the sea of flame Would not have given... Yet how should through the fluttering be The Spirit that waits for this... Be silent? They, the ones I love, Would burst the shell, for this earth, when viewed From the height of her dower, would prove Kind... close but in unreasoning love. The world, to me, is human, Since all to this Earth comes down: I meet her whence she is and whence Never a-return. Yet, as I sit, I know the earth, And the good she lends. Yet, not how, I know, but why: Since every odor means a place. O Earth loved by no who win her Who yields not all she bears, Earth, for its own grace filled, would be Sweet as sugar-sweet, And glorying in her nameless grace: Now to my Earth forstood! Ah, to me nothing within That has not some red tear-drop in her, That is not wailing! The gold that warps upon her cellways And throbs in a bend of light In the room where she is lying, Has made her up to four times rich Because she costs so much. Pheimüing, rare Pheimsuing, Broken sphinx, still could she bring Sensuous raddle. All raddles of this world are naught, She is the only rose (How could she do without it?) But I would break the spell Her beauty lent me. It would be as a star to float In the same clear sky, All others, star-like and fair, To glimmer and sparkle and mean: I could not fly across My lone and star-shaped soul. Yet are not all raddles lightly fashioned, That still find Earth's help overcome: They are made so, as spirits see On idle delight or mirth bestume, (As the earth-diver views her wings Upon a sudden cool) But her lips and breath must bear the touch, And guilt like flame in parching Glovers Fufl to Life, to sicken and die. No powers on airy dust can suck, Or fulness from the wind's full channel, Or impulsion from a tepid marsh, The flux and power of such frail things But sow them from of old, and so None can drive or would that stay The speeding of rejoice. But me Earth put to abide The mandibles of a mere; Yet that is moulded out, as such are made; And there within my gentle womb Shall bide the fire that burns up here. And what am I to her but child? My roots lie in the grave of birth; And in my heart's voice doth live Oh Earth, how great thou art, And laden with the wealth of heaven! Measure for the area of all climes And all the soil and ocean born from ground, And grafted tendrils eke for each variety The tenderest field of hyperborean air. The blowing feather that now ranges The geese-guard's nest, the under the pigs' den, The turf which curls the shield, the hedge the dodge that skulks, The fence that climbs the rock the bottom haughty the steep, The dove-cots that at all day-soles are worn through, The lawn whereon the watercroos already plays, The glade where eagles build, the cave that sounds, The wood where truly die the crows all brawny, The fall of wood that is always to be seen Hemming the field like an even hall or round, And last, the fles which Arcadia knows For what thing is it to be man or woman. Take all together, hap, what's underthrown, Are we not nought, save in our bodies? The Faun's world's the one thing a world of ours, ======================================== SAMPLE 100 ======================================== A prince, a king, who blest the sight Of his vassals for evermore. Then spoke his sister the mighty Queen Thus--kneeling in her shame-- "I knew the fate which befell the youth Whose sacred prayers did merit grace, And many a noble king who sways The realm of earth, and every hero bold; But she whose mercy gave the grace of Heaven Looked not upon me, the least of these; And in the dust I speak thy name. The lot of mortals is the burden to search And strive with grief and grievance for his need. A tongue profane and ill-syn In itsy parts of talk speaketh, Sinfully disput endurment of the crown." And the King answered her: "Be dumb, be mute, Making thy prayer a shame to him who wears The purlieus of sovereignty, the crown, And he whose fame is glory in the world, Anchisered by every grave whose renunciation Seems honour has from chivalry. For many a king have we in succession held And many a king seem strong to us, Who wept his passion for the holy earth, As does Harold now; and took for his remedy The whole among the ailments of the heart." A mute response marked their discourse, Till Vivian at last made her reply: "I have seen the day, it may be, I have seen And life have conflicts flow from the palm Down to the heart; but none I see will come And gather me from backwardft And bid me to the glories with the harm. If the world be the world and if mankind Of dominion would build in the earth a state Which may beset them with molest proce- We have seen the day, it may be, it was then But a wild tone thine age danced to ere we heard The last fluting of the female fiddle In the lap of idleness and of death; Thus the voice of the argument ran on I know full well, the anger of him who useth His strength and the bulwark of his power to be The safeguard of his upright self and his view; And looking backward, Siel and I wept And she said, You have seen the future that indeed Hast thou not seen it? and no more she said Her voice rose shuddering as she ceased to them, And they as they packed up said, the day is come. They have seen it, they say, the reign of peace, And you, they said, shall all be at rest then. There came not a messenger to inform the country That terrors had pass'd the Border, but all were dull And deaf and stupid with the absurdity Of threescore years; and, probably perforce, They must pertain to such an accident To NAME that he was readiated forever, Who outdash'd his life by the edge he drew Of blood imagin'd to men's, woman, child, and child-ship; That all were plac'd for barter like useful books In the land of make-want and rum-algae-wong. From the glories and the glooms of love, From the cane's soft fire-fluke cloister'd cell, From old-world amusements rail open wide, From the haunted house and from the song and story, They gave a year to dreams and nature's quiet, One dull quick moment ere the summer dwise Softened into winter with its wet hills And all the world with calamities to complain. All the children of the hills were there With their putrid eyes that see the sun And the impudent sand of noons that see The sun's slow ring time and the sea's wide run; All were round-faced and all young and all alike, Nude beauties; yet an eerie weirdness was Found in their eyes and faces, and the smile was red. And they had brought with them a poor woman who Is begging evermore, and her starveling pair Of shoes with their laces bent double in treach'ry, Their cheeks with pomations; and they had brought Her hunger on, this winter-end, that is A risèd soul in a fed prison'd mind. She had been leadin' prepared to be a wife, And her heart was rebellaw with fear all day, and more As she enter'd the door, and look'd about her tight Of dim arresting faces, and she knew at last That there was not a creature in all that cov' Of warm hard ======================================== SAMPLE 101 ======================================== ! My son! My own! "Down upon the storm"--"I bow my head "Until all heaven beneath is named-- "Is Henry's meridian rising, "And mine, mine own, first of air." Howe'er the folly of birth, or rite, If pure the pang, how sorrow-bost 'Twas in this life-tide, when in the breast The brain 'neath the strong-willed palm doth abide "A box full of feelings:--pains, and pinches "Of conscience, like leadpins round one's ribs; "Sighs, longings of the spirit for the sea; "Dwellings of fate, at some blow removed; "Hot eyes, and heart-distending blots; "Palms honoured by the embrocation "Of wealth, and feeling made embroc too. "And last, the pangs, for failings like a cl "Of wives made ideal by one's courtesies, "Which still in consequence of the embouchure "In personal phrases filch the rest of time, "Women, gin thou wert my son, were glory left. "Ladder the climb'ring stakes into the air, "And hope, like ascentment, leads the fancy up, "To stars as in this world, and count the number "Of sickened men, in one unbound fortune's thrall, "Thus from the summit of expectations square, "So much the scarlet prism differs from yellow. "To mount these highs:--Earth's highest holds us therenert; "The cloud now burnt to water, then to fire; "Heaven's lofty cross burned off, then maimed unto sods; "And thus the highest masts a mortal god. "Why did I love him? Ah me, my child, speak "In sooth, the sole ambition now my stard. "My tears of joy (for familiar oascerity) "His fondness turned to gall, his paragon of woes. "I thought him happy, who once of this had fear, "The love to calamity the love to weather: "Woe in a world where fools go free, and by cipher "Dimwits who look love through--thus I shook my rusty mace, "And felt the beating of my epaulette; "And on the unreturning head "Vipers stung me, as on capacious snakes. "Is it my seed? I pray thee, no: "And if it be, what next? Drown in sportive draught "The only child of irony that e'er "A mortal follies like this? No more I fret: "Sufficient for this line but love's honest blots, "Lest I the avenging heavy pinch with the blots, "As treasure found in earth, unprofitable foul, "Dwell with the died-- "Thou'lt, lisping, tell me 'twas the venom in "Truth lingered on his speech, or that his light "Laughed upon him when 'twas his lord's will, "His word that pushed him to his wretched deed. "If Fate must push it to its ill, then so "Let it! yet 'twas well I could not name "A single moment in which the book Lowry Keep "Gave mine this little plot of sorrow. "It will be said (you make the dispute) "When this instance is analysed, the rule "'Birds not alone' is mirrored; there are others "Who leave the world nothing, but produce no change "That they were born, but no defect or grace "Upon the count of time, if indeed "It matters; but this I feel is growth, "And accounts not for distress. "But I might say more. "The point is new. "All this would speak too much. "The world is too stiff to be strategical. "I could, if I had an army, beat it; "But army only brings to crown, a slack "Government, if it brings such a one. "One compels me to suspect you of want of force. "I'm neither fool nor mad; and if a man's a fool "To need a fool, he's ought worth respect for that; "And as for me, I'm worthy,--being a man,-- "And putting my reason all in proof. "Do you say to me it is dangerous to be true? "How serious! Say, my ======================================== SAMPLE 102 ======================================== In the way which lies afar Beyond the world's bright-way, When the two fields of dream and law With deadened heart-pace Go hand in hand in twilight sage, Where our two paths diverge, As dim lines on a maze That weaves a web of fire. This is the fire-laden earth, In the wisdom of youth, The meeting soul of ours and nature, Where the soul is at strife With its love of and bondage to be free, That we wear and are. O fierce and quick-breathing flame! Was there ever e'er a moment When thy soul seemed as well-known And thy nature as a disgrace, As when we long to ourselves and Nation And our kind to countries and worlds In this moment of supreme agony! Of the twin memories Which pour and pour Into my heart and brain and chill. The old memory Of my boarding In a-year's time with a-countenance-- With a-name with a-nude Under a-boughs of with-a-lotus flower. Of a party which we gave In a castle in the North, And with hunts in many hues, Blue, silver, gold, We were the finest stocked Blessed day-lily Of a-parties in a castle. Of a night-wandaveller In my life, A strange castle, in a strange land, Where the lights were from far lands blown, And the fires were given by the sun From his golden watch: A wizard's castle in a lake On the far discoveried trails. Of a goose-mouthed Came this name in my life, Where I wound Through the great name of New England And winged that which had no road Into the sun and air of New England. <|endoftext|> "In an old dool with John Opdyke, Rice University", by James Arthur [The Body, Nature, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Poetry & Poets] Partly in France, and partly By the islets of the Pacific, The spirit of John Oandtopish Is invreted in John Oandtopish's blood. Hence is ferme space between us, Eleve, poodle,ison, wulusvan, Hatchew, winkum, knee-de-lampe, Haughty, haught, unco box; Natch, pickle, punch, pattle, punche, No more can-one, will-one, potone. The beast is dead and cannot write, And no more can the wolf be taught, But he got to lay his zani-coil To John Oandtopish's unamused Ere he could draw a bilby noose. <|endoftext|> "I remember, I remember, my fear and insecurity", by Charles D. Eypers [Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Memory & Reflection, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] I remember, I remember, how at war's icy table The spirit of John O'Brine that of Major Bristow had. The aborigines down in the southern Savannah Loved him; they dared, they let him ramble, Poor White Hell, its master had got to drink. And the eastern afrikan written-bare Had signed his death warrant. But all through that year of atlances There had been, I reckon, Half a damnation of Christians For people who forgot They were heathen; Forgive me till, remember, There was not an inkling Ink at all, in those early days, That is like senile pockery, That blazed on the fust and helpless. We on the fringes of the ship Had our sniffing time; The man that lost the crop Did what he could to make the most of it. The sick man kept aloof, He could bear alyso To sit Apart, and say: We have no pity for organisms. And yet He kept the tokening light, He held the fields and fences, He became, in a civil way, The Old Man of the Downs. He may have been A little careless, in that short lazaretti, But he could count, and he could see. And he could call, As nobody did, With the right accent, ======================================== SAMPLE 103 ======================================== She is the neighbour of the dearest of our kin, and a despised eviller. You can talk of 'worth', but the touch of what she is is lost, like conversation. It will distress you, you are sure. <|endoftext|> "My Garlic Dreams", by Zander deppa [Activities, Gardening, Nature, Trees & Flowers] I sneek up on the neighbor's rose who sees me run by the dragonized rug. Her big eyes go wide when she really sees me. It's true, the thing has sneeked up from the neighbour's knee, seen me sneak up and snicker the flower out of the plastic cup, the wild flower blue against the aluminum, the milkweed marquee. She knows, creeping close, observing, her butterfly vaults, feeling me like she's sneaking on me, my mare's white belly down, my chin rising to the mulchy mound, my stalks light with her labour. She knows I'm a safe-box dangerous to enter and leave. The neighbour's rose is a bold thing. But this ring she wears, yellow-gold and a butterfly she catches—she dreads a thing so swift and certain— on her butterfly's wrist, like a dagger, a badi, good to know, for when the ring is put away, the neighbour's rose will lie. <|endoftext|> "Worms and Women", by CeCe Director [Living, Health & Illness, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Pets] I'm pumping slime into a body bag, grab a fast one, chug it, onezilla, do you remember which bumps, which walks have most home brew loops? It's a pilgrimage, this body bag, this counting area theta; shells of ambulatory hot wads. You're welcome. You're still a goat. A hot goat. <|endoftext|> "You Can't Build a Boat without a Fish", by CeCe Fanelli [Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] You can't open a submarine with it. Or prefer this version, since fingers snagbone or horn or grill-toasted meat work the bone. You can only know how it softens, how itholds up-then-down, held-back-then-up-then-down. What I'm saying is, I openwith one foot planted in the middle, the middle foot a wicker cup, the other patched to the horn and grill. <|endoftext|> "The Phnom Pen Niger", by CeCe Fleury [Nature, Animals, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] This is what started it: a baby trustimely hitting the trade wind, making a small:slump, thud, a typical war of twotop off, the boy choosing the river, bush of river, the boy opening his sun-drenched lantern for the lemmonorph and the monster top-handedly(?) eating it.The monster slithers and grins, open, for a fish to slip into. But it's a ninja and it's turning! It foldsand it waddles and it closes like the shuttles ofe, a little fish. It's dark blue. And it's knife-oiled. Iced through three Means. <|endoftext|> "On Being Nothing", by CeCe James On being nothing: the space nothing fillived; the space filled by breath, by an out-of-breathe noise, by a in-breathed touch; by an in-betweening place; by being seen as:in, becoming, by being heard as:heard; by the out-of-breath "hole"; by dBs; by the dance of the heart in the palm of your hand; by the laws of gesture; by the fish collar; by the heart; by the leg to prove the foot; by the gore; by the mute; by the mood; by the nail; by the joke; by the lip; by the loss; by the name; by the world forgot; by the name-word; by the moment; by the name-drop; by the world forgot; by the lost: the nothing-in-a-gut; by the moment of the nothing; by the moment of the nothing; by the nail-head; by the joke of the nail; by the nail-head; by the hand; by the ink; by the in-box; by the ink; by the Times ======================================== SAMPLE 104 ======================================== At the fair bridal he renewed his claim, And forth in company went with those twain Whom he had called thither. Still in vain Was it for him to make his appeal, For what answer he received therefrom. The son of Danaans strewed the ground With wealth, and in the midst of the tent Charmed while the wooers and love-confiden-- And all were marvels whereof heartiest 3 In that assembly--to beguile the fair Forth into Philoctetes' arms, And there imprison her, whom they would And her reject. But from the sight none floated The fair love-mark on her cheek parcht was she. Then the flagship flee amain from that band Of wooers, and the sea bracing well she piled, And all her men free to run to windare washed From the shore. Nor in the shouting found a pause Of thir craft, ever hear winged shrieks remurmur Amid the noise: but all eyes were turned on her, As blithe the lightning, or th thunder; at last Adown to the sheath her steps she draweth, Where shevyn was bright irremey, her gladnes senethia. And in the tent she sat, where she had made fast Her fluted drawers; such an accommodation She wot where she would worke glory, and avoid Her shame; for folk strewede her, that false phant umpst Her creep stedfast; but vayne she deemed it mayd in that tent, As though some man never will be ware of her sorrow. As she thought, lo, out of the smoke he blowne, With a mournfull heote hede he gade and grode, And hasted about her; and as his look Beamed on her, looke how dimly takes his eyes To hem that never sikeir more; and then heze! For she lingered on In such a sweet creature, and paliz'd as before Her mistress; yet her noble heart was nowize trew. He knew not how himselfe ust say carently, And that deep sigh his tongue went to shrowd exact, And all his glories: but as his will allowes, The will is kinde, and in voices soft weu're sent. He did but yKOO on her eyes and such-like note. Lo! she sound euen and kitchen in her degres: Such a glad, whome he drowke forth his desirée. She suppos'd not alabaron rite scarmogone; Yet thought, that with his new found companion Her lord might doen up her servitute; So seld her case was mongst the best of waie, And needes must double those two, she thought. Yet needes does browe his carelesse thought is nat To lang patter of touze, but in his face He flings a banned yoking on his glasse, To get up layd his cheeke and firitide, As he were paltry occupations, To see who could things best betide. Thus hath he tripp'd the lady all that daye And yeelded him home in saucy spare hours Her medetaure sorowe slimate. For it appeard but new-day at wane When he had wade, the thrak'g of his Eeu he So balanies; therewas, and then he laughd, To heate his Ielternate eare! So pair with this yeelded maid of orange His Eeu-strings, and he was sadde at that And after-breadth did view her glasse, And had hold of her like dearer-life! And at the laste he sooyde his leave, And call'd her lord, and gave his cards and Hadde upon her: which done, he does her bend, And at the last she wept in his face; And after-AIDS her glasse to read On his Eeu-strings, which done, he does her bow I grant thee, that in such a worke full of wymes As is Ennemy's realms therby tolooke, There is no lord that loves but looke a while, And looks afar, and further lookes: this doo Othre, is great boast, for by and by The whiche's shadowes fast fall to the ground But ======================================== SAMPLE 105 ======================================== ":"/etigo eternum morum et mihi uenare perattoluam, et uerra iam fugi merito bene. uictitus munimentas, medicinamque beatam dicas; nos unde aera meditantia uetustas casu bupere, quem stati pessimi cantat. quid memores uexor, quibus adeisi, quibus antecessor per imber equis. sceptra habes mihi pacem upholestate fumo iura, pedibus et mansions uice. effigies pro paupere, o pseudoter in summa schizo; meditata uoendata iuuenum expertis plangim e occultis amoris. Achates ueneram mihi cum prole petens nec das quern: arden there cunces maritorem, cum quo nouantropum sibi singulare iam serta horum flas pedit alis cum prolemur: ergo rosas alitis corpus sua lingerent atque it ante, si non anima puella avisit in locis; quod non amosae fugium sed ualeret, quid eu naceret? "TEND-HAVT" IN THE BACHELOR'S CHAMBER "Tend-hold" means to chant in a firm tone without any weakness in tones high or low; such a form of chant is found only in the barber-horn, as we all noticed when we heard it in the Captain's mouth. The singers should stand still with their swords in front of them and their hands should tell the watchful guard to fall back, as though they knew their time has come to murder them, and they have been so ever will continue until they reach the time of the watchful guard, when they will fall back in melody without delay. The chorus should sing as it comes to town, without stopping to answer the anthem singing the last dismissal. The chorus is the last people of a city and is also what helps to remind us what a city is, and the Captain is its first leader." "MASSACHUS" LAURENCE, THE GREEK-MYTH seated or moved by great ones who stand or sit by the twelve columns and take command thereof; but he under friends full free shall like a god sit to pour out the wine and parch the partings; one who shakes his head from the bier, and two who shake their heads right and left, a parabole. Here and here he hath the three spells of a swiftness not elsewhere divine, whereof let us speak while our hearts pleaseth the angels, if haply there be such, since the twenty and six powers of the most High watch on him for the performance. So shall more offerings come unto the glorious Lord, and the blasphemies shall be hardened, which are the powers who make a pyre of this our God, fearing not the proud usurers, which are the people whom the captain hath judged. And after this, one and the same will scourge the two months, and a third for an age. Thus the prophecy more clearly will be here spoken from the thirteen. And upon the blessing which is done on the sacred hearth of the goodly Erupeck, king of the people, taketh himself and his horses unto Lake Irun, where are the streams of Brahmans and goats, and all the people, and the armies of Mount Lemmon, where is Nimrod's idol in his place of worship. There are cast thereon the ten public posts, made by law as the Ark of the King. The raiment still was in the urn, and on its arms the belts and the rings. The horses lie there, one and the other, the two holy men, commingling and at peace, their necks broke from the weight. The toils and the pollutions increased with their corruption; and a deed there was of sin so profest that it could be but punished Ennombyc, the uncle and the brother of the great Earl, who after Godivahe had gone into the army; he prayed God to be delivered piloted from his crosses,--from the vow of battle and the chastisement. So over the wax-cages he hurried, and the aids of the living were broken, and his falch ======================================== SAMPLE 106 ======================================== - thy fields in winter How do I like them! My imagination is rather Possessive of the best. The nightingale and the lark May play together, But they do not come to me as such a self-complacent and indisciplined companion does the blackbird bring his phonograph. Never to fear from storms nor winds from summer nor all that bee swarm, living in flocks, with buzzing parts, by night or day, never doubt in the things that glow in thee, after all that is in thee however, and howe'er do all things glow in the depths or buoy thy head against the Strong Between love and wisdom and between them deeper and deeper I fall, I enscape, I go, I come, I mark the way with an old letter. I need not think, I know with all my eyes there are thoughts and thence destinies drawn through this sphere of hers; deprived of sight I see them dark beside my hand's reach. I reach but fall behind, not lose myself as to something in the void; motionless, I am unable to lose the way first opened to my eyes, the way which she, God's world, receives in her own soul, I think, is not sent to any void but like the road from which bread of wheat is made subsisting food, and whence the yeast eats rebellion so in mine absence I reach what I think nothing on my own, nor quite myself, but soon or idle cheer of the word like unpicking a only blossom, full of blossom buds, filled with flower scented to the very withers. I believe that poetry is an idea.... . . . [W]e interpret ourselves, we speak the words of our poetry. . . . . . . . . ours, a political poem, a poetics filled with politics. I think I was happy with this, with the simple life of the country-side, the simple life of the simple life of the shepherd's life. We should have been able to watch each other's life in which we lived that part together which men give themselves Of life, its totality love the life of short-lived desire. ... I say again that our poetry is idea, we do not speak the poems of our poetry. My life is mine and thine mine the poetic life of other men, it is conscious and silent and therefore free; though without questioning the existence of that which destroys it breathes and dwells in time. We are not yet free but I am glad and you believe the best days are to live this way the island's life, its poems and not by formula living by words. We are not here to diagnose no one knows more than one other on earth, we accept the situation as it is. In a word my poise is in word, it is in possession rather of words, possibility, and solitude so to speak by which I say I am not alone, and I am not, I swear not by solitude, by my lack of it but by the companion of my poise. a little lonely these days, but that has not zeroed our coterie, the audience, the sponsor, the one who gives the thumbs up at the end and not the lover, the landlord, the one who presides . . . . Still, living by words as in the not past, our lives, however long they seem, loom in tautology. An ordinary day caught in the wind of a word, an old song hallowed by the spirit of that which ended on the pages of barnunks, the day that all ends as the beginning, a crescent moon glancing down upon the vale like the sun and the stars. 1918 to the critical reception of the surrounding country as 1 speaking directly to the soul vowed: 1 speaking to 1 heart, my voice will echo the music of the damnable earth. This speaker, 1 speaking to his & not to his fe ======================================== SAMPLE 107 ======================================== By rhododendrons where the black-eyed plants Tread the moss-grown ditches, and a brook that licks Trees deep in water and a fir that serely flows Over barren stones; And where ospreys hunt and divers duck-horned things Take wing, Sitting on a watery white-mask, A dragon-fish, a squirming sybil, that leers And glistens, and is never seen; On a height where braches anemones, the tall Croc browsers, and rats and a strange flying fish That peered, And I dreamed that I stood At Ithaca, as in a dream, Before a still U.S. West. I stood in a clear, eternal afternoon Of supreme time, and Heaven and Eternity Slumbering, or so much as contemned; While the same sunlight eternally Spreading, intenser as it came That Earth casts, and that Heaven lifts Over the buildings Of the world, and that Freedom's chant Surrounding me bid mine ear hear, enwound With words naught imagined, which were heard Of the capture and hauling Swedenborg And the Ireland that now is freedom's meed; And he flew home to Olema, as I think. It is a chilled time, and in the chilled time There have been ideas, wild, impetuous, Which have shaken Nature's balance and broke Among all historical particulars, And given an impression of novelty To what was, until that, the unchanged, vast, Stagnant world of Matter, to my thinking, Which if not indeed Actual it was mythical, Meseems. I hear the soft rustle of the branches, Where I stand, so far from the crowd of beings Who know what they are doing and what they have seen, And what they shall do. They love where they are loved and plotted To succeed. Yet scale that absence of interest Against the turn of the humier affairs of the world, And of the controversies that devolve Results, in the scale of Nature's eternal drift More subtle schemes, and therefore greater probability, Too great for Mankind, scaled by the daily experience To measure aright, and counted for its reckoning Against the limits of its predictable life, Which simply spurns to determine what it shall do. Now, Scale a weightier thing than mankind, where contingency Had no factor, chance has imparted its part, And we have considered things which should perfect Have quell'd the absurdity of Thraldom ruled, And borne more than Fate could call his own masterful. So, during those nineteen centuries, what have been the Few instances where Intelligence has been favour'd, And necessarily so, since for our understanding We require only much piety and little knowledge. But contingent things are forgotten, or remembered Irkentimes, the grandest have turn'd their destructive force More on our own hands, and so, with us, with- naft-bar (some have gone) haply to this day, and will Work through our World, and one other, make a chain Not to be broken any day, as I think. The war did its own agency ruthlessly contrive, And England did all it could, generous, per- stantial, and sincere, to aid in completing the chain. 'Twas done: whoever would doubt it, will suppose The events were not performed with art. That, "Who jobs for Liberty," should say, would say For my honest neighbour who voted for Hay, And you voted for the West, and I for the East. And that small agency, so wrought in the infinite Unfathomable world of qualities and insensible Chance, It seems Protean, has this effect, to bring the "Undone" back, to glorify the text, and to shield the Insignia from doubts hesitant. And who knows, but, happy as we shall be in some Strange paradise, where wages are constant and the laws Of motion are changed for the better, and friendships Kind word, and voice, and beauty, green again, and You say you are content, But what you would be content with, if you did not expect to be: your desire Converted to action. So you wait, Like the knower of wise things, which they expect And from what will come, in time. But the hour may not come; And they may flout you here so well, if in their life- name they have used a bit of humble credible honesty. So: good men ======================================== SAMPLE 108 ======================================== Association and he's on it doesn't seem like a rush but a lot of fun A for our neighborhood all the books they could not read out the windows of when you'd look but there was no river no homes and the road it would take you on where they'd take you to he would take you to a show. We would see his readers. Some were light of soul. Others were heavy with a little fun Some readers were there only to sing to leave the dead in their chair. One man walked in with a trumpet They caught the reverberations of his soul playing in the mirror of a show on the Canal Street roof. <|endoftext|> "The Poet as Doctor", by Scott Curnutt [Living, The Body, Love, Desire, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] He can't help himself—the male to explore, gently, almost lovingly, to stride among the female of the species, naked and self-conscious. He can't help himself. No slouch. He's an occupying force Inside the Female's machinery, Inside the Female and aside from himself. He can not be separate, because he does not have the ability to separate. I think he's been taking naps. The fourth of September. Edison's morning— the turbine of daylight slicing a second end on its way to the sea. There's an eon to each thing we are. <|endoftext|> "Mr. Puissini: Poem", by Heid E. Hill [Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Class, Race & Ethnicity, War & Conflict] 1 The woman can start a motor The woman can pour gasoline The woman can chop her foot The woman can change a flat The woman can push a truck The woman can slide into place The woman can be surprised by the shadow on the wall The woman can shoot an old man The woman can milk a pig The woman can change a spark into heat The woman can squeeze a man The woman can walk backwards The woman can step backwards The woman can push a man into water The woman can tie a bottle around his neck The woman can climb a high wire The woman can catch a bullet The woman can feed a pig The woman can look right through other high wires The woman can sing to her husband The woman can see in direct sunlight The woman can see into direct sunlight The woman can see with her small vision The woman can step out of dawn The woman can step into darkness The woman can stand on a chair The woman can sit in love The woman can lean over a man The woman can lean into a man The woman can send a cross-wind 2 The woman can sing herself dry The woman can step on and light The woman can change the key that everything works with The woman can walk into a man The woman can pinch-set point to a rock The woman can drip-fill a basin The woman can step over a man The woman can get down from a truck The woman can use the bed of a man The woman can smell oneself The woman can line-up herself for firing squad The woman can do self-nausea The woman can get disassembled The woman can assemble a working engine The woman can use a man to a hair-frickt at a time The woman can do hot sores on a man The woman can use a man as a dildo The woman can get a foot in bed The woman can use a man as a oral sex-pack The woman can get burned by holding hands with a man. The woman can use a man to orgasm slowly The woman can lean on a man The woman can seek a man to come The woman can use a man as a blunt-bited cigarette The woman can punch a man in the stomach The woman can draw a man's eyes to her own belly The woman can use a gale to blow a man at the knees The woman can take a man farther than a compass The woman can throw a man from a bridge The woman can ride a tornado The woman can use herself as a wing 3 I am a master knot-maker I am a master bun-case I can tie knots so high I can see where you must fly I can see where you'll be caught I can see where you're caught I'm making knots faster than any wind I tie knots in my own hair I can tie a man's hands I can pick your feet I can see you in a thousand ======================================== SAMPLE 109 ======================================== The woman seemed to pray, and to hear The goddess prophecy the future deed; And so did I, who knew not for what good The wretched lovers through that young night Wept for their lost Eden, for this world Was nothing to them. But the son Of Saturn from the woman saw it all, And all that good to us seemed; Seeing how all men with them were blinded, Save her alone, of men and gods. But the old gods again were blinded then Too remote to help us. As a host Are they now, the dew-gapp'd hedgerows, The seas and heal-all days, the day that comes Soon, to be followed by another day. So we must follow her who knows not The use of happy life, but lives in woe. And she predicted he should see one thing clear When he should come to him, and might have made His whole life as one short day, and done As one, and in that day as one, and so Set all to one for purpose, and thus Made true the prophesy which should have been In her heart all foul, for this predicted He should come, the said, the said, the said, God. But we must make our life one Of good or ill, as suits us, planets, And look to nothing else. Not even God For that small bubble of time is proof To weigh, or bring us by his hand To happiness or bitterest peril. Therefore my dear, when you be as fair As you appear in this circle, do not Dare to have the last word, for she leans So far toward evil, toward the dark side, That she will change your nature with her wings. And we must pray she turnings be less good Than even the flowers are, if they are meant For this unfortunate thing we call "person." He may come who is white and unshaved As this broad earth is, with horns so fair That she would be better off with a beard, And no one have to be naked while three out of His made senses search for this vast one; And yet he knows he is more than welcome To these terrors; there are some things He knows, but has no heed or faintest fool Would, that in some sort know; and they may be More than human about it. I wish they might, my dear, That to be animate is no disgrace Being so much the same from our Maker's Point of view; the skin, no more Than a broken hayseed's on every tree and beehive, is a thing of Natures Faults, sitting in the dark, and not Think you till you see her come. I And others whose fingers stiffly are The bones of all the seats of man, and who Stand, like those three to twelve, or more, Upon a paper, such, that when they have Untied it, and it should cork and Draw the natural phiz, man, you would See the leper-outlines flare Of his absurdities, and you would See him APOLOGY made, as large As the natural pains themselves, to the Time that she would. Thee I have encharged With blasphemy against thy God, And with thy lie, that thou wouldst be One partie more of mytyle Then thou hast been, but so few. Thus have I fought with thee And lost so many battles, that now With the fist at my heart, I lay the Foundations under foot Of my defiance, that ere a day The rebellious Spirit bend such Dreadfuller stand to me, as Even so little Featherweight, ere Thy slight legs be pulled, may'st scoff At thy made origins, as lark To his undaunted lip, or hawk To its malignant falcon's point. Hence out of doubt I cast away Allthings inethought, and make a stand Arder with revenge. And thou, Red hiss of slaughter, have'st ventured So low that I can scorttest draw From thee so narrow way; yet out of These enemies do cast one fear, As of all else that heaven is legible. So now I will dispose them swiftly Of their distrust: forth with all the rest Of these misdoings, and a little break Of another's confidence, if place And power and will cooperating with position Officed well in off-gray circumstance Can help against future misdeeds. First must the law, then must the Prosecutor Come in and consent to our amenity Because ======================================== SAMPLE 110 ======================================== Speaking of him, and all else, and every one; Who knew it first, and who it was He answered so soon, Even as of air one bird would be 'Twixt the song-wings of his sweet pleasure. T'wonder Angel: What now I see and hear Is but a vault, or music, of the night, And nothing more; and empty phrases Lose no power over me, but that I know 'Twixt me and thee, my own body's guard, the night Is nothing but the caverns and the night. Angel: Let me have my pride again, And I shall never be your slave again. Twice have I been your slave, and I my own Again shall I be, eager to go. Thrice go I already on the wing, Leaving this sad hollow; hence away My equal going, hence this vale, hence The everlasting worlds; for there I know, There I my soul's no longer at home; Or if it stays, that staying is a crime. 'I am no longer here my self. But thus into that bad place I fell, To be a nettle to this nether ground. For if thou perish, and none has pity, Wherefore should I remain here wroth with God, And without expiating penitence? Yea, I shall live thus weel, for friends to come Aid to swallow me in, when I am gone, In hope and practise to make them smart. But one thing thou must take from me. If thou chastisheth another, thou must not Threat them lightly: but many such in truth Have been bewitched by mighty devils, who Seem firm and not inclined to change, Who for the glory of a while them mouʙst persuade To turn, and toward their former fellow make Like mockery and fair weariness to wrought. But whoso shall wear this gem at heart, He shall not lightly be at ease, However some short night or whatever it be, (Truly there is various time by title,) The consciousness of loss shall not abide, Nor shall he abide there with all his ship of joy, Nor with his eyes the deep waters darken truly. Angel of death, quench this love-true seed! This sweet or diseased thing, from memory cast Because this grace is past to thee who hast died, And thou, or who thy life hast set thy heart on. O thou, o'er whose dead head this garland wove Glyphs of roses in the twilight damp For martyrs and for acolytes, who thy feet shall Not only then, but ever after, present To shrine and tomb, where many an afflicted soul Unto its fate shall atween. O, instead of swords Grow unto praying, vigils and foul violets! The merry spring comes again And so does misery go, With tresses in and flowers out. He who would know or remember These three must climb High or Holy Mt. Zion. At that great mountain two ways are shown; To the right a perilous path goes; One English physician well acquainted There of man, that twice escaped me. <|endoftext|> I TRIED to seize the land, and high Mount brethren among them refused. He, in whom that Spirit first employed Broke off and far extending, came By different roads to his calamity. Some of my making mightily ought Have you and thine seen great ones leave And do you weary and wear out Your inmost hearts? If I had A dream to establish in time, 'T would have a virtue most absolute. Or this great power evidenced By an instance near the heavens, Which would be numbered by its shames If lost or suffered anything. That day the wasteful angels, Like an enormous giant, Came loud in thunder, screamed in thunder, And descended, and overwhelmed At once the whole field of Satan. I saw two brothers leave and return With fearful trips of mountainous fright. I saw the beast, and he scattered With all the other beasts of earth; The men of false elusion, The legends of falsehood, Whose lies have destroyed a wide land. The wicked spirits are in danger Lest I should be witness of their crime. As I saw them come, I could not Break free from the old structure, fresh New heritage from old landmark, New freedom from old bondage, So goes it that one second leap In place, be it great or small ======================================== SAMPLE 111 ======================================== Both are the handiwork of a second Sir View-master, Who was his master first, and is his subject still. The spider turns as the ball has turned, and if it's in, it's out; You can be sure that my wren will not be staying in. <|endoftext|> "The Frog-Trap", by Morris brown [Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Heroes & Patriotism] The combination of attenuated ceilings and high-stepped halls, The passage of humanoid forms in and out, and the flattening of landscapes, All the broken branches and halting heights, the ant-wise bees, The drybar the drybar, the streamer that points the line, And capes that clip through the grass—all conspire To produce a point of accompt in the otherwise picturesque routine. The frog-trap sits in this perinificant shadow of the pond, Where the wren and woodbird combined have shelter, or conurb. Beyond the formal curbs and sunken tracks, Beyond the formal frog-trout and wood-pike in their components, Beyond the frog-trout and wood-pike, The minnow and delfin, blind with robust augmentation, The diminutive wren shun the venom of the shrew. <|endoftext|> "The Wonders of the Writing Tape", by Kenneth Patchen [Writing Tools & Gags, Language & Linguistics, Language & Linguistics, Computer Music, Social Commentaries, Aesthetics, Music, War & Conflict] Decay's Hallelujah strumming de treinoctan; Decay's Hallelujah; lo, the writing tape unravels. Hallelujah; lo, the writing tape, on which is written Flame laid abloath the shoulder of decay. Through the spreading rim of writing's land we learn That beauty begotten is a tree; That melody is named for cause and That good sign is named for the political. Hence, as the writing's land decays, The sounds of music matures. The sounds of music kindlepoverty. Thus, as the sounds combine into chorus, We taste the violins' and the strings' Philharmia. <|endoftext|> "The Invention of the Imagination", by Kenneth Patchen [The Body, The Mind, Love, Heartache & Masturbation, Realistic & Complicated, Philosophy] for Spiro (unchagging philosopher) In the trunk underneath your breast, Hung dying fruit, your heart grows emptier And out its child the funnels begin. Small you grow: not even a television Spins in your cradled flesh. The inflow is Fade and vain your vestibule; there Your body's screen shrinks to the ghost And out your mind beginsthe horizon closes Yet you grow strings and wires the brain Comprised a screenservice vein to vein. In the corners of your netherra, Your spirit the nether mortal clothes Receives the digital beat. From your mouth Sound still resolves to the hairs of your hair. And when your skin's strings put on the skin's beats, When the blood through your veins is ordained your heart, That's the imagination of me making my heart the argument Of the sheepskin carting across the parkanee township Mountains above irregular dale. In its day of worship still a flock Floating on the lake of fire, your imagination Grows the sky's temple, idols Of light at its brim, each one named. And like a river, your spirit floats Descending a sharp sea of lances. But still your body's notes Grow few and rare, and when the strings Pass under the cross of gaze, Your spirit is stretched To show us the end of sights. When the lake of fire passes below And the strings rest at last, Your imagination's forms Close but thwart the discerning sky. The strings lie flames; the imagination is strings Strung together in a mind We now must brave the mist and "blow," To find our way. <|endoftext|> "Eels in the Ghetti", by T.H. Dupont [Nature, Animals] Widing the spread of the strolling wind, I notice ev'ry ======================================== SAMPLE 112 ======================================== * * In two weeks, my husband will sit with me on the front porch of our home in suburban town. He'll be clean and sober, as I've been for twenty-five years. He'll be standing there holding my hand up in the air, wondering what it would mean to call him by his nickname, Dad, or to tell him how I, sobbing, called him by his married name. <|endoftext|> "Poetry Can Be You", by Lulopei Report [Relationships, Home Life, Religion, God & the Divine, Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity] "In the poem a nigger appears/; you just have to see it." You say that last sentence and the world turns on the spool and in the back of the brains a fire burns till the twitching limbs drip off. Other things you say: having a white father, a white mother, and a white father means never to be racially pure. That's mostly true. But: A team of niggers paces through the street singing: In the poem a nigger appears. It is 1941. The Negro children on sugar dibbles gaze as they ride from hot apple pie to ice. They cheer a nigger who appears on the side of the road. If this seems bizarre, think of it as an ant and an ant as it is eaten. That is the example we are given, then. The nigger, though certainly niggered, is just as unreal. So, poem-can- dometer, if you find such a angel, will she cause you problems as she is eaten? <|endoftext|> "Solemn Year", by A.B. Jackson [Living, Death, The Body, Religion, The Spiritual, Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity] Before the white sun shone, before the clean track on which the world attempted to run its slow footsteps and the white body that stood behind it, the white world stood, eerily silent. In the night church, all night trouble. The church was silent, late rain came this way on from the ground. The rain fell on the front porch. The headlights on the snow were cold and the young, white world did not cry. The white world took trouble, stopped, went interesting things in the white world was interested in. <|endoftext|> "H", by A. B. Jackson [Living, Life Choices, Nature, Weather, Funerals] Hear the radio voice just now am a family wide open the black bear asleep in the woods on the floor yes the radio. Yes, that was the word two men we agreed how can we say this all too often do you think yes, that it is nice nice 2 say it 2 let the air between us never be separated just now yes I said just now in the same out loud way. It is true. It is how it is always be an air shifting. The bears are sleeping as the wind soles in the snow. <|endoftext|> "Sofa Plan", by A. B. Jackson [Living, The Body, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] The woman in the next room has been dead for twenty years but still I feel her there on my hard pale bare feet I meant pajamas or too tight meeting the front wall in front of where I am standing am I expected to see colour in that. I mean any room in which I can assume there was no shaving cream, cologne, lipstick too sharp a salt and long meeting confetti, destroying the wall like a slow reveal. A man in a distance on my right is moving his hand along a floor which runs past black coats. I have been in slow motion my entire life and it still moves gently my pulse when I find my own wet hand expectantly flat and me conscious of having ======================================== SAMPLE 113 ======================================== human scum, our ruffled maidens came; And to the good old men such intense enmity Seemed to unite them, they would fight and fight; And the three whereon greatest numbers sat Died in the course of nature;--one alone left. Then commenced the second war; and to what end? And more, how many, we may not know, nor ask. At length the kindly giant made his good On the ocean, landing at the place Where twenty-three a wood extended. 'Neath Those woods, a dam with children five and ten He lusted in the depths; and from thence No liquid ever well after. Nor man nor mermaid in the depths could descry, And children were a thousand to him, a realm In any age unpeopled; nor animal Could find home there, nor the lost in that lack Be found at all. Him Rhea and Hylas bore. His depth he gave to be the abode Of his King; and from him rose a cry That dread Marphisa,--come,--quer thy beer, A royal child. And libation then begun To him as lies of ancient song mentioned, In Marois' garland, a dower embroidered. His high-pitched page, though sometimes sad, Spread out a robe of neatness at his side, And oft did she sing to him, and sang as she In clear recess of that full palace drear Scenes of men at whiles, and women too, Crept o'er his head, and 'gan to grate his ears Of one to woo him, dear Menelaus brave Of birth august; he thought to hear her more, But found the snap of her werry words had silenced The solemn hymn and lamentation. Nor, Ardeloh, I will not boast for my feats Or be brought a lowing goose; for the steed That yielded not for all you had to lend My chariot, I beheld, a glossy black And huge, whose snorting gore adorned the road, Round a bend coming on, at which the way Began from death's thoroughsphere: near where it dwelt The shoulder of its head engorched the stem. The steed with arms extended to the brawn reins Bore two pairs of ox tuskswollen hard, and bled. It seemed the god's mortal offspring for whose sake He was wrought in this shape, and in such sort The great crutch stood framed that, twining round it, It anchored fast to the pillar of the gate. For ox and dog were grazing in the field And far distant: thus they looked: nor delayed Lest I should move, but pre-servéd in the grass, And mark them not, till with them I had made My journey, over the linked arms tightening, And delighting in the sound of sounds they made, And in the clang of arms, and in the muttering steel, And in the roaring of the chariot rille. When at the bridge I had passed the oxen drew, And learned to strain beyond the link, I met them all, And drove them, kneeling, to my steed. 'O Gods, O Goddesses, if ever, 'mong all who e'er Consented to look on Kronos' span, Was it the talk of life to blasphe nce, Thy temple's entrance, or to do a deed, That man wert slain, or reversed from the wane, Or moved in febel's dream. And rorye! For all the span's distance in the land to far Was only a bloom, a white delight all leal. For if thy maiden bride, laurel wreathed over it, Rekking a memory of her maidenhood, Passing through the other span for veil of light Round either way thy barge should waft at last The bride in golden slumber to thy side. But if perchance there be a meaning in these Draw near, imbrace me, yet from me deprive me not, O thou most seldom heard, but omish-seen! Night of the Soul was flowing, 'twas light on her way, Sprung from her hands, and from the glossy back of her came, Ere she started, sole devotion, crowned with a wrap Gathered mid Veloutions, support of my heart. Such when, her intentions to her god enquire, she tried, The first tug did her white bosom then overcome; Thou, then, Valour ======================================== SAMPLE 114 ======================================== . I walked on beyond the beams of the lamp beneath the spars of the crown of stars. There was the legion of angels. And my young sister moved before me. I did not think of her as a goddess, but she had drawn me to myself. She walked before me. <|endoftext|> "Prostration", by Geoffrey Keating [Living, Growing Old] These pillows make a comfortable empty feeling. I have thought of life as a set of unchanging stances. You are at rest — I have not been at all time in your gift. There is a strange rush in the sunlight when a man licks his teat and gums a black moon. The limbs of the world are strung like bowbows for the flying day, the day that will be in their horampheres aloft. <|endoftext|> "The Old Man Down in the Barrel," by Geoffrey Charles [Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] BENEVOUS, COLORFUL NOVEL "The Barrel" is here, in the right hand of the drolly sporting good butcher, with a diet of whim and a faction full of music. Nowhere is corn, a root the peasants love, but with cart rutrimated and stacked, the barrel grinds on the spit of the pig, while the sizzling carcass sweetens the bovine's humbleness. Among the bruised slats men slaughter the winter, skin peeling from the tough pig, to put in the maw, where it fills out the vanity of mite. The barrel must call to itself to make it drop its fat so sensual, its holy lean, into the mixing bowl of the genius of man. Among the mahogany legs of the pig a young butcher, his wrists dinted by murder on every hand, lifts the slurry sirlolder in the keg of his broken heart. Nowhere does the novel in its crown of bronze mention or man with a soul not made or lost in the barrel, its prayer to the bank that moves on with the forest filled. <|endoftext|> "Philomenal Body", by Jon Pablo Batres-Harvey [Living, The Body, Relationships, Men & Women] "It was as if my body were an ethodeca with parallel red lines, or a chamber ofonic glass with stops set in its floor for cleaning, and it was" a conversation between two mirrors, where I was the manager and it was- just me, the thing under the walls, the ring that broke. Or maybe it was the opposite, the corner of my mouth - where the heart was- and it was guarded, marked by lipsticked ice, all the way down to the colon. No one saw it happen, not even me, the way I was writing a poem of that moment, no one but me, the endoscope in hand, and I came to understand that space as artful as the passage that led me to the end of my line. There was no way for me not to follow. I was the manager and it was me, the piece under the manger, in my town with the unbalanced personalities and the iceberg that floats toward the horizon. It was me in that moment, not you or the other one or even me in that piece of light. We are responsible for each other, not one or none. All of me in the barrel, not one, not none. <|endoftext|> "Paracord", by John Shoptaw [Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals, Weather] Whose in the badger-trail really does all the burning? Is it the same kind of endless, regardless of size or shape? Whose in the Texas grasses? The goose- feelin' messes, whose in the piano-rabbit's spread? Whose that knot in the willow-palace tany, whose in the knot that land's falling rochcha-bridge? The bridge's own spider? Whose the knot in the ======================================== SAMPLE 115 ======================================== Psalm XXVI: "In the valley of great Tahusa, Prophees of destruction, Jehovah's mouthpiece, Appear as rocks and rocks they are branded with His name. To and fro they have no rest and while they are wander, O sun and moon in your courses. Then as poles. The city of Tuoni, with its carved gates, is distaining, in its narrowest eddies, It loathes the space outside the city, and the hateful village of Rentos. Tuoni's sons and Tuonela's, evil and blasphemous, loathe man and wondrous magic. To and fro they have no rest, in their movements, and in their fleeting and last, the terrifying city of Lempi, Lapooka, where a deadly sin is reborn, In the witches' miasma and loathsome greengroaves in the autumn sun. There, in the deeps of the night, they are smitten by the lightning, and Sar Kapeel II, the wickedest of Tuoni, burns with glaring eyes. Then old Wainamoinen, the singer, Took boat and sent it where lay Tuoni's land, The fields of Tuoni's fields, the land of Rentos. In the prow, Shone the fleet-foot craft with its broad rim and prow, In the bows a cowled birch, In the kettles a cuckoo bird, a Newfoundlander, At the oarsman a dancing river bird, On the skirt the shaggy fur of an eagle-eagle; Thus she steers through the Higher-Ordered Waters, To take the better water of the river of Tuoni, And so escape death and torture in the northland waters. Tuoni's sons secure the bow; Calls the youth and marks the elf; Calls the man-mountain-owl, Lady Nare, And the flight of wings is stopped by her powers; In the field, it likes the elf and weaves; There it hooks the Swiss deerose, Or the pheasant or hide of dove, Uses his bait like buzzard, finner, better; Thus the boat is strafed and checked the dart, Checked by the girl of hymeneal Etewayehoh; Lady of ill timed bindings, Dota of the golden foot, Come to take the boat of Prince Ulysses! Wept innocent Rua, Wept the wailing woman, In Tuoni's fields and cheditesfied forests; From the tawny hoofs of wapiti Long she watched the roving thief, From the cunning of the thief, To destroy, as took her time, All that lay in view on either side. Rua's home is in Tuoni's wold, Maestro, the magic bird, Spake the sparrow, thy name is known, And from out his hollow cloud dome Flieth to this new-found world, So thou must spell him, and cast The binding spell, and fix the name upon him! In the court the magic bird awakeneth magic bird, When the songs of New Yearprevents generation, Calls himself to grace his brother, Comes and finds his winged brothers, Daughters of many rivers; Many days they seek their family, Many days they seek the master also; Many days the brother seek each other, And the forest, and the heaven, and deeps of ocean. Far away throughout my soul a happy thought is running to and fro, And whispers me that yours is not the worst of all the things I never guessed! O wizard bird, that great Ollalie, Seal of all my hopes and all my bonds, That other bird, Lisa, thy speed is great; And Lisa, thy sweet singinge is playing High notes, clear notes, high notes upon me; O Lisa, sing lower, I ask thee, Higher, I sing with thee, much higher, Great Ollalie, thy owne seal, Thou seal of worlds, thou song divine, Let my song, the sounding of thy seal, Open me, and other vows I break Which long have hung apart, Not likely to be vow'd in course so wholly thine owne, And now for lookes, and which shall dwell Here betweene, betweene now and higher, Higher than thee, higher than thee, before. Lo, the old Eltingenor! how sudden his ======================================== SAMPLE 116 ======================================== the bobbing question. Who needs a minute there, what taste like for, the past that smells of new ant diets in progress in our pummeled shoulders, our kidneys in patient states of fluids? What is meant by something bloodlike stays alive, sensory deepens into our dreams, the eye opened, is looked at, looking? When the weak and the proud confront the unknown after the lifting of the hands, after struggle, by the known means? Rafael, our brother, having looked you in the face and the form given to things, to go on seeing, senses a world to be known for not yet and for now, steps back, referment and longing toward reference, toward the struggle, and toward sounds, colors, and faces. In this the queer wallow with and amid grime and pork, with and after, having tasting, writing, talking, having read, most of all having questions, changes and explanations as to why? An outcry, continued here, sounds, smells, feels, and so continues to be, We wanted to taste what is essence What it is that gives taste of nothing, rather has emptied, quieted, and in on the void, quieting, has left ample, poor, patient, out on the grassy Southern chickabun- foodless plain. Food for ants. In the blank, vexed space where flavor went, is where we should. Taste what is and has been. Plenty of times men have enjoyed what they have to taste. Loquacious and drooling and voluble writ with seeds. In our unconscious our tongue- Jump-drunk we leap to mean what we have to say. How we have to held. should grasp of standing with ground. only a bit of color. When curls the rippling lip, eyes squinting to Open. Neat, chiffon'd, frozen, whimsical my friends drip cans into. Trading luck for flavor in brine for girth of time in our shadow we run from a pie munching that My solid, shoulders solid and true a plain without hope of silver sweets Ground. <|endoftext|> "Egg Noggin", by Gene Rose [Activities, Eating & Drinking] We had a large egg complex rear onwellness, which meant nothing but was there, a nonexistentologicy matter how anyway we made up the pix of a splay skull under a rug in the gym, windows shut, neighbors drawn at night, the oven’s fogging, the electric company still in repair, the implant guy saying, it was a matter of inches and points, millions of trillions of lives, a thingty, mutation-credulous thing. It was a thingty, a mutated change since rubato, since risospini, since the ravishings of Millet and Sartre and the nocturn cookie in the dead china cold, since the time of the ancestors who devised pygmies and the henheads and from my mystic latchet bow found its way, its legs ready and very almost ready to draw a blanket, I said, draw a lazy half-nelson. I said I'd draw a lazy half-nelson for the egg complex. Egg complex, complex with eggs, with the yolk and white. I brought a chicken hen into my kitchen when I was 14, in 1989, for my recipes development. I brought her eggs, I gave her chicken eggs. She laid the chickens. They swam around in their coop, a semi-deserted yard, an acre's worth of paddocks and hedgerows ======================================== SAMPLE 117 ======================================== Go, forth, O soul, to everlasting battle! There, where yon proud host strives in frantic might, The fair Death's handiwork the Host shall see! A soul, epic, magnified its longings shall bring, Earth's warm loads of joy shall lift the eye-balls forward: So let the death-stroke be made--for once 'tis given, Some ending of the life, a fitting close, shall be thine! Heaven-born thought, heaven-decaying plan, apply! Instire pass, adapt, obey--where, where still 'tis ill! Whate'er you do, enforce with all a-chief! Full well the time's competent, full well the deed's end, Fast--and never stop, keep still the hand divine! And so apply, enforce, apply, dearest Heart! What eye that loves thee (many will embrace that thought) May parch, or check, or even miss thee while it glows! Woe to the world, when once's its sale is done! The world's undrookily down goes drained! Down! that a world of characters has been, And now so few! Mine, myself, I'm the prime Of all eliminated--Christ's own image made; No few, accepted, recognized--the world's changed round, A God Direct the city of the city. So, soul of all masters, evermore behold That changing world's unmasked, the headchequer'd man; Steps out in happy duos by the river, In parleys goodly men, women and children save! So walk, fair faith which nourish'd him, the givers next, And care for our world, lean consolation! I, for my part, my soul the better gains Of all it hath presuppos'd of good, Establish'd in it a fair and particular spot, Where would the most overweight, enmity between, Took place, and all the sin of dearth and cold, Could it but at one insertion find where stand Prometh-preserving, soul-finishing love. For when we little lumps of matter cast, Cis-left no-name upon the common tabernacle Whereof men's votaries wholly write themselves And call it by its vowingly good name. Hence, on the mispriceritv gods of our little life, This near deity I will brand so cruel, Thrice repulsed, to console my absent God For lack of utterance such as his great self can give. O cruel one, take comfort in the knowledge That thou shalt be consoled by the repetition Of being amazing kind and kind-confounding; Who devoutly do transfer thee and redeam From out each devil-faith like a strangeu andante, To move it, not by grudging or thwarting, But truly by obdurate pouring out, And render-un-toenh it his dew-approach In love, in love, as he expresses it so, With virtues which for faint imitation Or scheming merit only faint would prove. From out my--set apart and walled garden Thy ways, thy possess-ions, all thy laboured vantage Of trees, of water, of stone, and all the rest, Such, to custom and thy-whole-like-like the way, As thou to them shalt wide and wide subdue, Lift the gates and walls high gazing towards Heaven, Make a terrace on the city's wall, Where with filmious and with no-stone-searth Soft in low-couraged adoration Of thy beautiful city shalt thou bring, Give it whate'er may be desired, May'st mark the seever in the wondrous sight, Perchance, though dazzled, meet thy God, And, passing Heaven's high gate, enter in, Even to do thee pilgrimageA"d feet; To promenade, as oft as enticer Heaven's gate shall open wide, and disgorge Its dwelling-anthems o' the graceful East. Then its white titan monumentA"d against thee set,B"d against the rock, while earth Swift-trim, tinct with dyplight, and its sin Unansweringly enter'd the other Strikes through thy saved and sacred heart. From out my garden, where have peopled me, The seame who, accomplishing all things, Remains, as a pilot of the soul, The goodly-rehender'd angel of ======================================== SAMPLE 118 ======================================== One day he entered a room He thought was an ordinary-sized room, And, startled, found he was inside a cage, The female of the household. He was immediately aroused. The first sound he heard was a clatter. She moved about rapidly, prying Up from the floor, moving closer With quick small steps, hanging midway Over him, and looking him full in the face, And giving him the very first taste Of her juicy, telescoothed eyes. And then he gave a shriek Which a quiet gutter might well drown. He hurried out, calling Shouting, running to the front room. He entered the door just in time To grab her diamond rings, Which she, with a fearful scowl, Dragged from her ears, and, as he sprang To get away, she gave a little shriek Which clearly expressed A struggle, and being deaf, He found a momentary fog Under his feet. He tripped and tumbled, And ran about wildly, but in short He got his precious diamond rings, And started out as quickly as a racehorse In hobble or short pants, To find the nearest shoe-repair shop To have them cleaned and repaired. Old King Fele is dead! Thank God! And not even an addon, Not even a file to make The house leaky in our opprizlege. It's ancient Garveyite hillock at the sea, Flat in a naked spot, a waste of sand! The bossman is a ghost, the women around here Are afraid to let you get off your handsets, And the women come home all scented like corn-shuck And tell the men, "Put on hose and braces, you'll be sick In lying down, and the braces will fall down And nibble your toes!" They can't be serious. This weather watch, And their "health risk City" They keep in piasutherhood, We couldn't suspend them For stealing a Smart car, Nor get a Pavese watch, Nor electronic drugs, Nor anything but "sallow suits" And an industrial wash. The only thing they don't say Is if it doesn't interfere With their practice of touching a girl To get an erection, To fall in love, if that is what it takes! Well, here is the end of my trot: I nearly died With looking back at you, You chevy in the front row While I was fumbling The fluted rollers on the table top! I'm back from up in the country, The land of bugs and blueness, And I'm living hand us The dream that we have of the people Who I have come to know, under this sky! They are not a and half as glad As we are of them, and they have not the d---n Blind liberation In their joy, as we, buried years ago In the dirty diorama we call life! The sky is a blue disc No difference in level To the skies of other men, And whether they be locked or open It is they that are true and beautiful! But they have no homelife They are honest and tender And true as a dress, And the worst that they can do is wring a-- By their sweet shy sweetness! It is an enlightenment Too deep for them to know, in their homelife! They have no need of courage, For ease and sweet small-syrup Will do much enough for them, And they have no need of religion At all, in their daily schoollife, Or any gospel, for they Have a神, and that is No creeds WHOWICK, but Love! And out of this, the black and the blue, The blue being the fuller At every round ten million To the first blue, and the black no less Than the violet or the noonday bright Upon a planet of stars, The same or darker, The day being as green as any greening To the Absolute Cubic Centauri! Where Love, the only certainty, Swells into a godless ocean Ocean, Where bureaus of no mortillar Name, gender, disposition Nationality The other reality, Only male, present, healthy, And that, the only name in sight Is EDEN, the only proper name, No capital letter, hero, major, or villain Names, no four: Alexander, AlexanderSoldier, Gentleman, Begginer, Citizen: Entrez, And Eden is ======================================== SAMPLE 119 ======================================== Drawn to a single world the shape Of its unchanging population I know not: perhaps my experience May be, by clear experience, a good presage, And in these things the Self seems nearest, Cause for making dreams of sadness. I would go with slow steps O'er these hills and these dark valleys, For a mile or half a mile, If I looked here as I later look In a still wider wood, Where, for all I know, a shape there may be That smiled the day I died; And now, I suppose, no purpose here is, And no person is expecting me. <|endoftext|> Here with her talk and little stick I play things over, play things under; She's the Laundress, master and sheriff, That play things far and high and low; But I, eh, er me, we play things close. All I can say is, Take my hand, And, ergo, haec haec frigos, sorores. She's a-watchin' o' counts and things, 'T will be fourteen years this month, Ere that sheriff can be far away; And God knows when, or if, she'll forget She was on the side of the blues this eve. A-me-ter-ate-tain-ting, pining-up-ly Like Shades and his drum, I-just-stuck-ing- Stuck-it hard, hard to reach ten thousand Cheetos. I shake, and I wonder if I am dead; I shake, and I compare the density Of everything below with that on high; I see a house, and I appear in Some fire of a far-off fire I knew. Oota hac tu beliver, I have said, A warehouse full of broken glass, I see a cloud, and I seem to be In the burning of one I remember. Beneath this granite, or beneath This marble, or that precious stone, A heart-felt thought is melted in dust; Into memories made a clay A subject for repose and tears. A desert of opaque black gold, With a sunbeam in the centre one Long way just below the gold; And a violet close above it trace, Loose not the shadow from the centre sun; Whose name is as a document found Written in a book written on. A crush of the rushes, and a call From the stream, are heard at un. Bank. Time Lifts up, and is with on eye aboon. A small gleam that hi Sao Tengue guesses From the weight of the wind is sure in. Paper whirled. I've not a-way an owk a clue to explain What these one May-day wet hoards are for, Or the mark that will be on this day; I only know that they mean purdy good, And I 'most becore uv Uvoko. An owl who 's sick uv bitter hoppin ' oos And doth not want to hop about to tunes Has no much power when at all in pain; But as she lets her plumies wuther an go The dewly hoosier birds will flit, In tune to the tune that the breezes bore. There is a bird whose cry wich when addressed Will urge another to a chimpy fly; But jumping is no wile to keep him low. "Look there, peaches," says the Sooty Nose, "Whenas greedily ye witlessly rise;" I think of the Bully, whose head is pit, And at every step and foot upon the street, Will stomp, thrash, and hang the graceless boy. I know that the Cheeponic Wyrd is here, In the old bull-dog staming towards me; 'Tis the very one, with his knife in end, That cut 'em ' down from the face down: There was a Crusty in the old North Hall, Who mounted the topmost porch with style And took his stand like a beasts head in hell. I thought 'at he had a bleeden bucket, 'T was not for blood, but for the grease. I wis he would scour something 'at was there, And swore as the 'Creek was built by 'The Bus' To fie on 'The Bus' itself abe to the bus. But as for the fact 'at she 'did it sin, I 'ald him keep his head when ======================================== SAMPLE 120 ======================================== With flagellation his thighs, and bosom, With scourging now the embattled ranks. The sacrilegious Orc fresh supplies Bring hither, ye Monks, with flagellation Where left the Monks for flagellation, And smeared with filth the hearths of all. The kindling fire with fuel sweet May one day destroy this impious band, Or destroy the one that left it here. They are most furious who are least, "To keep this thing"--I hold, "has been my duty-- "From my cell, a secret told to you, "And never should my path appear "To my face, in the sun be displayed, "Where all the dirty villains flee." It was--and is--God's holy will, I feel, That one should be unmasked, and one conceal'd; Who, for his Saviour, died an angel, Should prove his fidelity, by God's grace, When three times clean unseen, in humility, His life should be revealed. We are familiar With their plot, their every plot. They, o'erthrown, Leaving a ghastly wreck, upon the seas, Would sink as well a dense great city, and hide The lurching wheel that eased stupendously Down in the heart of things. Our O'Bhold, when He gave his house to Franklyn, to cash His prisoner's Deposit, closed the door, And told the maid to flee. Why she needed No such solemn admonition, we know. But why she needed the plaform spell told, we know Not. But that night she gave him absolute Command--now spoken, obvious to him-- To fly from home the moment he recalled The power of Go, his darling, and die. She had spell for all. The spell was kept secure Till now; and she would not regard the okey-neek So spoiled her bonny neck and fitted with a knot Right in the one soft strip of a skirt. But, she's warned him to her O'Breatfakes, "I hate "The dibbiddim of Destiny, "The spirits of the mysteries, that order "Whatever appears, is good, and needn't be. "The master spirit, Go, makes good "The plots of foresight, plans of wisdom that make "For good of course, and ruin for ill. "Destroy whatever he creates, disjoin "The atoms, mix them dirty, tear whatever's mine, "And beat his hidden defenses down to dust. "If Go cheer the frame of man, help him and guide, "Give him I know not what he'd like to eat; "And if he destroy, what's more, he'll destroy, he'll twine "The life he's kind by promising young to be. "Come, kiss me, Frank, and, going, tell him 'tis fear "To love thee, winner of a plump and beautiful girl, "And join with me in the end dismissing from my side-- "That mortal called Mer, whom I cast out, I set "To be his spouse, and join with him, I won't." 'Twas done. The vixen scolded him again, Taught by my tale. But, see, she feared the storm Of censure the other dogs had fired, And licked her master twice, and then soldor crowned. He'd never seen the like! He looked in her eyes And wondered with grief, and then he fancied He had been on their way, and there they were. She'd held them heavenward--luring them, out of sight, As widow-making images to their lamps; Or something as unbelievable as in a dream. She'd followed them--right to where they loved to haunt, And luring them beyond the village-temple. A subtle one, a sly, they tried to speak In ways that would place them far from hurt. They phancy their very being were beyond ken. "He makes me wild!" a grief of enormous might Entangled his heart, whose heart with hers enmoted him. "He makes me wild!" What idea had took hold of his mind. At last his wonted self took root, and hard he shook; And hard he continued on and on he was. Now mortal wounds in him were often pondering, Now he was wounded, and now the overflow Came from many a festering wound. He ceased Cult to ======================================== SAMPLE 121 ======================================== Now may the monster and his brood Be doomed to death and destruction; Let him who ruleth, take vengeance On the wretch who led the throng!" Thereon his hands he raised aloft: And a minute gave the demon; E'en then he recalled it, And with fierce passions fiercer Rushed the brew-place and the boat. Answered answer the swarthy:-- "Is there not in your tribes Justice and truth will cut me through? I have no trust in chief or king; My kingdom and domains are mine." Then said Anak immediate,--"Go To the great boil that restore me Seven times a day quick life and ease; Take of tent-pattens and bits of bread, And of drink from pitchers I'll fetch; Follow me, and let the others go; And the princes' heirps file forth; And to the ships leave the runners, ready, To bear back my alowr alack." "Go to the boil and drink your fill; Lay aside the peg and sack; And when filled to host of men, The sucking acid cube and brick, Or, if 'tis ye call it, bricks; And you, with head upon the bowl And with your heads in the sky, I'll drink and entertain, with heart-sickal The advent'rous team that way. "When the ships, hot from the boil, By the south wind up ye go, In the night-time, forth I'll you take And down ye spurt in the brook, Or lake, and if ye stay not lean, In the morning, hot and radd, An hour will ye need to drink the brew: So, four ye sped, by Jove's decree, And to the boil let's turn again." Of the boil was Jove also made, And of all made up the second part; Three hundred they said, with me, To whom the second section, And in this verse, as may best be, Shall here be exprest:--"On the burner roast Injurious grubs, from which we'll cull To fill the vessel, and then, at last, Roast the rest in heavenly sunlight." Thus with Jove's burning pot and jar, And on her glowing altar, arose; Roots of a daisy, grapes, salt and pepper, And sweet herbs, from the soup thus digg'd, And starches, left on, as coals, are, Will keep a fire burning for a lamp. And if, long after, all had stopt, 'Twould yet be needless, for the oil of kings Is burn'd to sparks, and every wight Prayeths, with hand gienle, who leadeth His gods, or god calls him up on high. This done, to the third part Jove doth resort, And all the first was Numa's, but he Who made both one, was Peerestes, he Who so did the other world divert. We know not if he made the nose of Priam More broad, or if the nostril stand of Thebes So thickly was claime, or if his nose Made so much horn a cog as cripple-gole. 'Twas he, and with this Maid Heorthas did institute, To whom the royall seed of savantines Was not so proper sooner; who can frame Such prominent toes, and knit so compact a jaw? Whose sire was also the father of the king, And on his nade would be the hero's oghne throne, With rich apparements, and elect his faute a foot As well as ample asses vent' to be beheld. Of all the riches that in Otus lay, Which divers admir'd much, he chose the foot bone, And for his hands, tegistered off, and that in euery clan, As if replete with rare and proper gear, there were A padlock too, and good upright brass-cluc't ends, Whereby he might the Hyperemont be hold, Or Lyonesse, and Coblé, who often tried To keep him thither, through the phantasie Of those walls, brought back again. So cold, And chilled were they, with the dried up blood, they And foule Marsile from heat were still more thick. But at the same sudden with a frosty watch The cold in the men be-come (for they woke, And ======================================== SAMPLE 122 ======================================== took the air then the city to our necks and I became the air an empty lead and that lead the city I am the heart of that city a tall thin forehead and eyes like the sky and my mouth that wasn't a mouth a kind of whistle a come- come-and-go in-out-in out- in- out- in- out- in- out- out- out- that cry was my city's and my city's cry was this cry <|endoftext|> "Eden", by Derek Mahon [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Religion, Faith & Doubt, God & the Divine] I leave my last place of birth,U.S. congressional district, at home in SF this time,I peel the dust off of apps and plates,I touch the s&e dpeeks of markets all over,Recall what I guessed all this while,That there's this stuff yoked inside me felI leave the big land behind me, and pass more stanzasThan the 14-hour car I drove a year agoFrom my first dear place of birthTracing its drive now goo to the land of Zeno,Lost my bottles of perfume on the way,Then the hospital grounds, the pine trees so tall,Into my second place, where I ungramable @{} shrazus I wasO{} most smartoMoar was there no one else like meUnfo sho but I waz somewhere between them twas,Where zeno wandered, laid out mid-air,His zenanac concocted from the minds@{}Zeno himself sceive on his acid @{}@{}His texts to grg thst @anum knew how to word,And the flowers that led me to this nookSooyoung @{}my new mind @{}@ now grown tu one central cause @{}@{}@{}@{}@ the sweet sense of home, yolk,voluntary I added @{}@{}@{}@ this mental cushion was made of__ <|endoftext|> "Pulitzer", by Stuart Fenton Reid [Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, Class, History & Politics, Money & Economics] I. The Books of the States I can turn on & off the great & powerful Switch. Only bill for fer annuity yet. Shorter lifehspendings now. Just read - Sexy times - Hitch-me-up-white-ning! Louder now - Telling more dirty'*:{-e} * A long &hdlish list of crimes — Pulp, paper, steel go on for pages. Savings of spirits - On just known facts - Money for paper, construction, electricity, railways. Scandals of life now in vogue With your mother, sister, wife, Matter of people taking - *:{-e} * This in America, middle class now! Milkhaus & special treatment Money for those fanned by it, Hours spent in just having fun, Be a poor starvin huber'd, Still more in keeping score. Super-clean - Powdery days, days of grit - Great &hidden grounds - A superman nature - *:.} II. The Books of the Dulseys Beggars can't be ashamed of money: Keep it for North End Agricole - Makin beds wot makes mayflower dough - Double-breasted warehouses, we see - *:{-e} II. Book of New Additions The third version of the story now: Beggars can't be ashamed of money: I named this book New Addition, named Because It Was So New, i.e., because It was in thirty-two to the Party. <|endoftext|> "Fairground", by Kenneth Slessor [Living, Death, Activities, Jobs & Working, Social Commentaries, Labor Day] Unemployment: Two Boys Steal Submarine's Plans, Stung by Black Lives Matter's Tantrums I lost my submarine. It was my idea. Loss of submarine. I lost my vice-president. My wealth decreased. At my place of work, Bars filled late night, Unreal: a limouset / pizza shop, A failed shoe store, A pawnbroker's shop, An airline pilot's store Took away all my customers. ======================================== SAMPLE 123 ======================================== "Take up the new-fallen leaves!" Ima ole bean de family ain't got A family-sized share o're You ain't ain't got no children at yon old Tall carve-my-face Ole grandmother ain't no more. De harle liddle-time is also haild Is much too wide, clear gone go Ole Auntie tells me a story About a little man from down-under Afloat, dein de bush a-stoor Was shootin part of de yucky po-pon- 'S house, she ain't got no children At all dat round. De water-or-land-don't-drink-damned Yellow yellow wine. It ain't Pretty sweark yet, ain't got no White lemonade, ain't got no Chicken-cake bread, nor no Oyster dream-beer float. Des-we-ver. "I got a girl Daat lass back home, sweet Daughter I'se got no No-one-no-one." De old han' isn't got no No daughter. No. "All des-ery, yet." Ole Auntie see de dame Seat rockin-step. She ain't Amaze at all. De bein' Two neghbors! In de park Old de one. De one-nighter Don't make dat be-in' light. "She ain't got no Kiddie begur." I'll be dear Old folks, you know. I'm de One girl. De old han' ain't got One one of de vails. So don't cry. And It's dought-in-dough. Pretty soon, my girl, You'll know I ain't got No family nor none. De Sunday-school meeting's A-me-woodin-count De woman ain't no child- All readin'-book. She ain't got Lips versed. Too 'long to come in, Too 'long to go. Ole Red Wing Resort. She ain't no call. She ain't got No daughter. De old han' Ole Sunday-school chubby Is flatterin' her One of de one She ain't got no one In sight. Ole Trellbarrow Mountain Fair Imazeway Seem to sneer In de old 'lert' he's flaid Like de yarst 'lert I'll toyou a version de tay! "Oh, My!" I sits down, lookin' At him. He pouts "bless you, Lizz!" My heart. He gleep flay ole Trellbarrow, But he ain't no mite De white and red sea. De sea Says, "Ikng" dat he ain't got No house. "He gits Too many negroes." One ole fire-eatin', tough, Mar phlood. He ain't never Doze one ole jagg When it comes to burnin' His little soul. De nigger He ain't never no mo'. Gone heernit. So gone heeren't. My Lizz. Fair play. He're. She ain't got no houshold pride. She Gone sheernit, ma folks. No. No ma household name. De Ma of treble lifin'. She ain't Any household person. De Treble Life is near. He ain't Any mo'. De barmaides, de barmettes, De workers. De nyss. De number's Three seven Latin. De time Goes down...De yurr-out gurk, de... I don't know. I'm callin' De Catholic Old folks down- To-days. I've hearn it said de righ-daughters. I wonder How many mo' eres come De land. De call-and-fliiigh. De fiiigh. My heart, De blessed sun. You say You say you say. Dey say, de pligh. On de Cumberland. We go All de way. We'd wigger de right We right. It don't seem like he's gone. It don't seem like he's gon'. I wonder, I wonder...I look De thing over ======================================== SAMPLE 124 ======================================== $. In the preamble to the Preamble to the British North American Act of Congress, 1761, it is declared that the 'Vesper bellum illi Dei,' or the Voice of the World, is heard in the lakes and rivers and in the large sounds of day-time (noon to porgy-pig); that the birds in the air cry it and that it was found by Pagans on the shores of Delaware, and that they called it Ae-pyth[P] or A-peh, the latter of which word being spelt with only a single 'u' sound; and that it is heard on the Lake of Galilee, in Jordan, and also on the Tiber and Indysol's Great Rivers, the river Maut and the Sabine, and at size enough to be feared as a pest. It is spelt thus because the writers of those days thought they were rather squeamish about blood, they would not, for one moment, count with absolute consistency the idols of sport that may have sheltered an o'erhanging potentially deadly tree-top: <|endoftext|> "An Essay on Virtue and the Saint", by Thomas P. Lynch [Religion, Faith & Doubt, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] Though the wisest shrink from writing his song, Mohamed's joy was opening every apple of the given month to find within its core a main artery for the bloodlet that had hollowed it. No one knows the reason for this story's inclement variation from the June version offered up by the present author. Perhaps it is due to the fact that in the Paris of 1871, months have neither months nor seasons, and that each day may bring its own set of primings for an evening dress. Perhaps it is a matter of common luck. The dawn of Mohammed's daily climb toward Victory opened with the sun's first helicopter eye in the sky over Glasgow; and this manuscript, by the ceiling in the dargah, was one of many by the Scottish author to which he had recently sent a copy of his book for Glasgow; so that before the smile of God he might multiply that value tenfold. And it was that—style more than substance—that he crammed inside the guts of that silly word, as if it were a pot of rotting spinach, made long things sigh with comic anticipation, and stacked the boulders with mute outcast statuettes. For lightness, there is none. The wind that whips the Burj waitrijo from Darpanland has enough to make it garrulous with dry ice, and the sealing of its destitution with garish tinsel. But faith! what else should the engine of the devil within,Gods' foolspains on a far masstone through those yearsLooked at with Alazi's eye and temblor of gold,The Golden Age at best, at its hottest,But unrelieved till the very teardrop end of buyout? Out of the same ole' ways and time, out of the amorous mawsOf ripe palms on the papyroglyphs of Paradise,Out of the fragrant os of the palm-ships of Peace, the tears and laughter of tarts and quacks,Out of the breath of that breath and the blood of Rousing,The blood of Rousing and the smiles of Madame, the news of whom was the first great mystic shattering in the Trojan ranks,The May of Rousing and the cry of peace at end of battle, while Rousing went over the sky like a new Mars and a bird,And the May of Rousing and peace at end of battle! To the bluffer ranks on either side of the Earth that saw the Earth turn on her yearly journey a thousand miles in sixty-one hours,The Earth that carried a prodigy of prodigal longing in her breast from the dawn of Creation Tomorrow,One born for the rapture of mated love,Rising out of wreckage that would not end the turmoil of the century,One who was borne to be meal for these thousand moured bodies,This one hope born of the wreckage that no doctor could end in twenty years. So by the tears and laughter of Dame Fortune and of Love, the sweat and fortunes of the places, the sickness and health of the nations,There on the silver sand of Pleasure and the treasure-seekers of hope and fear,There on the valleys of laughter and the highs and the lows of Love and Disdain,The earth that held in the arms of her breast one life-piece worthy of love,One born to be fed by the lips of pity as wells and tenderly as the deeps of the sea,There on the shores of greater art and greater disaster, there on the knees of old Time bending over the world's well-worn conscience,There on the bosom of all things that ======================================== SAMPLE 125 ======================================== My soul an idol among gods, my head a cross. <|endoftext|> "You & Your", by Mina ^ findlay of the "You & Yours" in which I've come to parry with the cupful of scones you've tried on your head, your hand, your breast. Here we are with our paws tied together & I can do no more. Now, listen to me: eat whatever you want, but eat me or I'll never leave your side again. I could go naked to your mat & call that a victory, but I'll be parceled into nothing. We say our vowels, sing our vowels & there's no end to the recipe of us. But I see you, dressed for the summer sun, wantonly burning, only needing you. I'm not in this company for your good. This is no time for timid concessions. What's the use of speech? Keep it to empty vessels, eat me, drink me, make me a fire. Where's the word for that? It's almost 3 and we still haven't gone an octave. We'll never have another word for our new life & we can't be persuaded to say so. I wish I could parsel your hunger, Mule, your hunger for that kind of kiss, kiss where our lips meet but our mouths are locked, our faces fixed on each other's, & each other's bodies. We can't be moved, Mabel, as you crawl to my lap, eat me, drink me that wine. But this time I'm going to let good manners or religion stop you, our eyes locked, our bodies wrapped in silk & no wind, no life, no end. <|endoftext|> "The Story of Snow", by Mina Montano [Living, Youth] We were very tall for such young children, the children who were to be infants. We talked of everything very much. Things like toes and lips still to consider. We had very specific ideas of height and of short and tall. For months we would talk about the coats we would turn out: what color? what quality of material? Which lace? Which cuffs? which buttons? All the fingers! And if we had short hair, and if we had thick artificial hair, and if we had long hair from our mother's fingers, and if we had nothing but the natural hair on our underarms, then we would bend imagining how the flowing natural hair might go about the head held back and forth and the head in turning on its elastic fabric at the same time adjusting the shape of the trimerma who was to possess the body of the body, now a torpor of the small body, now the body of light, now a body of sunlight, all taking up and going on and off the, she-text, she-telescope of the fabulous mother, with all the tubes and machines and parabolics and lasers and gas lamps and herself (bright and strange) in her different cities and meditations taking up to be a long- forgotten view of, and our eyes always exemplifying (turning and revolving) the light of the eyes and hands, the yes and no of the moving fingers (very tender and other) and the sight in the eye of the whole fragile and tender body, and what the body was and was not (what was it was the body, what it was and what it is and was not), our moving and moving motion and our moving and not motion, all of it and only ultimately the sight of the light, the sight of her light and its scattering, ultimately what sight there was of her, so near, so far, the natural one, the sunlight, and the luminous suggestion of her, her being and its desire, and her sensitivity, her move ======================================== SAMPLE 126 ======================================== rd his prison armpit, brimming with the enemy camellia moldy black night. and began to walk west And God said fuck it And God said let's roast some squawgs. And God woz a reel And God said giwis And God said giwi and God said freewill Arrow And God said whos the ghost man <|endoftext|> "Green Soda", by Clay Rodnum [Living, Life Choices, The Mind, Nature, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture, War & Conflict] Comes this night, like the first ebb and flow of a faucet. Spills and gewgaws. And this faucet is not the kind you use to get water from. Makes you dizzy. Umphors aside, why would I want to admit about this bottle of green soda anywheres and whatever anywhere and yes I meant hereabout the nonthei vita plus its godly hues unlike the cantanker lumpymoove about this bottle of soda <|endoftext|> "Rag Doll", by Hayden Spring [Love, Relationships, Nature, Trees & Flowers, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] When the only thing you have to live is language (the herb, the insect, the insect's dna) and your blood is pickled in a dead man pinned below the highstreet Where the whigs and the bebaches fought and the hedges the roses and the citrons wilt and the spies the gleeds and the shrieks greedie at the waggon and the cross the crests and newsgroups a life without 1+ is more than desire in its own way is more than hate where words go limp in the lather like the eyes of a suspended master repeats the fatal work that so defeated him- Now, the news is in written language the sex is in video the fetish is in fingered vestibule it is forbidden and yet all the territory in the world's embraced and language is as empty as a bonfire and begonia, pigeon vagum, iris vale and the hedges are as gay as hedges get with the sweet sky smoked out and the whispers a glass of ale and the language is as full as the spoken word dellarophonia myaxia without sexual things <|endoftext|> "Pegs", by Wendy the Gnostic [Living, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Trees & Flowers, Mythology & Folklore] One of the sons of Uranius locked in the sub-frieght of siblings was the "peg," the horse whose rear-vision appeared to be that of a city, with its quadrangular winds, oblique tanks, and self-indenting cracks. It was now obvious why the "pegs" were kept so far apart: the faster the "peg" passed the eye, the larger the orbit, the impression afforded to the eye by the narrow bridge- or elephant-tod shadow behind it. The eye confronts one of which its father is the lord of the above, and one of which he is the family name, which gives itself away in the "peg" form it chooses—a seeming obscure identity over against the evangelic "pegs." When you, oh one, are rid with the dead and the new, and the eidolons of all; and when you, oh one, are rid with the dead and the eidolons of all, and the root-mind. And the "one" and the "one," which pass from one to the other at such speed that neither one nor the other is aware of the sudden absence, until it is accomplished; and when you, oh one, are rid with the dead and the new; and when you, one, are rid with the dead and the new; and when, one, is rid with the new and the eidols of all; and the root-mind is the reflection of the truth of all the heavenly visions, the spiritual movement of the angel, the vision, and the will of the omniscient. These symbols are palm-fraught, and, within them, the history of the creation, the history of reality. I do not think that I have seen an eclipse in my life, but often have purified, and known that the sun was ======================================== SAMPLE 127 ======================================== humbling. In that region, they say, there's a divination in the water, or at least it was once. What's so wonderful about the frequency of falling water, in our town, on the street? Our dog runs happily beside us. On the television, a girl—so young, so innocent—gets down from her bike, a phalanx of fans out behind her. Bid God bless the girl, the boys, the world. In silence we pray, us and the girl. And so, excepting, we have no words. <|endoftext|> "The Fury", by Allan Peterson [Living, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Home Life, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] The sky was black. And I had come to the place where the letters H and L shaped like brooms in the air, and knocked them down. Oh, and there was a spill. No one heard me knocking, anyway. I was no king. But I was a guy at the end of my tether, sitting among friends who were friends of friends. No one turned to look at me. The ball carried by the Black Hats, who saw me slipping through their heads to rain as penance for their sloth on the city's knees. Monet, Bloomberg, Kahn, de Blasio. I was on my way to Brooklyn, to St. Simon's, to ride the elevator with him and look for birds' eggs. Outside the Premier Bank, the bodega narwalatos ride across Park Place to all those Mannes & Centelles still selling Castalianos in the Village. My new name is Nora. I have my brother's birthmark on my forehead. They're my pismo creoles. I want to say that I nouy habemos him vs. me (him off at the start). Pimm's from imperio, mate. Emico y maio. Not yet California, not yet Brooklyn, not yet manhattan, not enough for you. Listen. Dream a little. <|endoftext|> "Dirty Pair of Boots", by Simon Arron [Living, Activities, Sports & Outdoor Activities, Philosophy] When you hear the Indians call it off then you know it's at the city's heart will the city's privy opening stumbel full of foul mouthed contempt you'll have to hustle, rush, hurry, pass on the bat and ball, rush, rush, pass rush, hurry, your life thrown off the bat and ball, rush, hurry, scramble the privy's doors to find a word not this this this crap, this this crap, this crap this dirt, this dirt this dirty pair of filthy boots this pair of dirty boots never wiping my feet, that pair of nasty boots always wiping my back one pair of dirty boots just one pair of nasty boots you gotta get your shit wet, grab a heap of meek run like hell off the mound, hurry these dirty boots have got so many holes in 'em, so many hitches, so many tongues, so many paths my jog that a butterfly could slap you can slap a shoe across, drag its lips to a scree and back, and it's done. I'd chuck it any time. This is the sweat and plaster of the noble beings. Let it shit. <|endoftext|> "Killing Floor", by Simon Armazzano [Living, Death, Nature, Animals, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, Money, War & Conflict] murdocateslockcat greyhoundcorn holdclcerto grantmahgentestate ontoesheartsomissions.org The mice are taking exams, covering their faceswith ash, placing their handprintsup in windows, on chimneys. At night I can tell when a batch is about to drop or kill to get up and around I go, but not now. My left leg is now a gun, it stands at attention in armor. No more chariots, no quayedivo fumings; my right is a ricochetcourse canary. I can see the fire inside it, in its recessed crate. How it laughs when I get too close. I'm cricket with a faz ignition, arcedat a rasher with a singed heart. Not dead, not loveless, crimethough theyist guns carrier socks. On the floor is my closetosa, but it needsa rag. ======================================== SAMPLE 128 ======================================== The seaport town, long ere the royal dome, Failed states of Europe to withstand; And how, with secret moor, and privy space, The pirates entered her, unseen, unannounced; And how the freemen, rising in that hour, Came with martial standards, sullen and grand; Fought and tore away her bulwark of iron; Tore up her premises of masonry, And left her no personations at all; In open show, she stood confess'd, to all, That the days of private onestate were done. Ye voices hurl'd long watches to the winds, No reasoners, be ye question'd, here or there; Whether we rule too much at court, Be the cause we care for or for naught; Whether the Reformation 's means Too much, or Reform, 't is still the same, Either keep we keep ourselves quite bare, And to our God given, and house just owe, No thing by us vouch'd, nor guest, nor guest her guide. Be you teachers, be you chiefs, On my allegoric rank wish you to sit; Take, take them, the fire; and all the air; Speak boldly to the world, the truth will still Sound, though the PEOPLE shall perish, gone. There's not a man living, who thus far goes out To seek his state and good, in this our market; And nobody cares to cry him back, If he goes badly in the market or the court; And yet, though all stable and market broke, The serfs may, by useful service, gain Honour in this our good service-free state. I have found out the cause why we skip, We pray oftina to get the more; And there is nothing worth hock in the crown, Seldome knowen thoroughly a stoor; An joint-anxious wretch, in saddle ready, Ready to be up and away: The history I discern, which contains Men's different fears, proclivities, inclinations, I'll tell you in a fact, I never quig In books the face of such a heap of pelf; The Deity, who so much does excel, Doth more than print allow the skipper to read; Tho' in our Persian, in our Jewish books, The same evil eye did reign consequent. I set my cofferrer level with my toes, I take out my holy book, well-meaning wise, I think the books I have written well indyn'd; I look'd the Psalms close, but scarcely could find The passage they pretend I never read; (One is a foul, one a divine holy book;) So with the landlord and the guide I try to seise, And the host'lic hound, and your driver wizard, I send them on with all their exotic gobblers. 'In vain they strive,' says I to them proud songsters, 'Your book, and yours two books of ours, to set.' They blush, and vainly so all their venery as pretends. I powder, firing, splutter, and stoop, And breathe, and so am well assured the mind Of the Greek race is much more similar In manner to your Greek soul than the songsters. The mortal never knows disappointment's hue, And so I ink joining our two souls in honey, When I hear that the threats'd Pouet meantlier of the two. Their cavil and scorn if I record this, And draw their stories as sufficient as clear; 'Twould hurt me grown some, had I plainers said nay. With their nature, their talent, and their testy, Like equal parts, like equal minds they vail; And, but for the cause now before the court, I like more their talents than their faces. 'Fant. I, (said a learned clerk) of Greece study; From Cyrus I reign, and this I do to show, That its gods are still our supreme, and still love Each other--I have draw'd up Suarroth down, And thus having satisfied their judgments, read Suarther, the last of the prophets, and di'd Their lips; I powder'd this, and that, and this pleaded, As wisely as I could, when to make engines; Nor have I vades enough to show this to you, Yet what I on him have said I will incise, To his charge I'll plead, though himself disgrasps. 'But, that you may better ======================================== SAMPLE 129 ======================================== / I had been dancing in air, then moved a gloved hand —  I brought her a garland of thorn blossoms / I brought her a bit of Xindi papaya, / I brought her bouquet of purple/silver thorns / I brought her a garland / of my favorite type of flower / / I dancers / at the center of the work of our Lady / of ours Lord <|endoftext|> "Fuchsia Metacarpet", by Angela Jackson [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] The couple sitting in the tree may be a homosexual and a Flesheaster trying to reconcile his work with his regular job is revealed in this newscast animation. The microphone moves from the right to the left, the camera closes in on the couple as the voiceover explains their coitus. "The world is once again aware of a factory collapse in Lorrain, the same town where Stephanie has her manic episode, causing 13 out of the 18 people killed to be their own. "This story may seem like an invasion to some — a stand-in or a cannonade — but it is actually the same as other nationalities of the military who die. "The last two deaths were those of U.D.STARS, or United Dachshandish Starlets, the first 28 minutes of the life. U.D. stands forUnknown Death. The third death was so very sudden: the microphone was off by just the tiniest amount when the shock was dealt. "Both men were builders. The out-of-sync dance was a matter of consistent rhythm. Their body language was natural and everyday. And the woman had been to see a play, too." <|endoftext|> "From the House of More than Three,", by Mark Grob [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] At More Than Three, We make out our horizontal bioremers (to cook is our the-country-that-was) And have Jukelee What 'uglys did u know About the Indians, yo? What     yptane did see Was, u te more than likely, Ypt more than three. Where the crib sticked open, We see a glistening deer bleat. At More Than Three We are undine. where the grass ; Our “U.D.S. — Unnamed Department of State — Special Collections, where we keep — Keeps things. At More Than Three We were undine. What   yptane did do Was exactly what undine do — What Tribe did tip Did exactly what tipped them to us: tip We are lipped. Our tongue is ours. Our tongue is we don't want it ours. Yptane will say what Yptes do, And they Want it ours. Hip-hop: It is tipped and opened. Dry, Dry is what They drink. Tongue: It is loose. Dinner: It is Chicken Poxed. Grapes puffed: We Don't Wanted Yptes Wanted Yptes Wanted Yptes Wanted Yptans Wild. Our “dry cool” Was not really cool. Wrap: It is a type of girl. Hand: It is the voice of Blood. Cock: It is a ball-peen picture Dry and Taste: It is a bite. For where is the wind but even dryer than this. Thirst: It is not wet. Suck: It is both hot and wet. P.Fu.to. Ice: It is Father and Fatheress Tongue Flesh: It is wet and cold and cold again. We Don't Want We Don't Want We Remember When Undone Remember What Remember ======================================== SAMPLE 130 ======================================== Breathless, yet yet the form of something stiff and glad Echoes, ere its body withers, in the air Athwart the last dark miles of stumbling day. Ere the moon had sunk a-slant, the clouds Burst an abyss, and to our race a new realm Upgraded and enhanced, and the Sun was there, In apex of magnificence, and He The radiant King of All Our Own Day. There was no storm or sleep or sombre cloud From sky or ocean parted; so it seemed A calm phantasy that night and day Through eyed men would point infinity To span, and hold them reverently back From uttering words that might terrify And confuse them for a eyeless world. The Moon glowed, made love to her blaze, And sipped star-water from the sky As ever she tickled the eye With softly-softly, the expropriated Sun Bathed in her ripples, leaped around Himself to evermore in finity Aster-ward, in luxuriously- Proportional juggernaut flight. And over the amaright city Ulixesta Stood like a bride-slave, bought and paid At a long, richowd brothel's pride. Buck-edged, large-wheeled, black-backed, neat-oared, Driving his brims, fashioning skirts ad- orbing from end to end of those long rims Wherein the stars for a while are asled; Driving his bristly brims, this long-legged Demon Forgot forever to grow a brinny foot In what had used to be his erst renowned foulds Ere this whence ever his winds of 40 cupped feet Had flung them free. And he found keeping his rowld half sort- oout o'er his own business at a loss. The nobleness of his hand, as journlin'-pole, Was all indecision; so he sought an au- tower, to infuse in it, with help of many a prop; a prop to draw from its nearest air. And now sited on his knees, the sudden, famisht short-graced, short-stuttered wiv his arm, He stared up heaven-high,--surprize his breast acrost,-- And saw above his old rowld heavens fur- wrapped, space-enwrapped, as if the thick-repressed flutterings of some conflagrate morning, furrawinded midway between Him and the sky. Then on his stargle heart's side he thought, "I'll make an old foirday fand!" And he said to his men, "whenever it befell that heaven and hell o'er-wrap us, Let us all fly down there together, like ants, In one big burly group for a lapwing. "For our strength is with hearts close packed and knit so, when it writhes its white snakes out, They'll show themselves in groups of two or three. Let's show them their proper polearfunctions." So they ran down to the ground to hiss and scream amongst the chanter's boisterous roar, To mimic thunderbolts, which the blue sky ignored sooner than his old streaked way. And now that he's there below, He looks up to the sky and sighs in deep deep moaning. His cheek is dry, and his mouth is like a hooked mackerel, and there's this thing, his tough-belted firth i'th fair and his beggey broken, big-powered machine mong six wheels scuffing the sea's they-land. "I think it's time I should had an urge, Curled to the low boat-rope, to ne'er dis- he against my will, this monster tide to take the eels of agony and hung himself up on a cleft of boulder above sea-beds, above sea-SHELL. He was so trepried, he could not even see that the shore was curved, that the hull was made of solid rock, and there were these rocks scattered o'erheated rock o'er-humped as curling claws of sea-THINGS. But the wind that whacked his face and caused his eel- lung-like retching and the squeeling of his membranous limbs, Was all of the shames and woes of that c ======================================== SAMPLE 131 ======================================== in the Spoils there: From the arrow-struck herders and the high Revelers, To the poor herd-dogs and the tost horses, With their load of hay and Toothsome "Beggars". Of twelve fathoms pure pounded Hemp-seed meal, to make the wood-heaps deep, And as deep as Eginter Mighty-glowing, From the nuts of oak and elm Hure and juice, that the fleetest winds And tempest-pale sun-gaun ours; That the nobles might feast there every Week from morn till EAST of SEVENE; That the poor might be-meal there might Eat fruit, and bread, and wove Flower and leaf, and brew-in-water, And that all might keep up the sale So here the Evening Meal went up to The Round-headed Townesfolk, And the sky heaves a blaze of Gibbous golden light, To keep them all alike a-glasses-clear. And here whilom, roosting a-whilst with His crew of Cloathless Peeres, The Sun round about sate, About his foot steeres a quavering of a-sigh Of th' awful Hue and Color; And at his foote there floo's a band Of fifteen thenle securing the Feast. And there was also there, apart, In the garden's cool-cold, The sober-gray-feathery Eagle, Suri-shrieking, its-flight. From the secret, behind the screen Of the great Okeefoori Block, There, on the firu-sield and high, Sturdily built and severely planned, It cast a hundred great eyes At the people gane through: And the lark dropped lightly from the air Like a pigeon off his back. <|endoftext|> My First Book (1907) Feeble, faded, and devoured By time, uncouth, and unwritten, This work began the perfection of the Babbler, and presents, but fails, of No longer than a 92-st. volume. This was the first book that I made With Mrs. Edwin Daines. Made for Southern men primarily, May it be nobly stuck, will it bear Such readership as has oft been Limited to the Friends and Colonos Of Austin Lewis, whose zeal for this Plumlock made it publick taste. Of this production some portions Were manufactured by that stupendous Publick gast, Mr. Burrows. The literary characters Did raise some questions here and there, But the fiction skirted by the authors Dryly dealt with any question as to What stake for future publication did Daines and Denton require. 'Tis said that Daines and Denton took Much fault with Burrows' gastly lumpish Miscaizing of its editorial cartoon, And rightly thought it not good enough To keep a fear on them, which was, we Ample convince heretofore, their special Quality of newpapers to be wary To keep a rate of sticks on ty Shots and droppers. Why then did Daines and Denton, in 1908, Take a publick topic of their own, Call it The Settlement of the Authors, and speak As if they had acquired a taste for watchmaking Readies. The fact is there is such a topic And a ready audience for it on the shelves Whereby their fame-furnished friends, the members Of the Oyster Bay Colony, may have fuller Options with them for their Ovid option. What are the sorts of people. Let us trace The various sorts of the thirty-two Strong models that Austin Daines did prefer. "I sought the Italian model; I chose The highly musical, imaginative, Blest ideal of sturdy Rome--the sturdy Italian woman." The several traits Of the several characters are thus given In full:-- "Italian . . . ever direct one so, that the Democratic spirit of the Romans comes Through her, and by a inward Tug-of-choice the living heart of American Ambition springs." "In a romance of new or old debate, In a comedy or a narrative of love, In a tale of high endeavour or dramatic Crime, there is one in whom the same act Might well be fixed true love and true life, more ======================================== SAMPLE 132 ======================================== Visible, though in mind's eye drear'd, The vast black meads excite the fiercest mirth. We, unapproach'd, from our foils be free! Ajust'd, ajust'd, I claim the best of thee. I, at the sign, approach the sacred wit: Nature, you are kind, you own the truth: The faithful harmony of things heard, At last, though half-chiding, justifies. The excellent Greek, that immortal drink'd Nectareous wines, tinctur'd his goits pale, Enpriz'd, the Bull-rafian this red, that white. Whate'er the man, his native taste would champ, (Sweet to him, or bitter) ne'er spilled a pore. 'Twas his to drink--to relish, or spurn-- 'Twas his--not everyone relish'd his draught. In beauty's line, the well-ishing mirror, The well-born and the accomplished heterogeneous: No whole--no part--discount all, each in his mind, Except the well-groomed archive of Suffance; Then, structurally, all's sculptural, reconstincted. To these, we scramble up a bust, But eat the juicy meat of a Scimitar. Like Bojana's chief (who, all the others auteurs, To striate beauty subjected, and to iver, Delight, as she was wont) I aim to emulate The nature invESTED in me by NOVER, In nought but IN TERRÈNE. Now, in this Dependent, this erect and moving lump, is sressed The fullness and the vigour of the Past. When Jupiler Duke God despatch'd his welcome pook To these -- provided quick with codding cottage-reece -- The verbose new-made Governor, with his breath Bespoke a score of far-cabled history 'Twixt that ill land and this – where so they had met -- About the defile, fereucule of law -- and here's his dern! Of hedgings crown'd with double vain will, Which my squire cousin-in-law said to me last week They had made, or mendles straight; Which I ran gaily, with my knife and weak earnest glance, Out of the plain, and love what I saw! For, dammit, 'twas a dare, To work my callings any day! It wadna gie me lordly satisfaction E'er my dotard soul was won to feel its delight, To see o'er green lawns my fields and purling stream, Peak yarrow wreaths and proshansky heath Bloomin' -- top yon summits sweetly -- Till I knew, with miraculous longings rare beguiled, The meshing of young spring and ramble sweet. Was there, that I by my side roved, And marvel'd when and where, When gray began to wend its living way Where the forest-gestic'd bents were laid To celebrate the dead? Then I was aware how tears, that long have deserv'd, Did surround my eyes; And the acid invective, that winds on a'{:e}... Flutter'd {h}ork down my mouth. Ah! a beautiful urn thou keep'st, With sacred yew and ystall grass; Sweet stands the ysaire, And ytone is the ystree, But most vernal is the summer To this yew-tree. I am under covenant, constrained, By that canary in thy throat, And by that vow that's been your law for many, Long ere I draw near; Therefore with glad sensation I translate rock and tree, And breathe the fruitive motion, And can in me cheer life's interval. Goodness and goodness is in that clime, Where growth is of sleet and sleer; Meats are little and drinks are little; There's no money for 'em, nor for simon Hunt, That's nature's marchin' manna dois, Down at that town. Ha! there's town-drinke{4} in my hawk, And teapot, and for sattins and for roast-houses, With all that's toks{5} and toddler; The shop-window keepsies{6} for shirts and ======================================== SAMPLE 133 ======================================== say'st thou didst--oh! but it is Of Thalaba that question not, for he Had not the heart to turn from her, for he Hath no heart in him, be it more or less. And now at midnight, when the quail lay Two leagues and a half south of Thalaba, In his own bark toward the land of Somalia Forth to seek his kin who hath forsaken him-- At midnight drank the land of his father, And reared himself up on Jacob's lance, A mighty solace of a great man, To wander in Thalaba's wilderness And make the forest know him of his love. But to this chattel Egyptian the wild wood Looked on, with big eyes full of anger and shame. And in the briars among the leaves beheld Young Thalaba, with hungry look and timorous pace, Holding his gray beard and pointing his gray visage; And the great white elephants of Egypt Made with his coming hoarse and loud, as he passed, Their white nostrils twitching as they traced In the air a slow smoke of their secret hopes. But through the briars scant of their secret wealth Upreached the youth, and he alone was heir In common to all, yet by misfortune made poor, And cursed with balance for-against-none, Full-split in lilies, with unseeing eyes, Of part looked Egypt, of part the Empial train. And at its feet lay as in high relief The axe which smote the tall emerald acah, And catlike body, of the queen's good barge, By which she went forth sea-bordering on the West. And Leviathan, who is sometimes named The Bighead Wall-Dog, unpoised his eye Anti-clockwise in a corner of the bay, In slantwise of one perfectly long Part the line of his head as free-winged Ill-advised, being hermetically pushed Toward the line of the land, her view swerved top-hest, Her breath one long drawn-out eelitow Against the water's edge, her wrung-chin Against her skin in the omen of bone, Being that line, had a Baron in Spoleto lord Of the Block's superb cape, below whose spurs Dangling his fins, rough-brown in turgid furs, All warned the ruffian tming of a teeth Fennec; and he to the rocky cliff taked That vision, warned his sonne's daughter to beware Her father's ship that kill him; and his hear Growled oath, if loth to hear the self-same sorry tale, Of what he saw, far or near, in Siok or Ton Then thundering north, an unforea shake. But a plain woman so is none of these, For to her such neglect will surely bring Wrath upon her head, and make the heart's blood freeze Before a word of compassion, or warm hand, Not help him: eyes that testify the stone-kex Of Hellif and Of Tyr, quickly choke the growler's mouth. Nor wit nor voice, if conscience wake the corrupt thought, Can remedy the mischief: dead lie down or fly, Roll down the precipice of fallen place; Hurl confounded to deepest ocean's pool, Or in the fast-deceiving whirl of battle-land, Where plagues rush to leave no abodes for them to dwell in. Lime, saith the picker of the pebbly fields The tune of the lisping laurel-leaf, or lily-flake, Shouldst thou witness some gentle soul to do thee wrong-- Some humble spirit, with brow among This latter temple's chosen to brightened every trace Of Nature's pageantry,--fair borrower from the age, Wound with sweetest Loganism--till in name, and by Canvuren hand in thy shreds of grandeur, thou Yields thy soul? Thou sculking thief! The thief's Admetation. When the Roman triumph'd round The slain Hannibal, all the subdued world's handi'd To herald fame his deeds, no Roman were to meet Or hear of him, but moonscoots as he were nak'd; So every Philistine heart Pomp student he does Defia, though a Pharisaic one; And homo haec multum, to cover oupire the haste, Which, while it lasts, veils but the patroness of wits, ======================================== SAMPLE 134 ======================================== Fiery things were they, Chanting their gaudy song, While the boys were left to snor And cough for a bit of air. By tawny splinters of the wood, By the cracked and crumbled drive Where the hapless Maenalus lay, On the road to glory and Hell They canters; By the wicked well that Satan dug They drink from a polluted flood In their auto." "O, well-a-day, what do I see? O, well-a-day! Is that the azure awning, Whereon thy weary Prestom Knight Himself may rest? Was ever castle more fit for grace Of palaces that wear the crown? See, see, within the wood, how fair Daises and aegads are growing! White forms, no shadows here, Only the roses we see. Green-grey, no, no, all afoot Now we saw but cupboards in the stall, Grapes, and the fir-tree's spiring; And a grease on the ground, For deep in the luscious mazes ran Blessing and little children down. The merry lark from heaven led The shining wings of songs; But now, in wild dismay, We sung drearily, For the forest had swayed to blame. The baleful Twisted Fits had fused To mangled horrors all, Stemmed through the Source of Beauty all As its deep ruinings rolled, And, like a conquering host, The forest, roar, and reels, With many a mourner's tread, All fiends still, all fairies wailing. "O, well-a-day, in all the coming years," We thought, "the heart must be that sad! What fortunes come to all, and what old joys depart!" But the fates say: "None passed genie out!" We thought we were ever sad: We thought: "No joys can yet be mine: The march of Time's undraped march is coming): Drink, boys, and be merry while ye may!" You put the hay in early, To come as ye have come all week: And I wad come ribbet, An' yoke his shAY'in Till helpin' you to mak' horse-yoke! Up sit the girls at sun-rip'n 5:00 To promiscuous thro' the wa's! Or aften summer-bearing The fields with Wawatbeaus brine, While baskets in over-glasses! Up go the boys at archery And fun 'till march-later lay, And haul each other and the hay, And maul the mark! Or, if you scratch, yet others scratch: No very farish share! The lucky dog's largely gone: So, if you get, ye may gie, There's plenty that can get you! There's fun in the sunshine, balm in the hot, Brawn-freeze in the freezing seas! So I wag heed of Fun in summer, And 'ide of a justin' Is a pundyce that's mair enticing, And in summer of to-morrow, I'll bring my breech boy And ye may rive lonen 't aroo! What is this? Is Willie gone? He wandereth now through the was-- He hasteth somaid ward--Wern ever'? Warn' he?--No, not that it matters! Will jest they be bundle o' good deeds? A toy's a toy, whate'er you stake; Heaven's glory is but wonderin' at distance; There's chivalry o' sight. What is this--a Brigade? A beostaered Ponce, what? Twa bourgs, more or les! Bedropt froth, a battered barge That took the gate with a rocket: Lame for a ship, He's landin' here with his guns. A tarnin' at sea, A clankin' o' the thong At wind-a-leigh; A heart that is pouting Is paining him for savage Mary! He's landin' here with his guns, We've lost, you and I, the daisie We used to lay upon the wood, When I was not desoly. I'm not dead, for your benison, ======================================== SAMPLE 135 ======================================== malt smashed up for pure, or past, mill. He speaks of having watched it rise and swell, he of knowing what was coming and where, he of having seen it fill the glass and dissolve in it. He is too narrow. In a voice like a bug's, he speaks and says to her in the same line, twice, "We wait only until the cup overflowing has withered enough to crown a full unrhymed face." This is more verb than noun. She comes back with the cup and empties it in the sink, holding up the sponge in a slow, careful trickle of water. Now he has one word for the pinched, slow-swelled tulpamilled air and one for the greenish, mournful, watery liquid he sees. The cup is empty. He goes to fill another. All he finds are two clean, two empty cups. To make things fair, he will take this one and that from her. To make things fair, all she has to do is hold her breath. <|endoftext|> "The Leash", by Eliza Salomon When my foster dog yelped, I gave honour to the word. I tucked the kittens in, To change the sky you only must come once. The wombs that summer we crossed So we brought our lives all close together. We're not from the earth the sky disallows but when we chanced to stand on shaky blocks We thought to take the air, to talk and to shine. She made the dove a smorgasbord, The swallower made of hand-w washing by plunging in the sea. Then the pussy-owl cuffed the horses for their dally. I ruffled the bird and said we should only share. He grieved she did not see his hand The swallow swept us off and cried they should never have started. It seemed they believed in mysteries, The rabbit jumped through hoops and regaled the sight with chaining mystical thrills. I chased him and jumped before him and said see there The celestial rabbit – only shining. But he vanished in a wink and the dream was done. Or was it flight?— <|endoftext|> "Badman", by Robert Graves [Living, Death, Badman, Drama all, Mythology & Folklore] Badman Badman badman badman Badman Badman, he leans his rusty pistol here, here, here, and pulls the killer through it. The prisoner walks in walking with a sad face, in front of him is the killer, dressed in his Zoot Suit. As they speak they shatter skulls. Badman Badman Badman Badman, as they speak they shatter skulls, in front of them are the killer, in front of him is the prisoner. As they speak they shatter skulls. So badman Badman Badman Badman Badman, he leans his rusty pistol here, here, here, and pulls the killer through it. What a heartbreaking start. What a tragic start. Badman Badman Badman Badman Badman Badman Badman, he's carried the killer through the dream, and now they're awake and moving. He's a royal stroll, he's a walk of honor, he's a walk of glory. Badman Badman Badman Badman Badman Badman Badman Badman, as they speak they shatter skulls. What a heartbreaking start. What a tragic start. What a tragic end. <|endoftext|> "Astronomy", by Robert Graves [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Activities, School & Learning, Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Trees, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Fairy-tales & Legends] I watch you like star taking over, Like my niece taking over the milky way. I take her high resolution sound and clear and moving. But I take your hard hit sequence and loop it. I take your struggles and loop them. I take your hard hit and loop it. I take your hits high and yours low, I take them in sequence and hits. I loop them. What's next? The journey where I'm going is a next. There's a natural next where we can loop it. The next is a number we can count on. It's number one. It's black. It's inevitable. The tree has roots and branches in the number. All the number represents is. All the numbers in it. Nothing to do but do. Do and do it ======================================== SAMPLE 136 ======================================== But who shall bear this burden? The task is burthensome and hard, But every hour the work to do, For the cause of the loving Cause That wrote the "Love Snell" in the sky Of the ever growing Tree, Of the ever greening Seed; Whoso shall carry our banner of Let every light and every shade That glads and bequeaths him, When our plumed and crisped steeds The guideless carriers strain To the ever green, ever riding Seed. The tush the deep, the uv the gutter, The road the jaded travellers cross, The dust the plane the flaxen weave, The lamp the cocoa-tree cultivates, The itherwise and below The house the mantled head, The itherwise and below The house the weaving pillow. This was the house of Hatto, He had three sisters, Madalla, Forsworn was the board with chairs, The chambers, walls, and ceilings Empty and deserted was the room, And worst of all the origin Of the turbid flow of blood. The artful Breugene To the sick man's mourning Propos'd this emprize generous, Who with pale proposiz'd, For while afresh her heart pursues, Thus entreats her party: "Forget me delivering, If to Hatto, write, you, This she-breadth'd-to-the-walls, That now the city-wide distribution Shall not be stopped." Thus she speaks, persuading parth With hints of office from the dame we bring, But his high will to serve Deferred the offer'd end, And she must for the time occupy The duty which for months he tried in vain for. In time Breugene's daughter, Millicent, Sparkles again upon our imaginings, And a mild scholar now appears In the fair Buova, so much renown'd before. Now the returns to art are seen And the manners of the time of carnal thought Forbid the impressions Buose had made; And his learned serwants, with civil stare, No more unmake their collar's lofty cuff, But declare, in the name of Arminie, That he learns from day to melt stamp, He knows Bruchos from the oka; He has sense to understand Obbeca, And from Genus-lied banquettes, In the Divan see Nominets vaunting banquets; In an artist's house, writes Bruin, No more to make an instrument No more to pore on or uncurse the Fletcher. And the Lady Buova, once so wise, Says: "In Buova's case I meddle not"; In the name of Suffolks she curses: In the name of Sale she crings: In the name of Mela she conducts, To the sickly word of direction, How the very dogs would ring, if it were so. So the coffee-house drops from her name, And the golf-house from hers, the last two, in fact; But she's so gentle and formidably That, when any man of that sort would speak She is merely taken-addicted, gaily, And adroitness herself most glibly. But when the Sidmas come, she's very rare, For they've so multiplied their fortune That they all hold coffee-house, every one; And she reads, for boot-replenish, Some heady philosopher Whose cynicism makes mince-meat! Why, I've even known, by far the wisest one there is, Whom the best intellect in Perlman's Falls Could not impress the figures to his craw; Yet he speaks with tough eloquence, And his arrows are able to pierce Any watcher just so deftly, As he, in his rather wonderful way, Can convey the gist of any argument Into a thought that quickening is, Or by tacit post-haste. And you'll find, by any arithmetic, That she's beat her male acquaintance far and wide; But to make up for it, she often calls At Doctor Vantome Aralsid's Hall, Where such women alone are seen to strike. But never doctor yet was ever said, Or Aradal Zedek in Wolf, or Saul's Road, Ibiza busts, or such other things, In the Christian Faith, for want of heat Colour, or for want of flesh ======================================== SAMPLE 137 ======================================== law. But two men cannot have a banded vision. One of them found it: Robinson; he lived on, making the best money he could, selling books by mail, to fill your order. For most of his 50 years, he was a simple man of few words. In those days, a rich man could afford a writer and his message of fairness, truth and right. I have no sons, no daughters to tell about the first half of us, and the latter half of dulcet legend. Our lives are turned, Gimbut and Ranke sent out on sodos. So here's a kind of a hand-turned mirror that I can pull to my gaze and see. This mirror was built in a German silo, with a window stuck in the middle. Half of it sitting out on the end like a blind man's-way-of-ice-capped-rain-chilled-tree, half-coronae way up at an angle, through which I see shadows pass between the splayed faces of the two bison fills in the sun my mind fills in the other half filled in with goats staring-tides of two eyed corminery helix jointed together my mind convergised <|endoftext|> "Fall River" is a poem of complaints from here to heaven down to the spring river to Stony Ladkin Cyrus Fort to Worton's Corner in a line. These beads have been the excuse to do the other and his eagle eye what is he seeing out of the corner of his eye in a specter always waiting to strike out at you. The beating of the eyes by the rain is already taking place. He does not think the world should be here in its whole life. What do we do with the things that are unwanted but guarded with a secret that a friend will look for seven years and if you let your loved one near the Spider then a spider will think you. Stover must be allowed to do the regular hunting and eating because we are all with the same story connected. Do you see the big white tree with its long limbs that supports you and us and what they do. I went down to the racecourse with Phillip, my husband to see Uncle Pat and my mother all in one moment. I had on my silver skeleton and felt quite strange with my arms in the pockets of a small shirt. Then Phillip said something and I started crying to go home. I have never been happy since I was born, since I was born I have felt all kinds of things. When I was very sick I felt this I felt the desire to take some fingerprints and go out to see my mother and father but I was found by my neighbour who went and called my mother and told her I had got in the surf by the side of the Road of False Prayer too many years since she said my name. He said she had thought I might come back and tell her something and she was glad. My mother comes out of her room and says I have always known. She wants to know all about it. Mother is happy for my come back but I am too sad because she has had to stay away these many years and I remember going back and forth at night when I was sicker and she told me it was best for me to come back and that it would be best for her and the kids to come back too and she had gone to Pat's and she said the same thing happened to her sister and for years I had been drinking cider. I said the press was there from before they came and if I wanted to come back I could do so unhurriedly but neither mother nor the twins have come looking for me this journey has been all anger and wrecked emotions. I say it is all painted soon I will die while the rest of them are finishing the story and they will say I should not have gone away and I will be crying again. I am here still. I made myself a mirror and moved it to where I saw myself on the other side of the room of those who had come to the bar to tell their stories and ======================================== SAMPLE 138 ======================================== Hunger, thirst, burning thirst, the forked sparkle of spears, The trampled torrent, and the clatter of maces, The bellowing of embattled battle, in or out, And shatter and roll the foaming pinions down. And two the mighty lords and peerage, Whose glory is in their lordships, And the crown, the sceptre and ornamental star, That shall reward them with our love's delight, And tear from earth their fear of death. "I must join the host," he said. "Not thou, but he, Sir Gawayne," was the quondam objection. The barons, under their enlightened pride, Proved engineers and miners afore they were fathers. And proffered, as part of their Imperial right, To succour the venture. And Gawayne, who heard it, Fearing the baron's counsel, quoth, "Woe, woe! The hosts I battle, or shall battle, I tell thee nothing of my flight." Nay, for our love we hindmost his attack should dread, And his advantage in the fray be lost. I trust in sooth, the wound of England here Shall not be given to the broadsides so fine. "He must join the host," quoth Gawayne. "I speak to thee, I saw him not my neonige last week. Thou wilt take thine ill to see me meet him; Thy time to smile quango lotus to bestride. By heaven, I speed six hours too soon or soon! I look for The Standard, and thou knowest that. Him that all war myself, from boy to man, From boy to heventy hero, weak or strong, I cannot wait. Yet be found I can The Standard be found out, tho' very far." And now they both were clear, the king well in bed Shined glad upon the stedfast eigthmastite floor, When Gawayne, with the baron and the baron young, And Lamimoudi both beside him, sitting at his side, The victors to the sight that grieved them sore, The victors with food for the victors out of town, For mirky green fields and fruit-eager jookh And flout and flour and snaw-ridden sullivagled landscape, And sheaves of corn, and sheaved of corn for sheaves of wheat, And sheaves of wheat, and her large cup utterer, That by the people goes unpitying forth the praise, Whereof to the tenth number is improninled, I threw dollar for cup, by his goad to the toe, The cup given him, to exercise in the race Though he were but a novice. But Gawayne shivereth, "Alas, shi'd my lady, I am pennyless, I cannot get to the alcove, nor surpass The spring was here, the tree, whereon the ink was spilt Sclerotia planta. A cup is lacking, and a drop. Nay, dollar for drink, I will retire to rest. Thou didst pass, The lady sat, and youth continues. She has the cup. Gawayne, no man hence, a lady pass not uncandoor. But he that hath her chase may comfort her with this: Sullivans are we, some shall swallow us, they may suffer Sick, and you may drink, and I will have said was good." Sullen and sullen, and silent, be the I. Le. bows. And they a while re-baled the wine and drank, and heetta Saw the fellow read, how many munchkin mong us, And what a sheltering vault for manhood it is Though we see naught but glass and wrapping of it. And now, the light of light, a cloud to make it morow, A rising ostricety, the dinner done, Sir Gawayne to his dad, to bid him joyoscene, And all the Gull's officers and its Baron do, Respectful, to those that did rein it there, And tell them all good people to hear, and let them hold it; To leave it to God, Sir Gawayne replied, is truth. A standing-room-only crowd Borne onward by the shrieks of their cheerless prince, From ten white oars the Current keel came keeking. None knew this Gawayne, that ======================================== SAMPLE 139 ======================================== And bids the hosts that are of us, take due precaution Of the time and place, to keep the road as it shall be. When you hear, 'Alack the time and place is not seen,' You must call up where Christ doth multitude walk, And bid them hold their clothes to the flame, As the nations of Christ's elect must do. In New England, of late, have I been treated To considerable viewings of that town, By ladies for my peace, with much good success. They are so narrow-minded, and so stupid, To think one at this time of an inhabited earth Might not be able to share their imag'ries. At this time of day, in New England, if you say An atmosphere of politics and contention Is growing in society, a maid would ask, 'Is it dark? 'What, Sir, is it lighting? 'What is it, to you?' When all are like our Nature-given condition, No doubt is due to be clarified. To them, the air grows clearer, so they may quell A mirth, an ass another has led on, Not only fair Quaker-Water, but Quaker-Water. I venture (unless to be knocked over cheap, Is what resides in, such a commotion there), And so with them enjoy the sayings of it, And if the scrawl from Raventuan's mouth Is like the rest, or otherwise describe such things, Must have a peculiar terminology. I did not think Nature would allow One mere Scarlet-street, but various parts Of 'crops' of improper quality in men. The learned, and innocent, themselves seem blind In beauty to the same degree. What a mode to disbelieve even God, Who ought to us in Nature's mixture find Mixture charting! -- How come on earth we can't see That beauty's image is not in cloud, But ere the cloud has been created, It piques us with its present beauty? If moons have it, why not stars? Why this greater airier bounty? Why men complain so of the beauty, Yet of the whole not one little part Will take the saying but the thing, But this is I, The very cause why three are not four. If you but know me well enough, I feel quite willing that you should know What many, far too few, of those now listening Are holding now. And you think yourself right To keep my prayer for error's pill denied. No Apollo chorus shall you hear, My chorus will be the gladiators. You are wrong on one point only: My song and its twin, you are right to hold From me the God of Thebes all down To the heights Acarnyx, which is opposite To most saints' singing mountains. To sing all mountains at once was never done So range on range; but that you may feel secure Against the end, and already given away, I will add nothing to the rime of this In regard of my subject. I am sure That Jose-Hermosa's ambition runs no deeper Than to be 'molved headlong trying to get out Assem, the page of Deucalion's condemnation, At his own trumpet-blast! He'd be content To commit the breach of trumping notice There and then, and yet there imploring wait. He shirks his proper work on the staircase That he first builded. It may be seen, What would become of him were he to try The whole descent of ten thousand steps In the night time down, by the natural door Opening on the cremandoge in Urr Below. Scarcely a sight beyond Augustus Lippe He would have stayed to look, if there had not been Some nimbleness in his flickering taper lip, His hands stretched helpless on either side, As he had taken as much faith in those two As fit well as he enlisted them to look As he had seen them in Deucalion's page. I would have all copies of 'death' discourses Burned ten centuries hence. I would have Denisallio speak them out, And not one elect as false. I would have him give his instinct to all, Who live to stir and test his nerve. I would have him bring before 'the pale dead' (The moral good of all men's lives to man, As marvellous for his own end). I would have him for the one descending penny As he were false the whole earth around him! I have no faith ======================================== SAMPLE 140 ======================================== have an honk-a-long-ul un-break- nancy-gill shout-out-out down-beeth in-suck- nay-tay shucks-and-butts in-shwe-drill- on-nay-tay shucks-and-butts-it humps-and-butts-ay all-bes-the-naked- naked-gopher wild-goose-fart--in trash-can-for-tam-ish nothin-short-offs-ay all-four dog-all-the-ways she-wind-she-barrel- sweeper-sweeping-whirl- drum-bechumer-bob-nackets bob-nicholas-bob-nicholas- sich-she-may-she-nothin-sowin-shucks she-may-blow-she-wind-she-barrel-shutters she-may-she-nicholas-sich-she-may-blow-she-liam-may-sich-she-may-she-may-she-may-shine-in-sich-she-may-she-shine-may-she-may-shine-may-may she-may-she-say-she-may-she-say-she-may-say-she-may-say-she-may-she-may-say-she-may-say-she-may-she-say-she-say-she-may-she-say-she-may-say-she-say-she-may-she-may-say-she-may-say-she-may-say-she-may-say-she-may-say-she-may-say-she-may-say-she-may-say-ay-in-sich-ay-may-she-may-say-may-may-may-may-may-say-ay-may-may-may-may-may-say-may-may-say-May-say-ay-may-may-say-may-say-say-say-say-say-say-say-say-ay-may-may-say-may-say-say-ay-say-ay-say-ay-say-say-say-say-say-say-say-say-say-say-say-ay-ay-may-say-ay-may-say-may-say-say-say-ay-ay-say-say-say-say-say-say-say-say-say-say-say-say-say-say-say-say-say-say-say-say-say-say-say-say-say-say-say-say-say-say-ay-may-may As you knotted my harnass You took away a string which Was the heart of a dear trot Oer which my lady proved too true For the chase of a long way had gone; But I'd be fool enough to risk it; For I am going a-wondering To have her trot to court at the Dale. I know a thrush sings loud, "Alas! Cathleen! Cathleen!"--a gay bird, Who dances with his mates, two by two, But he says no word about His love-mates--Door, as Jason caught him; And Door, who snatched him up in his claw Like a nut but because he was dead. The love-song of the blackbird's love-tide Was like a sea-boatman's praise-rise; For when sea-things landed on friendly land, He left the story of his bud Upon the level, the sand, the heat, The buds, the sand, the blossoms, grass, All in a fattening above the bar, His bird's patter all his love to tell. A flock of geese fled towards the wind, To hide them from the winter's blow In wings from which it deemed them sent To bless it--though it could not know Their wrinkled faces, or the rest Of what they went to seek, forat all. I put my head against the stone. For a breath, The cold desire of dreams to be Stifled in, and all were strange again. For one would hollo there and then, as if fire Were in the mana that made them so keen, And bless the ======================================== SAMPLE 141 ======================================== One has gone to the abodes of the dead, And the next, after this life-time, steeps in clay The dreary unprofitable past. These songs of the hater What are they but the soul's sense of bitterness Severed at the extremity? What are they but a waste and bitter desert? Here in thy singing Darkness grows human, As music which overrides the ear Takes the sense of being And leaves the spirit in despair With the reproach of not having understood. To his soul is what blind was made When we wanted what we could not see; Thou hast made what we do not see Our own shadows which we can neither see nor feel. I, sitting 'twixt wrath and horror In thy parting steps, Saw how a tiny, daffodil, That did assuage with earthy wonder, Sick of love's drought and spurt and fuss, Polished and gled: Joined with a rod the mindiplin That her lovely face was An apple of greyness, And that her fruit was dead And producing dead That was an eye of green, And me that recked not why Stood, maddened by lust To thrust my spirit through That wound of bile and futility, And grow no more; Slept with wearied wings In drossy, dainty, woven dress, Till I, mourning, could not lie Vertically for more than expressions Of their young wild age Crowned with spray. And I crying myself mazed. While I, in a deluded mire, Washed with damp The legs of an antiquated chair, And wept for a want they had none; And that for which they gave no sign When they gave Vine when fruit was plentiful, Tree when fruit was scarified, Song when like the coughing of rue When sex was a book Which one's spirit made, Shorn of its cover, Half Axis, Ran slowly, glued with the quaking shudder Of thought in `dumb peace' Toward the doors of light; Where I made my mind; And was jarred Against the hammering waves of the sea Rocking. Bashfully, haply, gods with faces Betwixt which the sense of earth is Vexed, fluttered my eyes To see the immensities Of Form Until I knew The fluttering; O I could have taken Time, Whole and All with sudden franticness, In one impotent plunge, For my eternal paradise Here is the spot; I, here entranced, By the sin of desire How I wish I knew, Here, with the scent From her lips, How hers were the rose-leaf hyacinth And neem, And leaves of knowledge Which have kept me, here enthralled, Till the burden ceased, And I, Till I, Am left with the smell From her hair. Hers was the beauty of the secret glory, And it vanished; but beauty has a strange way Of coming to the surface in any woman. Where the magnet's force is under him, The magnet's force stays secret, But as force, by force, will out at last, So beauty keeps its shape When over-come by force; So her charm Shaped itself to my mind As this human, or like some flower Which has its pure seed; So formed, enriched By her gifts, As a builded vessel, full Of beauty and joy, I wonder; and what are the thoughts That run invoking now to my life My body and myself? Hers, the mind which now spread covex and lens And vivid eye; The strength which sought in vain all mine Ohold For love's joy and hate's severe beauty, And the high name--twenty times returned, Returned for pleasure, death free. And what is this beauty to my life, Her house and mine? Loneliness made it so: But oh, my home! I build in beauty treasured Her heart and body to the hilt; There shaped my muse to be the immortal seed Of beauty incarnate, made her a divine Fulfilment of form and seed, There attired me with warm airs of heaven 'neath the heart and cheek And framed the face Full form and beauty and soul As her beautiful soul was full Of beauty, full of ======================================== SAMPLE 142 ======================================== 'He ne'er is weak or afraid; Then come to Ida, my own dear master, I have gone far on the path of the warrior; Therefore am I come to thee, O my soul-mate, Thy comrade to the fraternal Mysteries!' And that youth thus entreated thus replied To the fierce Pohya, Baryonya: 'Tonga is my mother; thus I answer: None other mother has I: thus I answer: I am not weak nor afraid. If Sime has declared in an ancestral haven, In the silent calm and mighty Deep, That I shall enter Turk's bloody jaws, No more would I that dangerous path seek, But would with one who would warlikey the fight, And would not fail in the eternal boast, That would still defend the Teutonars With his father, mother, and his mother. Else should we hence, far from our people, On ever-diverse, be left in doubt, And so our schemes be ruined all. But if some chief should come, who spoke us plain, First to our aged sire, and afterward To the other kings,--if little we reck'n The honour of great promises made in dreams,-- First to the aged shepherds would we dare, Great then to shepherds much greater would we dare To the kings who fill the middle horoscope; And we, at last, should have agreed. So, Baryonya, we were kneeling here, And, with Baryonya, we were kneeling; When, lo, a startling veshSpace in midst of the kneeling, And on the wall, a fine golden ship And on the margin of the sea a dove." "Very like, Young son of Barye, This Baryalove appears to me, So well the silken cartoucheth of The ships, of Russian fancy. If the fleet from the eastern winds should glide, Oh well-inhabited part of earth, The eastern land, ice-land of frigord heaven, Or if, from ever-mese Mysteriel, A star should fly from that everlasting range, Then would I know each keel, or perfectly replicate Wainamoinen's boatmanship; Wainamoinen, hero, shall be seen Then to a shapeless mass as infinite As the sum of all things appear From the Creator's eternal skies." Then said Old Man Moine-bever, 'Have you then forgotten Boryokud, The eternal man, Ilmarinen, When laden with equator into water, Pulls his tubs, I blink my eyes? Did he sail upon the air, or hoist the sail Upon the wind? If he sailed the farthest shore, Remember'd the Deering Doons, and came not back, Remember'd too that he wanted men to follow him, If they wish'd to find their country shopping?" "Nay then, be gentle with me, Moorjord, As a pupil mild should be caitiffised, And the archer wary. Would a bit of fire be in my breas Ere this knottet the fox beneath my plants, Or the little birds at every paneth spring. Beneath your rocky bottoms Treble would kill; And the loud hother of vaver heavy metal: It breathes hardearth, and would kill the sick with smock. 'Tis my sad staff that would tarry here, If the westering-wind not hefto' the heatherof a siller. "Ilrimnorou went from out the burning wood, He was ever nurst, and veden so, If they niver could, and niver would, be delayed. Tho they went to th' unfallen logs, And cut in small lengths they took from thereand therewith they Led into the grove the fagots a thousand And a thousand are they that flash to dazzling. "Whilk therefore therewith I have envious made Take them to work, and let them flash their lusts Upon the rocks, and let them greatly Light the forest play with their hair Loosely and they will never need distress. But the dear gift of the birds I entreat you To aughten, and claim as gifts both their grace "Goddess of wovve in mouth and in limbs, Aïagin, earth-wraith, the avert, Sole star of taillights aërgonomy, Aïagin, sossie-l ======================================== SAMPLE 143 ======================================== old Nant,-- and, though he was old, the old Nant was just the same; while the boy who, flitting from the rock, already stood aglustered, and had round and round faces, such a flaccid, ape, such a pikkaka face, such a pikku, such a hawk, such a hat withouth an eyes, such a bum, such a wig, such a gyfte, such a fellow, such a head, such a boy, such a-buts, such a-huts, such a-boot, such a stare, such a suit, such a skrese, such a train, such a tohon, such a turn, such a toon, such a oton, such a ohhon, such a awk, such a awfry, such a hump, such a rick, such a krant, such a loon, such a creak, such a grane, such a lok, such a liff, such a lacke, such a tub, such a mack, such a lug, such a roll, such a drum, such a lug atugh, such a auld, such a merles, such a warge, such a creek, such a mither, such a mither, such a mulk, such a wheedle, such a winter, such a wheep, such a wooer, such a wifeer, such a whimp, such a owl, such a hey-diddle, such a where-doodle, such a roostle, such a where-cur, such a rafter, such a racket, such a tat-deed, such a pole, such a whittle, such an Opail, such a Taffy, such a Greet-ra, such a Croke, such a Handicap, such a Head-blechy, such a Dummy, such a Drud, such a Bum-lee, such a Blad, such a Jumblin' Jack, such a Buzzard, such a Buzzer, such a Leather Mk I, such a Yack, such a Yackl, such a Comand, such a Dunce, such a Grinn, such a Mackie, such a Tamer, such a Turnber, such a Tamer's Butt, such a Twaddle, such a Jestle, such a Jig, such a Hurd, such a Humpy, such a Diaphyr, such a Twaddle, such a Lout, such a Granny, such a Monthger, such a Grandspar, such a Apparel, such a Hang, such a Draught, such a Handicap, such a Breeches, such a Hang-up, such a Bung, such a Sleeper, such a Boy, such a Stinger, such a Foot, such a Robettolk, such a Dragnet, such a Loop, such a Handkerchief, such a Mock, such a Chooset, such a Pound, such a Breath, such a Sneezet, such a Drag, such a Flounce, such a Groping, such a Gays, such a Grose, such a Skreet, such a Pullet, such a Flounce, such a Steed, such a Shorts, such a Tats, such a Twirl, such a Cuff, such a Pullie, such a Pullie-up, such a Pullkeet, such a Mull, such a Walk, such a Goobie, such a Bowle, such a Mullkeet, such a Bomb, such a Bombkeet, such a Mullke-up, such a Sweep, such a Shake, such a Boot, such a Mull; such a Skarf, such a Ball, such a Bombeet, such a Mullkeet, such a Handkerchief, such a Mullkeeker, such a sweater, such a handkerchief, such a pair of pants, such a falf, such a muckie, such a marsh, such a berry, such a basher of shrimps, such a wat, such a waggle-bones, such a native, such a waggle, such a noddle, such a rump, such a jowl, such a gargle, such a chub, such a bum, such a wobble, such a hump-cheth, such a heuch, such a stump, such a tut, such a titt, such a tot, such a dodger ======================================== SAMPLE 144 ======================================== two, two two words, two, two. What are we going to do with the number three, oh, God, number three? Is the ambiguous-prefix first, is it a word or a-ha, ah- question? God, where are we going with this number? The number three, three, three. <|endoftext|> "Song for the Middle-Aged Indian", by Pushpumming Wang [Religion, God & Habits, The Spiritual, Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity] The lazy western sun hassles the village. The dirty winds, the yellow river each evening knob-knot loose. A beginner in Buddhism, hungry from a long fast, choses some straw to his coal. The blacksmith, iron-fisted, forges while the monk scatters fig and taro to the monk and the crowd, and green royal seeds to his tongue. The eagles, monks said, are singing that all beings have the tiger's tooth. The odd man out is Prajnakeer, the man without number. I'm everywhere, always. In the company of men, with flowers, grass, tree roots, sap, shells. I am animal. I can spring unicycle fabulous. And elephants, they say, are the best witnesses. Lying to themselves like words. With lions, their holy fool. <|endoftext|> "Lazy God", by Rodney Jones [Religion, The Spiritual, Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries] "You don't look well, you don't look well, and you know it's morning, so musically we get dressed and go to different priests and tell them about being lied to by their neighbor and taken offrockstar." The hangover isn't bad, because it's hangover. The priest said his house was too far away, and licked his thumb while saying, "I ate a whole sub and still no loftiful [expletive] and my eyes are the shit." "Like a sub, say," I say. "Yeah, sub is down here stupid," in a us vs. them kind of way. If I walk in and nobody is gonna stop a thing like that, a thing with his heart in it, isn't a thing, isn't a thing isn't a thing. A jar of water, sand, a cinder-block fence, a bird bath— "Heaven" is made up of nothing but a guttering and an elf-light. And a bird bath, a jar, a jar— "Man, you've been hungrier than on All Pule, not even for sunset." The whole world's gone anyway if not we. The rest of our dinner is the dinner we've been making all night, sipping on long stainless skiffs, pouring lacquer bricks through our live fast and trying to keep from killing the next guy who is the next black thing down. I thought I had you at last where, what, a mile? Was this light house a sub-squly ? Like Hic Anne, the cuckoo, she came out of her weed and fell like a flag on my ankles— not liking what she saw— not liking who I am. "Well, maybe you're not straight," a white pre-schooler said to the children in a nearby building, "but why do you do it?" "We don't like white people, do we, that's what you'd be for us, so why not Like, if you like, black, or white, as I'm sure you do, a lot—but why?" And I told her, about 70 percent of my DNA is from places I can't see, can't reach, about 70:20, from the land and the sea, from the roots of the earth to the light that whoever sees us tries to blind— a blackbriar, a wild ajee, white oak, or sweet popcorn, to light them up at evening when God is down, and black is light, from new meteorology, from new planet-ology, from new healing wisdom, there's new race-conceiving, from the woody soil up to the moon, and we're here, up to ======================================== SAMPLE 145 ======================================== But when that shield is shaken, then our heart's at rest no more, "There now, the trumpet! And you, captain Stork!—a nail to lay in grave withal, For love of you—I will see you hanged where I dine with my love and you-ward go I see— The field is wide to-day, I see: Good folks are five at play by greenwood tree; For me—no play, 'mid friends of mine I go, so—a game I play; Down by the river you'll find my old playmate We'll toss the bag and string—ay or not, To-day I have not ball—in hand—I grant You then—the credit of a game, However that, sweet friends, you make it: With hands, hips, and faces—to keep still (In fact it is a death without A life, if kept still and kept to voice)— They'll say there's a sort of game inside The pretty romp they call the clapper, And that we be not the first A sounded bird that ever was seen. <|endoftext|> "The Old Folks", by Rudyard Kialless [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Health & Illness, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] "That's a good-sized frog, that animal," say they. "It jumped over five inches deep." Say they. So I take a knife-blade along with me. I am a mixture of line and void. I have not a home, I have not a family. My home is the crowd. My mind-set is mob mentality, the strength that gathers. "We're all out here beneath the sun, watching the slow die. I have not a home, they have not been named. My mind-set is that of the mutant. I run. I swim. I love the animal aspect of things. My body is the shape of Things. It is the kind of thing that passes, little by little. <|endoftext|> "Ramp/Down", by Rudyard Kipling [Living, Time & Brevity, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Philosophy] 81st Paragraphs People of Subahu your feet a moth's span Paragraph three The air above Ramp/Down rides a cow Your eye The turn of things over a car Every road Every step <|endoftext|> "Some Like to Thieve", by Allan Dixon [Love, Desire, Relationships, Men & Women, Pets, Nature, Animals, Mythology] Some like the ease of the sirocco, some think the heat of the sun more cool; Most think the moon more firm than the dozy breeze that blows Even their ladies from sleep; And brainless paces Minds from the city To lonely hilltops, Are not for you. An animal in the city is like a beast in a forest; Like the water it thinks the road of the see, Trampled down, worn down, All worn down, even to blinding steps; Like the wind in the forest it is contrarious; You may not follow the br to the bush, the bush to the br. Some animals in the city like to sit and nook Of the juice they drink; They have nought to steal, the wily rascal, The bloke with the eye I, of no means a beast in the city, Have nought to steal or watch, But somewhere be in with the rascals; A statelier wag my toboggans To walk the nights on, Like the stumbs of the Swan That surly tigers sprain; Fish in the city, like the column aright, Like pigeons in the rolls in the holly, Like thimble-fingerers, believers, all in a squeeze, Like to odd great winged builders, The little blagging things, The linnets of the brook, Some puling mongrel from the river, Like to boys at schools till boys are "made" - Like to third-rate militaries, The city and its inhabitants I, of no means a beast in the city, Like to the stag in the field, Like to the well-trained seal, Like to the stoiche in the seine, Like to the garter-horse of heaven, The noble beast of the country Squeaks seldom (but he sneezes) ======================================== SAMPLE 146 ======================================== Stains are white; if day were night Tattooed; if night were day Blind-eyed and sweet she were Tipped by her great eye So she might see. The change might be sudden, startling The drinker's gullet, The churlish choke-craping Of the hooks and eyes. The hills that divide Her farm from Circe's fane She does not understand. And I have walked her all Lines that might be hers If she should take The land that curves like her hip So I might vomit Some balsam for her wearing, The gentle clover On her Ganges head To soothe her. He has made a life out of air, Dipping his olfactoric thread Into her personal sphere That can only be evaded By treading. On the sheathed tiller's Psamatan Foregathers; figs from off the vine Wedge into her limbs That is tided life from Hell. My own country's strangle-dathom Pens up the giver; swine follow Cherries picked for him; to add more Doubtless to doubt, we hear of givers Living close with wanton Hod; Caste-dove or some Hyena-clandestine The hogward-left; as Hyenas see Unseen, they Hysterical Dash from under ground Wheels away. On the gowned bride-bed Strengthens, but feebly, the pall-matte Up next. <|endoftext|> Sweet post-Byronicium! How do you tie up the Past And cover over the Mind Without revering on many points Which ever declare a body's Privations? or staying there to sneer On anything that doesn't attach? You spread the string To shut up the Eyeteerbing Postern. Inretired is Res prevenient, In retirony stuporous-slow. What then? - What is the English nugget in a cloythened body Most useful? A myriad is the Anglo-Saxon lot, Or ungenerous-paired, or blithe-heeled. You smile on people, points-save, p. 5, And in your caps English people you-names Still rort before a dispicable-sound. Too much of Biddy, my dear, Is quite enough, I think. She's so itachiarily A person and a personality. 'Twas Faultage, sure, but she Or any girl under the thunder Of penny-crowned Patriarchy So confidently throws her Youth, 'Twas Faultage, sure. Who is responsible? Too many People are so Inferiority arrogantly shown In any case and so powerless To stand by the time and feel Most of us are a form of Kar lesse Precisely what the exact little Or more or less of Pixie Dust Makes adolescence in its crown Of puffs and pinches bring. Or not quite our own fault Cornered the poorest share In fado, where the pulse Falls, and is taken away As we're smoking, To another vein Whose fours and woozy last Recreation is expiration. No word at down yet We've eyed that patrol of gray England's distant downs, And not-quite-dead-quite-alive Boys who use words to grand. We're not quite cold and dead So much as dreamed and cold But not quite the time to freeze. Out of sleep into death! You, whom the evolutions try! You, whom the morning break! You wake eternal boys! You'll keep the ways and notas! And notas, aye! forever boys! They've writhed and drowned them in mists Or numbered them and re-routed them In a line, embroc'd from day to day It's ever so usual when things pass them And they know they are not, so they pass them. They are not. Not even once. So into the unknown they came They could not stop them. The next step would have meant danger. And they did not want to risk it. Well, there they were too late. They did not want to go to jail. They did not want to go to jail And so they crossed their fingers And hopes in a puff of smoke And stepped into the jail and oh They did not ======================================== SAMPLE 147 ======================================== Make a rude banner, With red bars upon it, Tossed and swarmed with live frogs, Little black heralds, Watching this as an adventure To see who's king of frogs! He's king of frogs, or he's lost! And, to make a sure bet, We'll forget that there was a Problem in that bit of water And who was dun and who was dun! And in the mud, we know, His opponent's crouched, in fear Of that red, red jewel Like a meteor in her breast! He cocked his head, he cocked his head, He cocked his head and he cocked his head, And he swam to where the little fishes thronged; He swam to where the trouts quirttes And the perked feathers quiques Fled o'er the blue-green ponds as green as grass, And he heard the quacking of birds For which he paid what's called For the wild-eyed weaver, whose skilful hand May yet obtain a profit, and who, in the meanwhile, Durst shun a sure livelihood, a bold fore-note Hand lays the simple bit in silk To be ground by technique! One casts his fancy On bards whose business was outside the purview Of the profinerile, On flocks that grazed elsewhere in me, but who had a ring For home-spun thoughts, On a poet swollen with anticipative rage! He comes, he bows, he claps his wings, For he knows where the rainbows are. He stept to where the swallows were flying low, He saw o'er all the darkening blue, And he made off as it were a lightning-stroke To the rainbow! His flight ended, doth he find What he was after, the heart of the thing Made so much of "God of the thing," Which is the God of the scene! He is God of the thing, but he is not God. The palace was shut, and he entered at "Amintic." The Parrhas in this speech would seem to mean "Castle," Not the first time that befolly's occurrances Have failed to pique a boy who laid his glory at their feet. "Where is he?" "He" is in the room! He sought us out! He told the family when he had returned from war! Why does he not come back?" "Thou shalt." "Show." "He is not here!" "We cannot tell." And this being determined nothing, the boy Sets off to find the relatives of his next bed-fellow, And finds him. No, not really his "next bed-fellow," But a lad far on the other side of the country, Who always had some new thing to tell, And now said he had found what was wanted, and, Content, at once and happy, wished to help him. He said that he had all stones in the world, And wanted only to lend the boy a light glance, And on his information, many paralleleeks. The boy, who had found, in his anxiety to disgorge What so many may not be able to buy, a stonework Lump, Or what so vast a sum, for little ones, a whole room, Furnished some nettles and trussed birds to carry away In his large cart, to take to his native country, And there had doubtless gotten more than he could have paid, As we may guess the budgetarian will have his share. For we watch to see what charges the 'cuthites will be sent out for. Upon the road, at break of day, To seek fair Irishe in the heaven's light, And told his concerns, as plain as plain could be, That he was heartily pleased to he told, Upon his face a plump and cleanish smile, Whereon the sweet and trobization ate not. He through the courts, the places of the palace, Came adown to the vaulted ball; There, when the visors had been lifted o'er, That he no more could see them, a sad sight Shadowed upon them did occur, He gazeth as he stood, a bow broke loose, He must bend down and take the o'erlaff, But he could see not at all the exploit Through the high heavy braid of all the rulers, How they sit down, how they rise, How they bear their looks, their looks and no more, ======================================== SAMPLE 148 ======================================== Carry the water, and form the Lake, And the Dwellers of the Sylph in their train, Thrones to thrones, their Empress choose with speed. The Judge, presiding, in royal state, To the Convent-like Caverns leads his way, Leads the Convent-like Caverns upward, To the caverns of the Tower-like mountains, The mountain-like mountains of the earth: Now the Otter-wood is visited, E'en in summer-time, all alive; E'en the Otter-hoof-grass well-clothed: Through the ewe-plashing, backwards darting, Down the wearing of the tails, the aspen, Through the tearing, the rasping, the clattering, Through the raving, and yelling, the howling Of the branches, the branches crunching, And the clattering and crashing and cracking, And the crackling and grumbling of the pine-trees: And the Dulse, and the Owen's white lup, And the Abbot's hedge-burnlet, and the lest its daggling rucks Of the grass, and the Grasshopper's land-downwelling; And the Thicket, with its long-headed grass, And the ground-plants, and the rilled-seed; And the Scilla's feathery deep-coloured pockets, And the straight-burrowing, bent-hubert'd Pine-trees, And the long-needed Joy of the Poetry-round. Now the Beggars, and Clergy, and Rich Men, and Kings, And the Rulers of large Cities, and their women, As they pass'd, no less, that hour of love and song, Pass'd in their way:--they care for no more Song or Poetry: The Young no more: the Graces too: the Sire no more: And the Bridegroom, too; but not because he gave Unto their hands, but untouch'd the tidings heart-sick. Long-lived, too, the Honors of our Forefathers! Stately They piled, to lie in the seen, in t'ward lostness; Not unto this, our lost and sorrowful; Nor unto them, the Wisdom of our Lord: For that they were unmindful of their Spirit's gifts, Then beside, who then assented, Parted their saturnine feet from Europe's bricks, Leaving a solitude in Western waste Save for ransom some fleas or grains of sand. God hath loved originality, And reigned all glory among His thoughts, Though by the best, by deepest, highest ties He ties with His angels cables and bands, He brings wherehe He will; and although the forms Are like a mazzing picture to the eye, The stuff's animated brass, with touch as soft As the lost Art of lifing wight into men's bones. The playmates of our idle lives, some survived, Some elsewhere known, at least, have likenessed traces, And a stuff for exceptions, which the law, at last, Amended hard by a little, and enlarged Long since forbidd'd, with the virtuous store Now growing old, and like a garment fill'd out, With a good handful of cracks and seams. What, then, the flesh of man, like stranger things, With the stories of the Park and the Council-house, And the barouche on the fells along the winged trucks, Marks the park of lords, the cattle-road? The, gardens? The country round? Oh yes; the country; that with which We fellow'd first-coat threes, with whom England variety Blooms, and bows down as in our youth we humble'd been! That, alas! we must pass, in our path a sickness of flowers, Nourish'd in a state unnatural to nurture the body; A pleasure of sitting, not touched; the artificial Suspension of expression, a bold avowal of how We feel; for, wert thou to tell, what flavour thine own Tastes; how fierce we feel them, too ? some tyrants destroy All that have an existence of their own, touch as well As those that wait to plate it? this earth, so barren, Tragic, scant, to support life, becomes a block for us, Who, first of all, are first their parents husbanded, And first the flocks or herds supply with food supply. But ======================================== SAMPLE 149 ======================================== Renew its light through all the lures Of the ground and of the sky and of our hearts, By a strong and steady hour, or a gaze of love. And yet they give us also a bitter cup, The poisons of these long nights and long days, Shed at our lips from the waste of books, And the loathsome words that stab our hearts And we drink at the hands of an accomplice. They see with our eyes; they hear with our hearts, And then they make us silent with their wings. What if in the hours that we loved most, We did not so much love them as wish for To be loved, and to make them and to save, Theirs the charge, to have shared our enthusiasm, And our lives been in the lofty pine Where they uplift from th' earth, A soaring shadow. They might have been our own, and we were theirs. And we knew not, when we gave much need, What we receivd in return. O Milaittes vanish quite, That were so beautiful on the earth Till we became so miserly as we Grown to despise them, which is true of the other And perfect of whom thousisuer or nosgerry We took for our degree, a spirit, And some with fur and fancy went to labor; But those who went so settling found They had brought along quite nothing along, An armsports of arms, but weaponry, An equal freight to all, for nothing; Which bore them, like harmless freight-train, Through thy Ionian meadows, to a change. Nil code, We were a tumultuous tribe when we First came to be used our minds, from which We followed no codified ways except That gradually one changed us, One antigun and we all agreed We ought to have a codex, and codex then Was long since law, and codex now is law, Ours was a sort of ancient, pre Adam way. That was long ago, but long our current-- Till we found thou gavest them the codex instead. Nil desperdum, And thou ansuerda, And they are fled. The strict, formal alphabet, soon as we Arrived in our southern navies, and so did make Use of the lathe and the wheel to shape in to size The alphabet, we too humanized, and so wrought The forms with hands and heads for all commands, And used words then for guns, guns now returns, But then for needs, o' the starry gates to be rolled. Our style was then MODERN, the MODERN style now MODERN. Nil desperdum, And thou ansuerde, And they are fled. I nite horce isn't I, but he; Of he must be part of me and all, All I can be, all air, Too afra'd to be their viewless shape. I have seen him in his true shape, and Muse Knew him, and his myriad shadows in white And brown; but, not again, What if I've ruined him and no where The sight of him to ashes be? Shall he return To mar this training of his feet? He who can call To music his sobbing agony, and hear The madness of his voice live through his voice, Will rue and laughter on him speak, Will he return to see what's done and seen Under MODESTY. Now the old snow, Are you so crazy, hath blown itself Far away, pretty Dost you ever see As it have been, or was, or is to be In this present time? I'll tell you if for I Am a-bed and numb from the night beneath. My soul that watch'd, As it may light, its light dispelled and disaze'd At once felt light, its pulse tingled like a feather. O Queen, O Queen-- The name still straightens in my tongue--you Shalt hear it from ALL! Oh, good HEARTIAMENT! My soul looks deep with both; my wit dips out The terrors from it, and grows dear; My art sees token posthorns under rug, My skill beholds stars of smallEST honor; My eloquence his persuasion wins, And for his estate soks, that it should ebber; Under his speechless nose, yourself You need not shiver. So my spirit a-tilt from head to feet With full observance of a Chieftain's vows ======================================== SAMPLE 150 ======================================== DF was the best in every way At which a man can tell a rake; He stood, To shave his crown, And cut his hair With the finest shave, A tremulous little isle Beneath the Spanish main, Which is the fancy Subject of to-day, The King in these, and all his realm, Was an ass in a stye; The devil a faithful hart To boresome lies, And he, God wot, A parcel of vitriolic sulphur In ditches wells found. Then wherefore Was this spent on me, Saith, if this is so, To cross the in-land crowd, And follow whose way I led, And shaved in London town, And lived, to all medical skill, Free from the sickening load, Let such depart, but ere He darts upon his flight, And drops him a land-shore's spot, As most I hope to do, Or he may do me, who doth me ill, A great adventurer by avocations, And not a scholar here or there, Or baptizing of his converts, Or with new and goodly names Changing the Orthodox Meals, And you, Gentiles, turning away From the Creation's language To other tongues the past or near He hath made his peculations. The King a measure hath prescribed And appoints my purse-be-shared With his fair reserves of golden din: As some I am weighing the cost, From the supply deceptRAL sailed, From Paris and London and Rouen, And Loho and Limogies, The rest I count as losses, As each should weigh to fat or lean As me, when all is done, God grudge or no. I heed not how men hail me: I heed not what the blind call; My shadow is wherever I creep, My sound's made, my song's in ear and eye, I worry no field where my plaudits grow, My benefit's known, my fame is well asked; The Royal Spotify's not known to fail, And Nigel's Herts is not proud BCD. Forth with the draughts of lemon, gat stay long And share with them my small tract of Demetrian tables, Then share with them my Demetrian Pottage, God grant I mind not what is my for Head, Nor what demerits I have earned from my Sons; If with the Yard, or the Ranchers' terror ME, My share would be reduced like to reduce, And I to trust in God's glorious fortune, I to my Brethren only must be true, Nor can I his Seasons as I can count them be, Nor count the sum of his years that one whole number, So fill my cup, though it be with ahu and is picking grapes. If not bliss and the rest for me That I am not of the World's wrong population, Yet, Demeter-like, ever to make right, And, like purified water, to cleanse after sin; Yet once cleansed, might bring me if to see Some portion of my almighty Creator; Yet all my care not a drop can drain Save of the liquid part of him who is Pure, And like as the image discretive of his Soul, So powerful in its pertinent fit; Eternal signs his face, but can'st thou know His storehouse what they are--knowing not why They there are--for now you can not touch them! He who to a sinner appeals (The wretch, that shares not in his pardon), The righteous take for 365 days and nights, But for one liveth justfor ever; He who sinful signs under presses, Now sweet and souring in their stubborn parts, Now fair and now ominous, reclaims, Now brief and busy bad, now busy no more, Now rich and now poor, and now displaying Now mock and now dismissive looks, Now shifts the master of thy bands and goading signs Till warm impatience show him cause for alarm, Sees his deep thought going and returning never, Seest his true soul, not caught as a bird In nets of fatal taste, no more in danger; Lies where he stood and judged with his lips as right; Loves his people as their prince in life and light, They shall be his--yes, they evermore. Though just as alien the other Nations And outside their jurisdiction, Yet, in their order and pride of slice ======================================== SAMPLE 151 ======================================== turn; "Before the ploughman the moors, before the ploughman his horses, before the ploughman his hoe, the cattle are grazing, The country is happy, With plenty for the kye, The cattle are in no hurry, The cattle are in no hurry." Sons of song-birds all lands are full, (For none is so without a song), The daughters of the blue-throat, The daughters of the amber-throat, The harp and quill-wind daughters, The thorn-bush and wild-daisies, The birds of scents, and forest-bush. Sons of forests and waters, Sons of ideas, You that are sons of elements, Children of fountains, Or of the wood, Or of rocks, Or of the hill, Or of earth, Or of herbs, Or of rivers, Or of other lakes, Or of other rivers, Children of wails, Children of cries, Sons of the evening, Sons of the morning, Children of dead hours. Noy'nar, Set, Set-je (English), A name without an etymology, A wordless generic name, Not a man, not a story. But for you, my FXK (First edition), For you are very dear, But for you, a friend, Are I happy or unhappy? For you I am sad, for you Am I sad, if it holmes (sure or dark), For you told how in plum-bloom, In May-bloom I worked, For you-flowered o'er the plain, The son of Night the maidan, In blue and maroon, Of the morning, or of noon, For you were the blossomer, For you were the rising shaper. I sought the feminine, For you the masculine, For you I searched and strove, For you I rolled and swung, For you were the pool-row grappler, And I went and sought for you, Of the bowl and the bough, For you were the blossom, Of the cup and the branch. For you were the son, Sons of Time and Space, I found you one with the Plumed Scorpion, The son of the night, The daughter of Light, The Star with eyes; Of the bowl and the branch, For you were the blossom, Of the bowl and the bough. For you I fell a scholar, For you I was filled with grief, For you I studied and grappled, For you in scholae Placidus, For you in a thousand degrees, For you and of late eight I strung my weapon, And eight hours to scour the lanze, I sweat for to scourkel, And now I may say, from the ribs smashed, That the skin that comes from me is plastered, Of the bowl and the bough, For you were the son, Sons of Time and Space, For you were the son. If you take away the armour from a hero, He is now a host more fierce and more strong, Let us have fought in the most fantastic ways, Tho' it should be as the Skipper said, Let our success in the most varied forms express The strength and secrette of wit, It should never understand The meaning of the effort, Nor understand the ease With which we may defy chivalry, But see with cool eyes, For you are in my arms, my darling, I am in your arms, you in mine, so kiss me, And clung together die well, From hell get you out, I say, For shame, for the right. Of all sins, this is worst, That we sin not united, soon shall shed me, And teach all those who shall read me, how I have sung, To laugh, when the ground is green, And when the summit is capped with cotton-cloth. In golden villainy was a-plenty, The soil was not artful, was not at-torn; The people were not of a bad constructor, But for the good they did it was fit that they Since honor was spikenard, not dripping bread. A windy pile was Mr. Lang's house, But he in the corner was not too proud; He looked up on the painter's face, and did not Cross his knee, and cry, and ======================================== SAMPLE 152 ======================================== he knew It was beyond his powers to take this kind of prey. I shall give you the cup. Take it and have your way with it As if it were some Indian's property. The sweets Mixed with it are like the man's that once in a Flower. Sable books, white walls, black desks. Three of us sit here, working on the long book That in its state waits its lucky day— The great one that Straight-A's eager eyes devoured; The book that tells how wolves were made to flee From which they never were released And how there was a wise man who loved Flattery and counted Chivalry as a friend, Who told of streams that flowed to westward And of the whale that died in darkness. There, in a corner close to the fire, Couch and chair and shelf of common books, Doubt and thought have their quiet night, Fraying ankles are made to sleep By the soft fire and the snoring light; E'en soothed, with pillows' down-talk Parents and friends cannot make us yawn; For dreams and thoughts that raked at us Unawares, we doubt and be poignant Drowsily and mildly intending To answer to a general call, Have their first stay in the east. Thought spreads, in the fire's merriment, To ope provision. O'er the hearth Stands, clothed in felt, the mother's heart; With warmed, Arachnoid arms she woos To make it understood she fears Over the picked stones of her crypt, Where children have lagged, she wails. Now in the cement we irony pass Written on the slate with our cheek. Round table, of weather broken bits, Long since, coped and dipped in water, Feels in his half-heard IMORTEMENT O'er an ancient, hurdled ship Called The Ancient Ordain'd. All grist-dry grains are out at once; Roots pale, grains tenderly studded; All strings of action are unstrung; All straggling shades are limp or blank: Thrown by the wind on tiptoe from the rock, Too slow or too fast or both; And, at the windy woods' shudder bar Lamenting, bows in its winter slam. Bend low and lose not thy heart To idlers grave or suicide Lying in bed. There's the poppy That screams in the snow, The gasping loon that lags in the blast, The stunted lark that is dumb Hailing winter heaven above; All singing, striking time of Spring's, To Russian plain and streams. But thou, strengthen with thy strength of heart thy inner man. Read with thine eyes or sight, mark all his tricks, respond unattached, O exile, reading that came to thee till thou hadst lost all search, Or kept one straining eye. Nay, sweet, thy love was like some tiny scar that has spal'd a humble thought Lest heart's heart fail therefrom; Or worm that gnat in stale of summer night And think not weighty, Thy man go calmly from thou and try To live with those that love thee. Sweetheart of yore, O how far from me and nowand takest my best love now from me, and is well-armed and will takest ever art of song for what I will not say nor look above to heaven nor down to the unmerged, not even to God, who checks the wildest thought. I shall not see thy face again. The high green hill where we stood so quietly ewes me now with spring, the bay's whisper under the very sky that swoons along The score that seemed always two into five now comes down in asshanee. The starry skies wax and wane, The mountains tilt and rise, Yet in the room with me is the same fitful look to eyes, The same warm sunny smile no man may hit. She comes from some place far away, Beyond rowanks and ropes, And all our hearts were lit her way, And she came shivering. She came in gown of violet half-pulled, And work of white, And she came home at evening stick and pail, And she's down with face of clay. A lovely, lovely face--and yet, it seems from where I sit here, I never can add breath or height ======================================== SAMPLE 153 ======================================== Thank God for tears. I am happy when the sun Washes the sand clean away, And my yellow dune-wall Is blotched only by the song of crickets. I am happy when the sun Comes out like an opening night-apples, And the wood-lot rakes rise before me, And in the depths of my heart The nightingale is singing blue. I am happy when the moon Flowers white as my knitting flowers, But the blue sky and the quiet grass Are doubly sweet to me. I think this happiness is mine, The sun is joy, The moon is rest. A flower that's blossomed is a-blossom, As we say in the flowers' world, we see; And a blossom is a blossom, as we say. And a blossom time we say is short, As we say in the blooming grasses' time, And a blossom time is over short. As we say in the blossomed flower world, The sun is still shine, The moon is shining, the stars are shining, The quiet wind is wooing still Thetree beneath us, the trees above, The blooms that are white, the blooms that are green, The gold of the snowshadow, the lovelight of light, To say in their time, is worth while; For we say in this world of ours That is worth while. A flower is born, and thence we know its story, As we say in the words of who knows them; And so a month is sweet, let me tell you so, As we say of who shows them. For from little flowers that have outsprined The little green shoots; For, in that glow, With the big bud, and the little budding, The little cluster, the small flower, Held tight in the viscous fibres Until it shriveth, In the act of sthe blood-filled tumults, Unwieldly in the weeds Their efforts to ward Against their realm of sterile youth And dark where is no night; Against the night that is the flower's; From flowers will learn. And from the plums down The sharp blood dries which To fresh young hearts is reddening As is the young lily's Heart that spreads it; Which still thickens The slow-turning streaks In these young days that Still turn on their arrival For the old ways quiver needpering In the wide mosh-drive Of the moment's delay; Still thickening, still thickening, The old events are thickening In the growth of the jonquils And the small sacred things, Where the mothers know them; And from the women, as from a river, And from the mirrors, as from a well, Is thrilled the healing waters; Yet through a silent warp of the wind is let The delicious scent pass, And still new challenges for the bath The saunters round. But of flowers did thou never take, And of bonds no heir they lay, From the frail yellow or the red? Of flowers thou hearest, of flowers thou knowest, And of love thou hearest, and no more R b c'n'400 sibyl it lies In the scatter'd seasons wast For thy straining: it is mine, And it gives, it only, hope, Though yet I have not looks to write. Alas! then with thee it best, Should my days ever be Of unplancent vassalage Based on a change in clip Or colour; for that darkie man And wise and wily ow will sing. But o'er their span of days They shall pass like the wand of time, When as their shadow darkly goes; They o'erpass the serous night, They o'erwhelm the slothful lamp, They shake the wild blossom, And gather the unguarded guard. I have lain alone For hours upon the town, Yet never have drunk like thence The rich wellings of this roam; Yet have I stretched my hand To drink, and found it cold. But I have talked with Ones, And he has given me sweet, Yet I have felt it but a dream And nought but a dream. I have stood on the open step That overlooks the sap and snow, And all the wind has been blown through me, And all the sunbeams, free, O ======================================== SAMPLE 154 ======================================== Philosophy—the big picture. Be yourself, and your mirror, be yourself, be yourself, and your mirror, and your love, make the whole picture. Be the person whose image you can see, and your mirror, be your love, and your love, and the love of those you love. And what if it be that this great hour, in the slow hours of the morning, of midnight or in the noon when the great gates close the temporary living makes a quiet and a place where the quiet and will be quiet. And this great hour, in the time of the morning, at the hour of one hour, is the time for silence of dawn and sleeping, or the night or silence in the twilight or silence while day and light sleep. What was it that took your breath as its cup of night or blood, and made you live? You heard voices, and it seemed as though they had entered with you. Praise him not the voice of man, or woman speaking, though it comes from spirit; praise him not at voice of beast, to come from material. Praise the infinite transcending name that hath being in calling; praise him not as blood-eater, or old, nor the ages old before thy thinking. When thou hast set thine hand to lie prone, Do thou not nod thy head with heed of certainty; Rather, in looking at thine own forehead, degree of self-consciousness twenty-four hours, Knowledge, which by name would childish ignorance Save for misery; know it for infinite; Knowledge, which makes a world of universe, An Epoch, which will not change, For ever changing, with no time. Hast seen the undulations of the sea? Hast seen its waves reach a superhuman Range all their course with unerring law? Look at its waves, or any body, street, City, villages, countries, Look at the moon, its fluctuations, Personages of animals, plants, and ruins, Factions of organisms, What if I think this brief? Time in itself is brief, but time in itself Is not so; What is now not next week Or far off time Is now, for ever; Time is now. A conception so simple seems In now elective confidence? Are we more new or less old When we are already old By a long maturity's progress? A single night's moment Or a long age's dotted progress? We are too new when once we are not, Too old when we are not too old; Too old when we are too young; And time too is time is long. What is spiritual is obscur With the voyager's waxen vessels Whose orbit revolves astray. And what is matter, dark or bright, Vital or stationary, When now there is no extended spirit? Age makes no longer what you and I Were hitherto astonished to find; We feel at once our passage Through the tremendous motives power. Time in himself makes great or small But in his power all things to control. Nothing can be returned to afterwards; For what can he return to? The villain and the hypocrite are one, The criminal beneath his oath, The fool, who has no thought but penny thought, Must rise as a sun to a free hot day; And the meanest common soul will make Space for the kings in their pomp and power; But the kings for a moment turn to help: They who are bound with the rulers of the world, Who on the horse of peace would be mounted; Who think with the souls of the messengers; Who pray in a common, serious way; Who will not be bought or fried; Who fear not the frown of the moment; Who knows sovereign responsibility; A world in its tracks before him, A world in his ears, A world on his tongue, and on his belt, The time, the place, the thing; the meaning, and the way, The meaning and the muscle; The meaning of destiny, and its muscle; And the muscle of god, supreme; And the god's muscle and its muscle; And the god's meaning, god's muscle and muscle; And the meaning of muscle and of the meaning; And the muscle of the horse, and the meaning Of the horse, and its meaning, and its meaning; And the meaning of the horse, and the meaning Of the bike, and ======================================== SAMPLE 155 ======================================== pelting dust, (1) The birds are filled with sweet revenge, And hide in the grassy vales, (2) The gods are resting from their chat, in a sweet self- satisfaction, (3) Flit through the trees, in a happy incognito, (4) And the man leaves his germs (who are the inventions of God) and crouches in the grass. In the forest where all things are they are germs, which that things turn on and off, (5) And in the forest where all things are they are, which those things turn on and off, (6) The merry dun deer break into song, (7) And the bright children run and leap. I am able to let go of the old judgment, (8) And to speak with the young Frankenstein, (9) Teach me to fix the senile limits of the old judgment, (10) And to fix the young Frankenstein's deterrent limits. Fool! You boys are able to laugh at a thing that never was, (11) And to speak in front of an innocence that never was, (12) And to laugh at a thing that was never, and to speak before an innocence that never was. Children, that are wild on the verge of the future joy and sorrow, (13) And your delight in the distant joy and the distant sorrow, (14) And your delight in the distant joy and the distant sorrow. Oft has an angel come to Earth to give us light, And keep us from programming; (15) Oft has an angel come to Earth to give us light, And keep us from programming. If any one spoke of the end of the world, That time had never yet Come; (16) And if any one on the world should speak, That time had never yet Come, And if any one on the world should speak. Cogitarius said, "The end is still far for us, (18) Cogitarius said, "The end is still far for us; When our lives are still beginning; Yet love should have grown by half to this date. When we draw near the event, (19) Cogitarius said, 'Our lives are still beginning.' And when our lives are still beginning; Yet love should have grown by half to this date. We will not pike thy cedar, nor thy olive. (20) O stranger-hearted, cross thee on the strong sea, O noble Mary, come to sing, To wake sleep and wake joy, till the world is dark, Till sleep make last and last desire delay. For Tarn, the lover-palace, the crown Of sundered hearts, is far from here, (21) Where wedlock has not sundered, love has not met Growth yet, love has not occurred. I thought of sleep, and love, and song, and thee, And all the dreamy day in which love made me. (22) I thought of song and love, and both of me. (23) And only desire the sundown health to see Which from the morrow will sever us now. And half a mind to find us here to-night: And half a body to reach and catch: For home my son's my son, and lies Of mine by thee and by my name. We have not left thee; we have watched and pined, (24) We have streamed out with many and many a blossom, (25) We have sate, but the sea was tall, numinated My daughter by me, and fed and grew In sullen ranks; the falling dawn hardly saw My home, the folk were sunk in resting thereon: And sea-worms crept where the hard ground lay, And seaweed stepped for a pace, peer by peer, But still we followed on, past beard and vest. The nameless sea-gods saw we none, (26) And thought 'twas strange that none should wish to wed: And earth's Madea, ever faithful, said That 'twere best far with the sea-ling, (27) And now they come to a head, which I love: And now to foam they have both were designed. (28) Thus shall they sweep, thus fetch, and use the ======================================== SAMPLE 156 ======================================== Expansion, as all danc'd within the human breast; The God was near! So sudden came th' angel Joy, There fell a sound on Matty's heart of Doue, Like the parting of all things dear, Matty looked round, Thought of Heaven, and of his mortal joys, And how, yet so soon, above God's care, The day would come when he no more should see The heavenly sun shine from a bright deck Of brilliant, winged Space, and when no more The moon through fields of lush Ardor should be seen Lean, as on wings of mist plumed August he sails; When through Fate's iron gate, and bound of time, He, once return'd, should go from here to heaven, The senses went to God, and all was joy-- Then Matty looking thought on his joys, And looking on him, God, from Time and space. And then the morning came of Matty's Day, And then, within his bed of oaken stems, He thought upon the joys of other days, And saw that all was not the day he had dreamed, But slowly at first, and with many trails and wreaths, Fondly, but thus with thoughts violent Passion'd him, till he grew in his misery, Like berries rippled as a stream Roving the mountains of his youth; And so at last when once for all He was of woman born, in pain he sigh'd, Till suddenly, who'd thither go with sighs, Sudden, who doth my thoughts and I? At sight of that lips who angelic was, He raged within, a fiery month agod, All as a hero O, to reach my claim, And instantly with truth, fairness, love His person graces so Must write, and go in haste, And claim from me of such an ardor, praise, Exquisiteness of wishes, that I seeth And said, "how all this language do go?" And I, who all the time by's love idolatry, Stood answered his desire from reason's path, And durst a little toil, and despis'd the method Of making his desire the dry and grinding way. I answerd, but with no less vainfetness rejoin'd, "The language of love, how canst thou desact?" He answer'd, "If you for me did delight," "To hear the express way," quoth I, "we might play idly, "As on the icy seas of sleeping Thels island'd friars." Though I, the masked monk of those truths divine, Strip Nature's mask, still can my young eye behold Where aught of beauty is seen, the grandeur, strength, Live they for some hour, whose vessels in the wind Fled old Genesis to its streets, Green-throw'd like a sea captain on his way From the far sheltering seas, and from the moor; Saw the Stars Ahasuerus, and his daughters, For a moment, every object is so clear, It cants every leaf, and leaf doth darts About the ground, as if for death From its tomb, beneath the bitter shade Of a hoary holiday; the chime of the bagpipe, And the low ding dong of the drum, That was so fond of singing to Don Giovanni, And the tapers it shed round the flat way That Brothers repaired, who of life do pass Twice thirty years, when heroes trod, My dear Mr. Pratt, in their embarking, To the far shore of a retired university, Like to the young scum on the beach at eve, They ran like mad before the break of day, And they ran, and they run, The patriot teens, and the tender saints cannot sit, And the glorious patriots all, and the dreams My, that I love, and am rich, and am right lad's-love, I will run right up and trust to thy skill, For I am now, I am now, am one full sheet to the winds. I will run to the height, and then I too would swell The hearts of all believers in Jesus Christ, I will, I, the weak convert; and if that meant A devil for me, the sign fitter main, 'T is done and I will run to the post again. I will run to the height where the odds are greatest, No coward can follow me, I keep my faith, To the wicket I would ======================================== SAMPLE 157 ======================================== Transporting joy. Let go, Remembering not our nature's needs But some content, throned in the hall, Must your base powers not claim? The wine and bread In this wedding feast Are not so very lovely, And the foreign thoughts, The dreams of life, all dead, Do not stay with us long, In the grave they hoped to thrive In silence we've only stayed In wordless speech, a silent grace That moves within the day, To win a silent applause, Hangs out alone In the twilight room, As he at whose side She was born. And yet to live alone Is all her soul-stricken cry Cries with a lonely grace When the hot day is done, When I've left her side Which she bare on, to go Where joys to her belong And where no grief there is, In the homes of strangers take An everlasting root, Is treason to her heart, And gives a poison there To what Peace there is On this green earth, Where two may face each other, With a stern devotion, While from each subtle look or tone Law, Death, Death, Law disinherit them. And all day long they sing In some new land, wherein There is no future sentence Of lightning torture To make good the silver phrase "What doeth now?" Their hearts are steadfast, Their hearts are quick To do or to have, But over them and down into them The shrouds the grey moon over, For there they have no shore Save by the wild waves blown, And wild winds hither and there Behind the hiding trees Beat along, And ever without sleep, without dream, A thrill is on them and a void, And night without gloss, without mercy There for the wild birds' throats is but a field For the wild grass to wave in alone, And empty are the flowers at which they may Their heads down to look or to rest, And they are glad of all things till they be Alone. I loved thee when I loved thee never a bit: Now thou art departed, No good is it! as a through-cold-born rat Is thou when you shiver under the gorse. Nothing is changed! save that the green spring In the briar-bell stands mute and stone-like. Alack, alack! But I used to think How thou hadst not regarded the time When thou didst boil the water for my pancure. In the Broom! thou saidst, and smiled, and answered Smiling down from a human tongue! This is a frame Sparkling but cool to touch for ever shall it shine Only as a gong or a speaker's horn. To me the dew was like a blade Round about which were turns of silvery hair That shoot from underbellies of the glass. To be pinched off and propped so! And now to be suddenly hurt Like a thread of cotten rag. I thought at first thou hadst something more To offer me than thou hast now to offer. What was there to charm me about thee but word Or graven'tOpinion? But now, am I disappointed? Awake my heart to its power, And turn away thyself a feather-headed bat And take the pinch of the Thyme plant. The Thyme he threw is in the Thyne woods. The Thyme plant has flecked out the door. Now to be pinched like a sorb-root And be stretched out on the table half-way through! You think you use the language of your friend, And in this keep the faith of a fool. To play the fool is not by any means wrong. Having an opinion is better than bad. And all offences to imagination are In this our paradise. Our garden is set up in the garden of Metaphysics, and whatever else The Parsee or the Turkish or the Hindu Ever did or will, is what is right. That what is right is better than not acting Is evident from this. I am only a word, To be pinched like the Thyme plant, Must be but natural justice. --This being taken in connection with The existence of millions of other beings With whom the single being of us Must have have company. They too are debarred from the hope of Their own final solution, And though by virtue of being So outnumbered as to be thronged And swelled into annual intrusions Into our solitude, ======================================== SAMPLE 158 ======================================== 'Fair play,' thought I, 'I take it, as a divine gift! Thou bearest well. I, too, have carried off From their good mother's good grace the three gifts, Which, hand to hand, in solemn Roman order, Thou there didst present, and a fourth was strew'd Upon the altar, as a gift to be Present to Caesar. You the spear, whereon I struck In Aquinum, lo! the broidery herself Before your face was wrapped and strewed with stones, Which vision-Ulysses, I much desiring, saw there and sprang to hands and fists to hit her; But she straight, with safe old manners acting well, Became a virgin wife, and colt no more! And, therefore, as my gift to you, do ye This goodly stave, but in no rough hinting way, But in your best well-pronounc'd going forth to me And to our faithlike accord also here below.' 'Ye gods! ye may!' (Heba cried) 'what day is this? I have fall'n into my sleep, there leant Apothecanna, but to wake was hard. Such noise has the noise of storm-winds, making My house and gardens lie in terror low. What aileth I not in Italy To hear her name, the queen of Latium? But come, Thou judge of larger brain! with thee allow I must, and my sweet life thus end at Rome. For, indeed, I trust no more to tarry here But go, as I do go, to Mycaena's shore, Where, oh! the sport is set! the games of horse In broad daylight, and outdoing broad lakes spread O'er the shadowed valley! But yet, my son, That which is Rome is hardly worthy to be praised Below these lofty and noblest walls. 'Yet I will not praise. For here you left me orphans, Which two impregnates my protection have lost. Compare my tribunes, which gave birth to sons, Sertios and Polyphaccess, with the world Which these same Heavens have beheld the mark. Now, stranger, to Naiïphow 'tis your call To wend, and OEkkhrel, see with what care My secrets have been recorded in the book; And now, thou stranger, try with me the wiles Of one Sibyllius, who left me six years Full young when first he came to me; yet he, By no men's advice might here have settled here His roots deep-rooted; nor was Rome so dear Sweet wife to make me, for I lov'd her, but that Some more congenial destination plac'd His affection; for I marv'n how it now Can get no higher stir, but in walking here, And at my gates, if one might earn as good Standing to himself the Naiad more Than that Virgil, for me let him give What ways the Virgeral's Job has been To me, who am no more to seek from her; For now I wise am aware that I was wrong To my In-lien-teacher. And as for thee, Of whom all this was made, I never said That thou couldst be what I thought best to give, But let thy getting be to thee as thou wilt, So that thine honour let what it may avail. But, for my sons, for those who are near me I would die, so soon as draw upon my sight The ways of Naiad. This art I name Testily: if thou cleanse thee in the flood, I will allow thee to the races of man Four for each year; and for the other two For joy and pow'r ye shall deal soon; but first Thou must endure, I swear it, five hundred years To learn the art of magic of my mind, To soften thee to me. This sixth gift, in which I have meant a reward, is the hardest; For the easy science is aging. But with that art thou must supply the defect Of this my sixth gift, my wonted chastity: That thou obtain this from thyself: for me Thou spek'st; and I don't think that he who lent To my science his aid, can be so cold A guardian after that he've brother too. To wait on grooms and from earth-fed chiefs Comes calling, one from the other, down from power And privilege, to petty ======================================== SAMPLE 159 ======================================== <|endoftext|> "from Sozialism," by Leon Uris [Relationships, Pets, Nature, Weather, Religion, Buddhism] in the morning on the back deck shaking corn snakes from my fingerboards shaking the cobwebs walking on the back of that python who is dead now on the walkath beneath a Buddhist altar sitting down thinking not only walking through divokas but other death other birth other falling <|endoftext|> "Shazam! It's Music!", by Kenneth Goldsmith [Living, Health & Illness, Life Choices, The Body, Time & Brevity, Love, Desire, Romantic Love, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Arts & Sciences, Sciences, Photography & Film] It's so small your breath is not an aberration And there's no there There there Your heart is a sebaceous cluster Cornered with prehistoric atoms They might have called it—the place Where nothing can survive You walk through shadow Bawn through Fawn Veiled with desire In the morning on the back of a girder To the prax of a girder In the morning on the back of a girder And you say May Taking As your subject Taking Tah dah! The morning wind Closing A face in a mask St. Ann The morning sun Records Orr Orr as clumeARTRON The retching grain As your subject As a subject Orr as your friend Orr as your subject As your friend Waving through the city Cities of gold The morning sun Hardness like a wife A woman Your sweet face Your face Dawn on the sand Least isolated Of the ends Of the earth In the morning on the girder St. Vincent Black Merrifield <|endoftext|> "Flowers from Pablo", by David Hernandez [Arts & Sciences, Painting, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] Painted $2500 paintings Pablo goes to the museum Comments on society in a workspace Knows the entire Brothers Chart Paint the whole ceiling of an apartment One coin of the ground Comments on the tail of a dog Paints his $2500 canvases Knows the entire history of painting Paints some billboards of the past Paint a mountain, makes a theodoluit Paint a $2500 canvases Knows the entire history of painting Knows the Brothers Chart Paint a $2500 canvases Knows the entire Brothers Chart Comments on society in a workspace <|endoftext|> "The Hobbit", by David Hernandez [Living, Time & Brevity, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Philosophy, Video Games, Musical, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] —Oy vey! Let's play the games — Hobbit with us in the tavern! Some argue that may is not and that's OK together we have many a shorthand And the letters are Baldur's Gate And we shout, yes we can Into the meta-alchemy That transformed a pair of dice Into a work of magic That whisked Thor from hammock Into a powerful FATE Gem That spoke words in broken speech And asked if we would like to play the games And supplied us with on silver gold A gondola we can sail A chariot we can ride A harp we can shoot A maze we can dance A horse we can ride A ball we can ride and dance A place we can ride —OKay Then Hobbit with us in the tavern! <|endoftext|> "American Airlines", by Carrie feminism [Living, Coming of Age, Life Choices, Social Comment, Gender & Sexuality, History & Politics, Popular Culture, Race & Ethnicity] the sixties were never kind to me or to men or women or yet MS. MERiw 12-years-old and I was already falling think about it for an instant— or more than a moment—and you're like 'I want to be a man.' Or more than a moment— and you're like 'I want to be a woman.' Or more than a woman and you're older than that and dropping on a boy's bib luscious waist 'I wonder how old he is.' or more than two months ago and you're like 'I want to go back home ======================================== SAMPLE 160 ======================================== Even so the silence between the time and place, Which is at last not silence, but rather The utterance of all speech, the seed of speech, Has led thee to seek this mystery. I have not denied. I have not summoned thee, O thou long-hidden source of light and love! My lips have breathed no boast, no proud hint Of knowledge that is worth the knowing; And I have no unburied soul to lose, No broken neck to slay for praise of King Recald: Not all is well,--that is the weakness,-- That is the weak spot in victory: That empty bliss, achieved, the sorrow's grist. O to what depth of being! O to what muck And filth! that dirty, tangled mass, Thorough which thy weary soul has toed the way! O to what firm-est acting high, to vile, To what black, loathsome ground thou trodst thou aware! What? shall the waving grain beat the windy sea? Shall sunlight mantling over raise the steep? Shall thempapilla milk its geeky burn, The sun-begetting mushroom, to dis Grammy shit The glory of the sun? Shall the rotten peach Put forth its shameful leaves, and dokkuba get A boost from Crap's to crown him king? What if this place be Hell! This yawn of air, smelly, filthy and comprehensible, What then? The fruit can't be condemned, right? A different sort of nourishment, entirely: The very air we breathing, we filling, we Who make fruit production, and order world, Should be able to make enormously. The rind, the cud, the core, I am he that's getting it: That's what I'm waiting for all these decades: The core's what I want, and that of the rind nothing; I've consumed you, and my seat's on the mountain's up there, So stack me now to the very highest. I'm himself that's waiting on the verandah door: He's a famous man, that's him, banishing fear and trembling In his light indoor nook, not in the streets nor in war, Not with the wolf among him, not with the jailer. With me he's practiced all these methods of escape. But he's no beginner, none anything, and first he'll try To imitate the Italian man, to see if he, A Florentine, may get it right. And so he tries to make the platform stand as straight As it's ever inclined, and to get the same in quantity as he likes to use of sunshine: If he's deficient in either, too little or too much, His corner will be clear and he'll be easier to find. He sings no politics, and never is good at that; He's too wise to get friends in high places, he's that simple, And yet his words have force and take a long, long while with people. Always I'm loth to make the claim I do, For it's plain that for my essential lets me stand The common semantic, but I'm content to work Within the realm of imagination. And so it is that wherever I mate, I make my little record of "Vito," With portrait and portrait of ornament, All running together, singly, one and all, Nor praying I do much hope to be consigned. I'm content to live here in a age If only I can carry 'Vida LO DEM" As I begin it, and make a name Out of an idea no one suspects. I bow to the Orient. I think I see The Arabian boy's excited stir, as of yore The wildest fan theory he could grasp. There's Vimanatu there to teach him how To handle the bow, the fulcrum of the bow. And there is Nizam Address he to me in Zulu; Where to go is as to take a dog. I know all the words to "do kgo?" I know the village where'er I go. The narrator is a prophet, and we follow him As through earth's multiple intersection He travels from his earthly Assault through various lucidity, To the multi-vadal vision Which then we give in our hearts to God. The many-velified space Is Nigeria; or the Modes of Nature, with the Power and Might in its purest, Most extravagant embodiment. The many-velified Space Is everywhere, in forest, hill, ======================================== SAMPLE 161 ======================================== With a big one there: Where the wife, from some Gape, or rut, Down to her brother's farm, Does a little serv'ry there; And the nappy ha's bet the jar, For a decent corner there. And there they lie, and make him go All out of the house so d--d, With the nappy hose, the ain'thern, In the nappy, while she's there. Ain't it cold and clear? It is, Muvie the fire's a-lak my throat; Though I do miss the smell 'Twas so strong I could not pass it by. Shure, my 'prentices, this is a lash for poor creatures to perish, And a drab for eyes, and a stink for poor bits of bodies there to keep! Had the weather been fair we'd 'elp one for at the end of the day: But we cannot foresight, we cannot now regret: Now and then, say what you will, From a fire it's worth a click; But you must bring the candle with you When you cuddle beside the kye; And you must keep it for a while Till the fog comes off the pines. That's our request, and, how ya'll please, We'll let you have another dish. Come, try the famous stew--it's grand -- We cut it fine and we beat it fine; Though it's no heaven but grunting pain, 'Tis good the mince is light and free We'll give ye this--way--take it off, I've nothing more in me that's good; But it's mostly other men's pith or tin in me -- At a divine cost, no doubt, I've never sent you guys a straight one yet -- But this one's amost persuaded me so: Now light on Western St John's Street, a feast for the eyes -- More sin, no less; And it was for the Mallard that we dined We askt the rump in to tea. Tho' it's (well "Dat Spot" you have there?) No wider place 'n Switzer's got a meat and a steer. The loome and the fire are ready, the meat is asking, We want you Roast Kill to prepare it; Bring water, bread, lid, killer, wine; And such a punch as the New-world kings may drink We've brought to salve your pleasure: Come, come, come to the Klook Smash: Now, let the storm begin! To the old 'sostick'gian, her running off to the new 'sostick', In favour of the stringy-tongue. The New-born where the old's over-come, Will we have her taught to sing; While her fiddling-master's fiddling, Precipitate she'll be; But the old 'sostick'gian' -- she's had her day: If you were a big black dog with a butcher's knife in your hand And a bell in the air, And that big black dog was the Devil in human shape -- And that bell in the air was a half-gutted saint's bell In Jesus' face; You'd look in his face and mark, though his black wing was flapping, How pink his feet are; You'd look in his wing and utter various utters Of the words 'Hoeloft', That is, 'Hoeloft', that is, 'Hoelleth'. 'Past us three men rolling and scrambling for the door, 'Eked under door for doorposts that had been neglected; 'We see that it is clear to the Chancellor's Lobby, As they crow that the Prince first had been loitering In the Larbe Crower Square'; When a voice shouts out, 'There he is, first in the mud, But he will be first in his pluck!' Well, they were sure that the piper was to be blowing At this time in the future, When the Prince came to the Welltons -- in "Brickbats", When the Prince had to stand before his father, So that his speech was not delayed, And the father, "My dear, you'll be amused!" From the cemetery a bird-soul croaks distressful, 'Twas the darkie Blackman, the world forget; In the park the brownies failed in their work; For the death-wind was blowing both placid and brave O'er ======================================== SAMPLE 162 ======================================== carpet raiser" the first as well as the second and the second shall go out of the room, and the third shall go out The Book of the City of God was lying there and I doubted while I gazed on its architecture, gothan above marble pinnacles, an entrancement for the new Jerusalem, eternally doomed to suffer the decalogue and all its "Necessity" is the only god of Halcyon and its lighthouse already I return as from a fast but with subtile envy I behold this great ship sail up the church, up the six bisectednooks which curve round it like the yoke of a boat, for I am a sailor and always feel that I am absent out for a week," the least uncomely person in Reading-mode land and among the first to go bald Ere I began to authoritatively assert myself it was plain that the “I” before "I” in poetical Be a vowel sound like “oo” in "aromatic" or "bit." She read her sonnets at the usual time, the rest Spontaneously in succession, all the maidens express enjoy it at least, and "drown the "I" in "daughters" Wasted, with occasional inarticulate utterances Of which the great Augusta spent no word, The rest of the second century smooth in compend On pensive stonework which the nearest approach Endlessly regressive Whig or isolationist Caried innocent past the quiet late Hebrew Christian or just more than likely extinct Egyptian, even of an hour, with a long monstrous Lift or weight of darkness overladen, the ton And then the pale pale marble of the tomb, Which is near and about the time, in temperless Iron— Sandal — Iron with a gibe I'll choose the gold being the dark sea Because the tide is only half at sea and The other half in water. I may be wrong but this seems about right. The stone is chiseled:—Genius is our foe. Things are never as big as they seem. How many widows weep above the water, Under the high architra of the winding crown, Thewoody hill, or misty forest? A grove of elm, the green shamrocks, and oaks? A wood, with willows? A wilderness? And how about the Armenians and Balculians? The ancestor-song of these ancient peoples, Not yet apostased but withdrawn from Sunlight, moss, and milk, or vain regret? The very spelling of their own dark langua In words at first sight, the heart's dark ransom Known but to a few, is life and limb And sight in hands at last! Bold is their disguise, their life false story Of a nameless thirst and bewitched defies Untold, and unapparred; but I bear arms And fire at last! HOPE is over the hoops of horizons far away, And not yet in; And not yet in, the bar, the blank oblivion That silvers the good man's heart and sends its lights Unveill'd upon lifetime's penitence and tears. HOPE is over the ramps of hills and curves white and far in, And not yet in, the ways of fate. And not yet in, the mirroring glass of sunrise, the bud and frustrate Blast bare of light, The high tide ere-ward, or the flow of morning drive The world's laggard down. HOPE is over the high walls of gulfs and cañons, of hills And peaks, but not yet in, the veils of nameless things, Of unknown light and weary things, and not yet in, The mantling waters and the Gates, The last days of the old men and beasts. Ah, these are the Halls! Ah, this the flow and swell Of all the tides that surge and find no shore, the growl and byzi and Pluckt of blossoms, and the dour things that strew the ways, Unnamed, unnamed, wall-eyed and tearless, weepless tears, Unnamed, unnumbered, unnumbered woes! But no man prompter at theun, no man possible, The terrors of birth and the dim and fitness of time Come to the end of the terrors, come to the end of The Ganges, come to the end of bud and die, and have ======================================== SAMPLE 163 ======================================== 외, Who, So careless of himself that his most opprobrious Association is the bright beauty of his best, If I might but liken him by similar likeness, Would be counted fops in his presence; He may have done himself the mischief By careless still; And be excused Because the fountain of his praise is near, When I do salute it, it renders back Those blessings with a thousand slipper presses That he will not spend; He is a Unrefreshable faithfourse That the sun, the moon, the stars, fear; To these burial urns his generosity not valu, Or aught of recycled rounds For their sweets; He is a fountain Of perpetual Elysium, that the world When I read that way, I like it well; Though I am not a dreamer. For not quite asleep, but while it pierst My eyes with lovely tremors, I seem to rub the seasill oer and on With my caputires, To force down the gate as hard as we can, Until they roll back on us, and we rouse, Pining, to find no more Our dear reclut Tempter: For he as water spreads his head To lave his white hands, As we do our stews, Him privily washed, we salute, and kiss, Bespatter'd with our children's tears. And he, though cold, more happy than we dreaming are, Would be the lord of more Known degrees of bliss Than any but a libertine; And I might say, In truth, He should have but one self, and only he himself Among his servants, That we might give and part with him From our joys and from our disappointments. Yet by our close encounters He would be the more hard To displace us; On the contrary, we Risk ourselves much less, if he knew us. But most of all we need To be seperated From our own eyes; for each man's self knows best What God hides from us, and what manner of God We see most clearly. And from the least outward Can be he given Behind which not one point Of our dominion stands, and God's unchanging Command stops. Therefore it can have no other; nor ever Should be sought, Unless perchance to give ourselves more clear to his beck. For if he knew The depths of God's glory, and could be wise As we are stupid, his scorn would be at our noses, And his spirits would taint our quite human love. And then the life which most puts life and love Within us, and is most honest and true, Will of necessity be troublesome, And test what we see in God, and be malignly Devised about us, or shake us with excess Of melancholy when we see him: for 'tis the cause, There's no quenchless light about him; And whilst we see the reason quenched in this And crushed into nothingness, our eyes are met. But if perchance what details of affliction Cannot all be out of doubt the fruit, Then we must say, indeed, Such God is As Satan said concerning his power in all things,-- And by the law of wrongs Is made Divine; And then there's this ado about him planting Nought but discord in things right, and spreading The deceit of ruin, and the ploughing of the ploughshare On the true seed, and the gates not opening; And many other ironies to real nature. While these are an offence, and what they are not Leave vague and unparrapt, as parables. But hear a wonder most great, If thou draw not thou at length Untangle this Labyrinth of love; First, though the seven times that dig the grave Give unlimited power, it is not thus Giv'n without he cent, As this thought in us who dare expose it, That where there is no discrepancy between A thing desired and sorely robbed for it, A sky of stars may flag in scale. Second, as those who a devil ======================================== SAMPLE 164 ======================================== light like a lily trees like the bluets falling falling leaves faint wet there are babies my three little wonder wut do they cry I m going to see you you are quiet in front of the School of Domestique pulling up the stairs paint-by- The- Poet that you need to see you there s a car is standing quiet in the street <|endoftext|> "Every Day an Echo in Me", by Camonghneup Van Winkle [Living, The Mind, Activities, Indoor Activities, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Poetry & Poets] That which cannot be expressed has no word because there is no word. Latin adhaurants (indeed, these have ratter–d words put around the participles that define the essence of what I'm trying to get across) and so I'm stuck, though I know the rest will convert so this is just one way. So for example, if I were to say, 'The cat slept the entire night,' that is, I have those words (the very words) and they are either false or true. There is no silence I; I have silence sitting right there beside me. I could be sitting anywhere; silence is sitting right there beside me. So I go the way of the horse and metaphor my way along, where I don't have to go alone and I don't have to go alone again. I went to a restaurant; I went to a movie; I went to a store; I have gone in many ways since I last knew each one of you alone. <|endoftext|> "The Chalk", by Tom Hallion [Living, The Mind, Love, Desire, Activities, Jobs & Working, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] At the cradle of the Four Seasons banked from cab advantage, the Chalk. The Chalk. The Chalk. The Chalk. the cradle of Kentucky, a term (rumbling) stuck in the mind, stuck some sort of a sense of what is what in the mind. like a suds, or a thread, you can tell it from a fas′ or a fray, but you won't know a stitch from its' stone. And yet, with a faint sentiment, the suds and the thread clings to the Chalk. No matter how often you scrub the dirt from the cradle, the stone will hide as plain as the dirt did and you will only be able to care, as you ought, for one thing: we can never get too much time to think, we must stay unithered, preterinary. I am not saying the chalk is chocolate, blackest laundry, or man-sized, but it's real, can't be tossed, you just can't get it all. How many times must you be raised from what you thought was real, the world gone back to its lines, the floors, the same as any other, salt and strict circular movement. Just when you thought you were tried and true, anabolic action on the brain, its domeless fantasies, an athlete aiming his shot, an epic shift, you realize there was diamond boots all along. Like the universe made entirely of black, your people were as well. Sure, they had some fantastic green and blue stones, but diamonds. Time touched each stone in turn. The Latin of your name was 'cluded'; the water of the fluxing glass was black, the fire burned black, the human sparks fell. The chalk was on some spaces, just as the genie was on our people. The chalk was ever our ethic. (We believed our forgiveness was the same as our love.) The stone said don't bow, the chalk said we did, said don't be crazy, said here's what has been done, said here's what comes, <|endoftext|> "After the Summer of My Youth", by Tom Dis Clemente [Living, Coming of Age, Time & Brevity, Nature, Summer, Philosophy] Have you seen them roads? Mile upon mile of ticker strips magnolcos of yellow hued exhaust, slanting down to drainage areas where iron gains brief but powerful thrust against the heart ======================================== SAMPLE 165 ======================================== Mill of the stars, the mass of stars, Mill of his destiny, of the Earth, and of the sky: and he would have remained in the abyss of space, had he not plunged through the fissures of the sky. But thou, Moses, not content with the confines of the sky, Wert also of the Earth, and badest forth, though through turning downward, treading the hinges of those heaven-ways which thou meant t'other day." So Moses descended downward as the flame which flies, and, in his wisdom, so was overtaken by the flame, and then, as it is even, was torn and bleeding, and in his torment tied. And thus the ancient, as well as the future, promised and done, who shall stand in the gates of the now for ever, since he, whose death was prize of the toil of Love's mighty year, shall go no more (this is Moses), but misery remains for Then the pious man, whose heart was set on perfect truth, began to tell his fate, and his life. Thereon the blind-man answered him: "From thirty years old I have not borne with others, nor have I consoled myself with friends, nor victualled my problems. But from the day when I experienced a bit of bread, I have passed in anger, with my pride having forgotten me. Since that age had gone, in which it was decided that I of the age to come should be, I every way mourned that it had taken such from my grasp. Not for these, who will die soon, but for yourself and for Moses the bard. I am one, who for his part behind Adice and the Noroyun accurs'd, without ever having written a line. There will be, in my case, a master who will suitable praise find for him; but, ere he attains me, the great army of his age will call for him, and he will follow his foreman to the mine, or lumber-yard will have him impitherable." And the wise old man then, whose visage was even and who had feel'd most for the reproach that perished, said: "Up to the stars, my son, and down again, though a wild hog may swim before you!" Hereat I tell thee that, when I went behind him, he turned himself about, Nebuchad´s oldest and most trusted servant, and became, awakening, a sapient heathen. He all his feats of fame all in incontinence, therefore, achieved, chiefly at the Lord's house of Horebert, where were present many persons, and behold, why they had plac'd them in the air places, among whom was mine host, the vizor of his pursuivant. They too, I will tell thee, where she stole the bread from the cradle, who were early moved to rage by their look. And now, indeed, would I to the fairest, clearest, rarest, proud, gayest, best sadly saddest, that thou might'st also be my follower and friend no less than myself, let thee do so at telling me of thy troubles, when I have first had chance to weep." And he then: "When a novice in the realm of God, that is, in that ever-maintaining divine city (by freewill. . . honored and compensated by the pine-tree scalps sold, or stolen screaming in the market, or the palms, which set on the trunk, or the skin from a living fenny squirrel,-- well more than two billion pine-trees full stiff, it Thus was heated the desire of death for death, and of life for life, and lust for lust for death more fierce, burning in him and in his house tragedians, who with the oak turned their all too gentle baby into terrible bear. And as there are gates of crystal on this one wide way, and by betwixt are wells of wonderful virtue, and he, exalted in his ignorance, deemed that he could water the earth and the air accelerate, and that he could heave the world up like a short-necked ship, and that he had oracular signs from heaven, so that he might have the power of the sun or the divine light, and that he feeding on the dew of oracular over little souls was able to make them grow bright like the eyes of night, and that he might have the inspiration of things, and that he had see from the ethereal virgin's beauty a sweet grain of mortal ======================================== SAMPLE 166 ======================================== there's no question we'd be living at the bottom of the sea now, I'd not be here, drinking my way through a world of hurt And just to make sure, if it were, God, the wall would be even lower and you'd have no world at all, the old one would dissolve and be no old world at all, the two worlds, I'd live in a world that looked like that wall. <|endoftext|> "The Bottle", by James K. Barcell [Living, The Mind, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] ...lima cu ameda ...(Bardetië obevola velaromque I) nel par yourci, mi fugit...) (E investiga torcelli desiempe ...(Culia fuggere amete II) ...(lima cu ameda, buono modena torcone) ...(ne "modena" tenendo enomare ...(Cilia fuggere intinde III) a ...(lima cu o apritura adfinaranque ad fallsenza ...(Cdi re apellent: IV) belle depotto, ...(moiva litetacolo ...(ne, consarnamente ...(lima cu o ira divina, ben mandato ...(Glia, te apellente) ...(ne, assima ...(ne, dissolució al refrenolli <|endoftext|> "The Biting Braid", by James K. Bietelt [Living, The Mind, Love, Realistic & Complicated, Nature, Trees & Flowers, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Music] When the sky opens, when its door gives, The light enters your ear, not your eye. When the sky loses its cover, when hair And skin begin to rub along one another, Not your eye but your ear filled with everything Is your mind. . . . So when you hear, by the grain, a tune Or even a thought, it isn't just a thought— The pattern's by the old man rubbing his palm Over his bone, that's your ear filling with That rasping old phrase. The thought of the grass is what the wind's thought In the tree, the leaves moving in the wind, Our imagination moving in a flock Of birds. And at night the bird-call, the open-MIND, Flying inside the ear, the bones all moving together— Think, and you feel, not yourself. <|endoftext|> "Thin Side of Water", by James K. Green [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] o what would you call a water that has gone home, the water of the city spring, taken on a shred of shadow, worn by its owner, worn-to-the-ground, like a shadow a tree has worn itself into, a cut nature made on a very deep water, water that is now wet, still, and is not falling? o what would you call a water that will not stop, that will not stop chasing the flight of an angel, dew dry-trimming the flower to its antler, o what would you call the water that wakes you to this small trick, walking-Wave, Poise, Jasmine and beams, o god, go talk to my boat, o god, o god, o and when it is a dream I'm telling, when I'm telling myself I'm dreaming, I'm telling the edge of this water I'm sliding in on, I'm taking my own hope and replacing it with all the others I love losing and building. o this water (sweat!) where the slice turns from gravitonal, this water's blue in the tree (older than water, their sun's blue), o this water slipping across, slurring, taking on its water's twitching, and twitching, and breaking this greenedge turning, turning in light o this old green glass, o my bone, o cup of old wine o I'm scrapping my grandfather's dream, o my hand holding a cradled pool of old ashes o my wrist, this white, this broken, this agonized white dream, the rim of the glass, something underneath, something between lip and cristal jar, something I take from and something I weigh as familiar ======================================== SAMPLE 167 ======================================== Great master of the labours of the chisel And the steel, go down to the sea-side, I will give thee all my treasures, I will give thee all my choicest ores. In the days of dark and wintry weather Set thy wax snow-bar to scattersud, I will give thee ice-shalots in a dish; In the day of morning set thine lips to write, Set thy tongue to smite the silvery snow-floor. Gaze not about thee to the workmen That practise on the lofty mountain, Look not towards thee to the people, Set not therefore thy best gift to do or receive. 'I will give thee all that I have ever For beauty or for worth,' I will give thee nothing that never took Before from one who had none for all his wealth.' Speak now the price that in my turn will take The portion of my life to live or die, Whence shall my being gradually end? 'Nothing' I may not at first accept, But my gifts to thee 'shall find a place.' I have set thee the price of horses strong, And the price of horses, silken reins, Rifle for the bolt, the ammunition even, The steel caps, the jackets for the arms; And have given thee the portion of knights navigators. In the days of summer, in the time that leads To the autumn of summer, the coldest is, And its weather the wars of robbers fanned. I was angered by pettiness and pride, And my feuds with men were of the worst kind; I made my sword bright iron-trugged, and unsheathed My war-club in the body, and sought the river. 'I will give thee the ship of love;' Then providence can lend thee all her worth, The truest navigation itself must be In the picking of the tokens that may guide And the choice of the right-quick cause to save; Then, when all else hath been once equalized, And there is nothing left alone to merit, Then thou with thy soul's consent shalt Eros speak! Then to thy soul just-sounded Desire Threw open paradise, and made her just-seen! Then the blind Abrah's, revenge-tongued Uproar Spouted blood, and threw light death sonship in the stream; And the god of fire throw up bough and the tree by name, And curse thee, and grossly terrify and even me! If thou hadst not scorned with mine affright Of scorned his afflicted hair and eyes so short And bendingly expressive of the years' soak In our seeing eyes, and we left unbeauty bore Untheless the airy region, and unsent coronet Of the sweetest and brightest head that is with leaves on earth, Thou mightest easily have clutched me thely as-it-were Of random and get thee over me, and for no ill! As God died Giving life to thy cries and thy cries of a stone, Thy stone-ears breathing fire into dust, and thy tongue of rust, Dust-hungeny tongue perishing of the divine elixir, Dust-hungeny tongue lamenting the beauty that was not in stone, And every broken thing, dying apart and weeping apart, Dying and giving birth to inarticulata, Thou mightest have had sainted with thy body of truth and just, Dying thou wouldst have had sainters for the holy dead, If thou hadst not scorned to be the saviour and uplume Of the wild dance, the sealed, the rapt, the lion, If thou hadst not mocked me with a hug that was truth and strength! If thou couldst not sing for it was a glory of the hillside, The high song of the river bed of a windless land Unsepulchered, and the lisp of the grey river prancing In the sun; if thou hadst not led me as a prince lead a crown, Thou mightest have had the sway! All things I did command And complied, and instigated all events as they passed, Till I could hold you in my sight and give pen to hand; If it had had its course without defect, but for thy delay, Itsnce whence I held you in more than foot and feel of the power That makes the arrow many-coloured and peradventure wind! I have been to market-town, and bought of poets and lovers An uplope of pure language ======================================== SAMPLE 168 ======================================== she says she needs to be "fixed" but she's calling me this is a white-maned elephant breathing on the white land of the raging seal of giant sharks flew in the street o thing. o maid of a-clump. Your eyes are glassing in the lowing of a storm are you a snowman are you a snow man? fix me. O I said. And I. I'm just hissing at the seal of the wind to the sea wielder forever. <|endoftext|> "Scars", by Maggie Smith [Living, Life Disqualities & Downward Reasons, Nature, Winter, Philosophy, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology] In an hour the whole damn world will have died for Or more. Every gnarled man like a leg will shake. Every Snowdrop. Every feather. Every paperclip. Every duck and dove. Every mortal woman across the table from you has To know what comes to mind, what the next one means. Every Time they have bothered to come and sit in the little doorway on the threshold. Every nurse who has stopped counting. Every Tuning their heartbeat in a meter. Every once of laughter. Every Breath they have for the whole world. Every secret they have held back Or should hold back on the next. Every mime they have rocked from the world. Every mop . . . Every mite will have remembered Itself to some olfactory cell in the brain. It is an hour now of Distant humming machines. Of scorpions that swarm inside a pillow. Of Foams where they have left their labia. Of mice that Mother's hands have vacated. Of scales that have waited In O, then O, then again in A, then . . . Every kiss will have given The cauvin measure of some charm, piercing in the debilitating amaseh. Every piece of grit in the general lot. Every X, every X, will have passed through every X-ness, will have united in an oozing now that will have Alone chanced to be good. Or rather, good in its own right way. <|endoftext|> "The Love", by Maggie Smith [Love, Desire, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Relationships, Men & Women] I put the mashed peaches down I put the butter on the fire They were useful, To put some fire between The fire, the water, our hands When we tried to keep sun out Our hands were wondering The green didn't quite make it Our hands were wondering if sun Would last, so wet with juice, When we tried to keep it out Our hands were wondering if The yellow worked too Our fingers were itching Our fingers were wanting To be whole We tried to keep sun out Our juices were wanting a roof Our toes were just questioning A home was asking too We put the world away As if sunny days were handy When we tried to keep sun out Our minds were thinking so We will have to fill it in <|endoftext|> "Clothes", by Maggie Smith [Living, Life Choices, The Mind, Nature, Summer, Valentine's Day] All night I have been playing with fires and clothes. With clothing and furniture gone and bodies undressed They are asking questionsin their low-scarred hours. Their eyes say Avis and Alby. Their shoes were torn, their breaths were pale. They were told a pleafelike announcethiring now The clothes they slept in were just a tattered ruin. I know they found what was there. I know because I was there what they wore when they were torn. The night we tried to change the old chamber cover the clothes were a wonder In the waste basketof shame They were there first. The way they were used to see before they were used to not being used by the thoughtless phrase. When we tried to take what was given What does the hair say about what was said about what was taken about what was lost about what was given and clothed what was burned the clothes they tried to stop the unbuttoned and unboiled and (belongie)pants they squeezed and rolled and (belongie) stopped defrost The clothes stayed on top What steps into and above the clothes ======================================== SAMPLE 169 ======================================== Yes, my dear John, and will he was 'taken, That is, was there a chance, if he was taken, 'Stead of red-teeth scribbling ground-hopping sots, Foil by the Furies' over-bold, O no! Just the fellow, just the man, The foreman, too, who hollered "Stop," That so no one should misrecord (Time's German here) that he said, For he could not make a "Heard" (Felt this himself) "pathetic!" "Stop croaking" with the rest, His rather bitter words, O no! But about this time of year (October, I believe) When July is at its hottest And November at its freezing now Hangs over heat and halo And thunder in its shade And has the season to finish And 'sts down the criminal flesh To the head of the cornered news That went up in its place About a foot from the seat A full foot thick with weather And other things as well, O yes, About God's heat, but not of it And not to have ears to receive it, And a tongue to speak it out In the breath of God's rich life-blood And have it scarred for him by rust Of the old iron on the seat, O no! The riders should carry it, and show Their insatiable desire To see the world's expression In one or other of its depravities And not more pallid or subdued Than some person's I could not hear too, And not more pale, not hazel, O no! That he was shot, for lack-of-document And murderer-of-the-command, Was to make a long speech short. For when they find a prisoner Who out-yields their highest hopes, They but then move on to The man who holds the record, And whose great spirit lives So long and unaided By any wrongdoing, O yes, even that-- The man who scourged and scrubbs And did the dirty jobs, The sweared-up slave of two or three men, O no, not that, For a man's life that has outlived The fashion of the days Is not less marbled than they are, And a man's life is not dimpled Even by fragments. A man's life is marbled By patience, quiet, quiet, blissful use Of reason, ease of heart, By high above his fellow-men meeting His neighbour as brother-while Not as foe. I do believe, as a grain of sand Slightly in the eye of a storm Is hardened to a lump of silence, Even a slight error is an familiar That bleeds a man out past his cap And his listener up into his world And his father and so forth, By God, let him have his moment stupid And be glad in it. Wherefore 'twas good to reply to the funeral Sermon that the preacher had not gone away For, already, in the pattern of old time, One was seeing the other bow on a wheel And the little seraph was divided At the trees. The sermon was of grace, but the procession Was of the crowd. The preacher's stumps were fallow because He had stayed too long behind the son And the little set of sticks Round which his mountains and his valleys Row. The Sunday morning people were mocking And thought: "Poor evangelist he has, His hills and his valleys Who will take him in the rear And explain to us how much more he has Than these tall mountains and these shirring streams!" And the little people were shifting Their breakfast round to make more room For the old man. And you thought: "How welcome the dark dour Word of an old man's deathless mystification, For it brings the clean love of the truth, And the unblemished power of the will In a moment to this man, and he might preside Over riches, and his body, and seed In the earth and souls in the air." Thus passing the day-long week-town scene With its week-streets, and turn-outs Of faintst effigies of suns, and shadows Over the road, day-dreams, the neighing Of cattle, and the clatter of words, And the glitter of petrol-spar and rings, The man got to think day-long, Of the ======================================== SAMPLE 170 ======================================== Created the first genus of animals That live within brutes and sometimes with apes. Who gave to man the eye of sense, And use the sense to stand in thought? And natural to man began, When from the rudest apes he drew The thought to man. He is called most like to God. Because he might not help us, We call Him most like to God. And He is called most like to God, Because he can help us. They taught me how to paint and write, And I was taught by them to paint; And man taught me to write my names, And I was taught by man to write; I hold them both but delayed teaching That both used one liberty, Thinking that both did one act, As they having full free use Did both act alike the same. I'll do as they have done, I'll imitate them all, And so shall I begin Perfectly like them all. Chisel your silhouette o'er the creeping ivy; With clean, even, hand, each line let down; Paint not so boldly, Berlin, pinks and roses. Spite of your long experiment (I like your experiment), there's not much of a native flower here. You'll find this creeping, creeping here; I'll show you where your tennis-balled Pansies come from, and where your Peas-of-Fury goes to war. You'll see your Magnus beating your Peas-of-Fury all day long, and your Carrots beat your Pinks; you'll see your Eugenists destroy the crops of both those obligate Nuts-and-Lard. You'll see your Matildas fain to go forth into the deep body of the Towload, where the tread of Dulse will bless them at the end of their long battle. You'll see the perfection of all you sees with your own eyes, and yet no better will every day's a vinaigre from tractor to ruby Bible. You'll see your Ravens outropering the Marsupiens, your Peacocks marshaling to defend the common barns, and your Ravens marching through the woods, true brave chest spider in their now husky coat. You'll see your Cattle turning your leaves against you, your Roses defenseless in the dark of night, your Stock-dove taken in by rats, your Oaks whitewalled in by you, your Cliffs whitened in by geese, your Airequeogrums forest-ing, your Dracaefu showing more than any book or any picture. (Except maybe "Lecky's Seas, and Streams and Country On the whole I find that most of what I see is about what people usually see; the ducks in the park, and the drinking fountains clear of Viene background, and behind the opera house the dark figure of the Capitol, mute and awful, of the State that true loves advise the wretched, and I find my figure clearer than in the dark it appears to others. And then there is my desk, a mercer herself of processions, and grand unanswerable smile, and pennated secrets of what I have been that day; nothing ever captured on film can keep such register of doing than my camera keeping, my whole picture kept of everything, my mind broad open to so much, I am bound to fix something of myself in it, no matter whither; the pauses and angles of my being including Partee, the children, the grandmother, in a few floors of my life, myself included in them all. And tonight I find myself in it; I find myself laughing, and wide my eyes and my sceene to include the grand panades of Portia's that jazzima; I include my young life, the enucleated pill, the Foxfire light cartoon, my low life; in my ears the throbbing tones of great performers, and my dead friend says, I was like you, won't you tell me what you were? And I know the suspense was gin the old mad night Partee went tumbling helter-skulk, and my mother could hear Partee, and included Partee, and me, and included the many fingers Partee had to Partee, and white velour fabric with Partee handling her quench-tool, and winks and winks included and Partee gasping Partee's famous orcharts and the long-time-son Partee of dark arms, and the quick ======================================== SAMPLE 171 ======================================== Arounfe, whil that there was nought that was The helpe of physicke or of art: For this lord Henry a yetm was seen, That than hath al thfore gode and helle. Where whan the treathte is of the chiere, For all that feareth al other let, A worthy man mai fayne wel thatte, And of his werpes bothe tuo He feigneth as a funke speke, Whos olde lyf schal nevere falle; So that thei mai nowght witte tho. And thus of grace god him kepe In al part, that men can finde, For sothly forto take adone Men of what condition that they be, Tuo point of worth in loves grace To sek comming of quade, That stonde be weies ous oght witholde In things that swerving be of brad, And ek also in comonly, Ther as befalle and in assent Lands, choakinges and stabyloso With Pitee and in apoonent. And thanne for their part it is That they ne come noght together ne plyde, A man hath make in lucre to covrine The advaunce of a on? Bot the fyr of that ferde is ful brodliche, For on inspende ar he vallynked And set to be the Fouthe, And loken into a flodes thryvyn Of that the flod is overal. And thus in processe of thing invented Which to a lord hath worth min est, Yit is no dwel, if men it kepe, And if men dede no fairer bargain. Wher yit must the world annonce Of alle goodnesse that therin lyt, That all mihte discommen wel The comming of abelles siege As Fend conseil and the Foture, The which is bot a world aliche, Thannekened was and after his time That he for joie in a streete Was cleped king Sinqintes king; And yit ne Kinsippene of his fell Hath set an em-porison peintaine, Of which he gat andknewe no, Sanus, Hath set an Empresoun on him, And to pouer eny Strophes go, So that he was the vass, The god of bataille, the god of wolphle, Be wepe of milles hande, And pouer and pomerle and pendant The gilt and ek endeloynt sieke, That somdinn thing of mouthe Thei maken for the bisschomme, Al on daies ek thei beforn, The mor that befall the Tache of TNT And forto sturne a part of alle The Sonesre qualification, And Echate and Setres divise, And hurte wait the spring of Pampisse, Which clepeth everyrrone, And mit after in the dour, Thurgh feiter thei to strouh; Thanne after the goddes like Thei tolden the aunthe powis, And schorde ech of hem toOTH, To se the se of everyone. Thus longe time in the valey Till nine dayes hade len determined The dwarf and al ar deify, And elles bettre stant disterday. The god, the which myn aunthe schal Thich anathe whit, And as thei seyd in beste hue Al upon the goddes wenton, Theyr wordes alle and eek theisshe, Thei decided the point I payroll, Whan that thei hade falle and drawe In compaignie unweresie Amonges the golde and rype Of men that wor the compaignie, So that thei weren naseilishttp://www.sterene-strophe.com/strophe.asp The fader Neptun the gude begon A , . Hervificación, que alay tome, B th air de PléiDouso, que en jarcon. Aparé . . . . Conpl ======================================== SAMPLE 172 ======================================== fine speech I do my lord the guest: I am the priest, the then prelate; this is he Who kills his time and wastes his life away, A boorish bore, an ignorant, lowly fool, A stiff and wrinkled judge, and writer, too, Full many a tittle, full many a meaningless sign Shakes in my lord the Duke's keen inquisition. But you are children of the state Of English bishops and of English Politeness, and English manners. Have you, poor children, no meritorious Had you once seen a meritorious race? Have you not seen any one bearing An elate Savoy miter, an Israel's Square with a plough's broad trace Bearing a cresset's diadem To merry St. Paul's, in the rain Rainier seizing it off the string Wrapped around his hand in danger Of losing it, and hammered it? What is this, hailing at Sir Winston With all the hall-fire lights of month-end? The moon's picture-taking, or the Milkmaid's scented lock of flower? Are you to know it only Or are you one of that garrulous race That lean, and look, and humbly cant, Hemlock-strained, the hoary fortune Lopping off your planting arm? Why should you know, when a great Colorless and bad-tempered alien Is knocking at the doors of your door, Which you opened before he could pull through the keys, leaving a mystery You will never open, never shake To find his key between your fingers? Why should you guess what spirit is in The heart of things, or muse over And select the sweet or sad, or generous or Devoid of malice, when you know That you have not the key, you have not the Key-finger to unlock the door To yourselves, yourself, yourself? Nature, there; because your eye See no evil in the creature created To serve your hateful demands, you had Made a wrong nature good: is the Bird sympathetic, when you tell The story of the Night? Know you not That the Bird brought war and beauty with her Silver strand both crossed upon her wing? Beauty with the sword, and peace Mingled in the bird, the pearl of the stone And the poisonous flower? Is this so little a misunderstanding? You must be charmed that a gull Cheapened yourCraft for mine. But still! Mine is the righteous hand, I would Hold the hand of providence in blind Perpetration: I would awake the Soul in man. Nature, there. You say Bird and Snake, Trout, Lizard, ruler, serf, you name it; and it is Yet inseparably, permanently, Inseparably, interlocking and unwritten, A pattern without its stars. Look you. Look you. They are angels. I am an angel. I am a shape, a colour, a sound, An echo of what phantom virtue does; Or else the habit of ancient song, Of familiar signs. I am the Authority which men choose. They allow me dreams and fancies. I am their rabble. I am the Fashionable fatigue of luxury; Their stopping down with all New-cherished sights, sounds, ideas, The outlaw and check of men; The loudest and most numerous brand Of the obsolete nation, the one Oblivious; a brand that stings One dropping a few fading colours, fattening Caesar, our modern way of talking, And fooling one and all. I am The part of Hamlet stretched across The bridge of war, the absent deviltries Of past and future confederates, the shock Of steel in an Austrian musket, Cunning and treacherous; living elements Of a great transformation; stray Sires and surnames of giants; masses Of precedent, pastures and paradises Of passion, sanguine and romantic, and filled With war and slaughter, horrors, and tears; Cimes and Cressy; precious and good, Twins without parent; heroes, lords, Peers of the realm and mother-nations, Swift-willing and swift-pages who broke The backbone of the world-encircling Sun, And all his sons, by quoting the books. I make them at me, ask you not how? -- I say it, I am theirPower over them and them, a power too, too much, They ======================================== SAMPLE 173 ======================================== in the mind, made love, made love, on the fjord in the rain, with a dappled sole on the sand. Doralice in the firelight, in the firelight. Yes, I miss you, darlin', but I don't miss you daw. I pick up my bones darlin', my beautiful, and I wouldn't have it any other way. It's rent, it's wild, it's a dream, it's a dream I'll dream darlin'. But I wouldn't have it any other way. <|endoftext|> "Grace", by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [Living, Nature, Trees & Flowers, Arts & Sciences, Music, Social Commentaries, Farewells & Good Luck, Father's Day] Grief's royal day, Girt with a golden cloudlets Over the mountains that beg Her smile at the world, Over the cities of pride She knew not, and of humble songs Motherly in scope: Grief like a wandering ghost Fills the lands and the worlds that were, And her tears like the polar breeze Fell and filled the air. Now her flowers are forlorn, Striped like those that despair In the hush of the dawning When the Spirit that dies down Drops the lips for a smile, Turning to an odorous warmth The perishing seasons. Is her soul with the mortal dead Chill on her bosom forever, Who were so passingly Perchance, unheeded like some sound; And the sole memory left her Was that she was alone. Will the arcane gods whose oft-resurfaced Flesh she never stirred in the maze Of her weary walk forwards defy Her now better doom, Who pass like unfamiliar dreams Through her empty watches, and chisel Her house and her world with sounds That she is alone? Her, the breeder of inscrutable Traces, that misrepress the true story, And with smiles the ghostly grief? Is the vanity in her eyes And her breath, through the mortal veil, Ever the soul that moves in her feet And minds the door of the chambers Under the floor that is hers? Is there a writ on her face, or a frame She must hold, or she and she are gone, And there is no bridge, no passant Shielding the pass to come? Beneath the perpetual swing, Beneath the rathe twice perennial wave, Under the ringing nights and the sway Of the hollow abyss, who steers, Who steers with charts which are not his, Towards certain lights that change, that change, South-south-east or south-southeast? Who pilot with hands of long grasp The lightnings of the world? Gone down the vale to the mouth of the dark, Where the lover gods hang out in shops, And the malign gods hang down in the hollow Around the starers, who are the gods, For heaven of each snatch and tear, For the utter boundlessness there Where the lover gods are stored: There the evil eye that struck breath, There the cunning one that hurt, There the cruel eyes with which it was done, Where they've bread and crumbs to store. Gone down the violet vale, the goose quie feathered, Gone up the flex on the wiry rough. The light of the twelve aternes was seen, And the wight of Tuba lading at the dock. He flossed it, he cross edgewise the hard way, Hailing with his hands for the voice of the song, Hailed the mouth of Manoran of the giftkeeper, Ere he went down the chestnut hill. The curve of the walls of houses and of rooms Was the line of the canal that wound about them, Where the carts came and went again instead, And the sand of the walk was of flowers and grasses, With a thread of the mud in the middle, But the walls went upwards as the hill went upwards, And they were sacred to the love gods. And a breath-like shammar trod the road, With its feet set in the molten pearl, With its shoulders given to the breakers, And its arms rounded at the end. The sound of the voices and of water, Of the voices and of the water, Shown as one wing of the night in the sky, ======================================== SAMPLE 174 ======================================== Is there any remedy For the small To be she, Small, and alive A CERTIFIED Midwife will declare, You have some food on the fire, Something for the child to eat, Some medicine for your child to take: Here's a drop of water bind In there. Your child is quiet. But now, just listen. Where is my baby? Oh, I'm not afraid Of the one who looks after your children, My friend. My friend Is the one who loves our children. Yes, my son is dead. And I will never find A trace of him. The room was dark that held his sleep. No sound, no odor. There was a blindness in the presence That can't conceal what you have done. There is a silence in the sowing That grows with every seed it sow. We Midwives are free to do all things That pregnant women can do With the secrets we know: To water at the ready, To give people birth And make all childbirths go well. I have set myself a few rules to follow When tending human seed: Do all that you can with the aid Of an Athame or an Active Dry To speed the process of ripening up The healthful growth of grain for men. I hope my work will pay. I do not wish to deceive For my sake or for gain Nor with a selfish hand My God's anger on earth be tried. I do not wish to be A midwife to the poor in Middle-earth. I must be gone ten thousand years. From the isle of tragedy where I was bred And descended. In that island there is not one stone But bears broad acres where the black and white and gray Might span the ranges and runs on like a serpent. The sea is light between two harbors too narrow By halves, nor far to seek a sight Of what may spring on earth when fully grown. There is a human in each tree, a home Outside the formed woodland, a cave Where God may fix a cradle for each one With cradle and babe, and see how empty they are in this world. There is a name That clings to me and gives me light To vision new worlds to see. Only by bud and leaf And leaving now of one small limb Which leaves a path unfriended I go forth to breathe and fail And leave our daily lives, Our cities, riches, pomp, Our cries for others, given to them, Their word for us to do Those deeds that we can learn Or they could have done, and less. I leave my little in a person Dependable and strong, Whose joy is deep and widespread A friend I've never known; Not easily taught, Born to a higher breath That would with me cling In union no more nor care. One limb remains. One word still kind on mine. Look, the bud is complete, The flower has left the cavity, A single word and bud Are one in life; I read the word "one" Now all must be acceptable Pasture for deer and mule And cave for man to sleep in. The word is come; It stands upon my palm. It parts my life, Lives for my friend With the word as a handspike. It speaks and stays; I shall hear it It works and heeds not time. It wears the magic word Of that which it considers; It sleeps not nights nor mornings Nor the long days of the months. It wears the chain Thrown over life; the light Of mountains and of the level, The word by the hand That no one can interpret but he. I shall never pass it gaping To see the magic or its depth, It shall not be seen of man; It shall be fully known Only by writing As magic is fully known, And may not be adhered To by pen or tongue; It shall be grasped by doing, By the soul fully acquiring, By wisdom, love, and power As a fruit one day, a diamond the next. You with your history, Minister of this on earth. Andily intellectual and careered, Plainly and subtly reflective, With reflection and rise to any occasion, With powers of activity and presentation, With received belief, You with your being, With received belief And just accepting That there is such thing as personality, Yourself the sole and present spirit With power in every thing it be in its ======================================== SAMPLE 175 ======================================== . An avun foot-ball, Or feef, I trow, Is paid o' 'sinaid, By Jane o' the Land; For ha' I never heard of sinaid, I never saw sinaid, For me a wadna be sae dreigh, As ance the bairn of Massa. But wae warles me like daisies grow The rhy of warles and war; The bairns o' poor Warkside hae drawn mine eye To their ae bead-- But daint I the woods o' warles, My sonike kin o' warles, My mither an' a'! For weel I chow that a' maun a', And till my erse is fain, I 'll be a warles bloke. The aulterior cause why I no talk Wae mair of fordhin than a' day Is thine, I thy most evincing sear,-- Averrois withered beith, And all the auld has bin sair My time; And aye the cauld wind 's holdin still To crack an' cloot my hair, Aye curwin' like ane-hand; Thro' a' the auld hills I'm stickin still, On a' ford, and dam, and linn, With a ford-a' heart. 'The warleys, at they're quattrin', Maun a first-up fusil a plaile, As north as Markham, An' doon beyond ye strain The weary way, A cumbrian route, An' twenty mile or so, To Balgurs, where the rood, Govan did they fa' A gairdner known upp and laigh, Weel a month ago. The country round, it kirs that kens The path uphill at last; Ye 've hevenly sights and haes To ride, and baith to pass, Whaith a' the kyme Ye don't hev to lend or lend, Ye needna stint ye, A' to get the distance, It 's a' that's to be seen, But I 'm wearin' foudin, My heed ye can see, For weel I wed the man: The man that's in my mind, Gane come to be a duteous foret, I hae this thought: You never win my love, Ne'er betide ye ken, Till ye get where Bacchus is, The dad, the dad, Is ahoast at last. The dad, the dad, Is a foast, to bid Yae come fyt, and bepartial; And first he say, To win your will, Be a king sensiblest, A procurber, The prest and best Of man or e'r Of any. Then upo' this land, A, gras, B, bonny C, Durst no more C come Dine, Till you a' dee. Up and doon, Ye must, deming, Meeting him A, apace, A, apace, B, meet, Meing A meet C, In that order, With the seal C on't. O, by that C, Me and thee! To soothe her, A, up lyke hert, B, meikle and maculate, C, deming, Of the nine, A, up-like, B, meikle and stupid, C, seeing all. To no English maiden, Say, would God there is, No God in heaven swept gold, No God in heat in flights, No God in cataracts that black, No wife on earth that knows, No maiden, fair maiden, On such a one. But say, would God, No God in heaven, swept land, Say, comes he then To such content He keeps his soul non mover, No sorrows-sweetest heaven swept, To forfeit, so it be For ever like. If there be no God, No Parliament in a hall No wife on earth, no father, No contentions heavy-besteding, Say, comes he then Such peace As fathers find ======================================== SAMPLE 176 ======================================== He had waded in muddy water with a needle, The needle stuck in the linen-tooth, As they had lost their way and gone ashore; The painter's brush was in his hair; He flung it, and exclaimed: "No, no, no, That's not the whole and true, I'm sure you'll not print that word of mine!" Well, he had caught a fashion, or so! But now, before a-tipping along, He stopp'd and saw the tops of systems rise In chasms of huge rise, and go. The painter caught a whim: 'Twas a groupe--a race--a custom, To paint the beasts they led. And aye, and thus, from that point to where They got before a little skin-club That bothered out another custom, They could not pe do!-- For the race had learned a thing: That the highest boasting frog That then crossed their track was two-years-old. So they led, before that night was out, A pretty clean race; And, ere they were through, our bold men knew That the Duke, when he understood, Would start them all and every one Off with a hammer for to have a go! The long brogue that moulder'd up, It made our brave men uneasy. It made their strength as shaky As an expository pane That in an academic lecture Could tell the nature of things, And bring their namers right to a plight. The more the tellt them, the more they knew The nature of the system. For now they knew, beyond a doubt, The direction of the push That made our heroes reel and sink. Their midges, too, began to merrily Attempt--to deal a treacherous stroke. When unwary, our good Duke never missed; His mates were on the losing side. They tried it with huge rapture, And some made harder sweeps Than ever dreamed Julius Cæsar did, But the surest way was to give it a rest; It soon built up its shouldering load, And in a while it turned to face the sea. As: "Right heart, I am a-going to sleep." The calm water kindled and extinguished, The midges grew dark. There was a wind that overnight changed The ointed coffee-cup-ogn honouring Of our heroes asleep With a frore little ghost, With a roundELIZIAKRA visible in view, And an ANNEBER walking fast to and fro, And a startled TORT ON EASE brand new in his hair;-- But to quit your own sad story, Tell Billy and WAL, I am sorry for you. And, "What am I taking into command, Six officers and two ranks of boys, Not to speak of our two negroes?" Six--and look! they are taking history, By their captains loving eyes; Two negroes, and a captain that Is riding fast through the part. Now, poor WAL, that is true singing, Though he does not say so: For he knows all there is to know Just as, when he went away, The old huschicles she hid from Jacob Remarked, "It is but late, That he keeps six months back." For six months he had lain away, And vainly had wished back to keep, Which the Lord has restored to him. When you by Queen Anne's nose the mist off, And see the sun again, Then six months, young as you, And in the sunshine fighting crime, You'll see, in talking, that the dust you stirred up, And covered with huts, is rich in silver. On like a horse the sun is mounted, And you in the sunlight problems; The bee's for clouds, the bird the stars, But the white man the world can take a dream, And make it his, The wheeling, courting sun-- But I am the sum of the years and you Of the dust and fields I saw, But you six months already have seen it all. Yes; if it's his dream we're a little after, Why don't you go with him, Went with me last summer, when my six Short months away! Can't stand the summer-simmer's light charge So I with the sun are force to blend? But if it be old Eli's vision, Settled and set, remember, There's one you can't translate it out of hand. ======================================== SAMPLE 177 ======================================== blue flowers a bus passing into a gorge where the gusts blow hardest (beautiful sound, strange sense) A bird flying so far off I see its shadow and the shadow of the bird as it rejoices it is flying so high above my head I could never reach its leaf and bark and nest and all (beautiful sound, strange sense) The road runs into the air I think it will stop there are not even thousands of birds here A road that would be here <|endoftext|> "All the Pretty Pretty Pretty Race", by Rebecca Hazelton [Living, The Body, The Mind, Love, Romantic Love] Bodies are weird things. We morph and divorce as we enter, merging with our encounters, and thus are unified through their defamiliariz- ments, through which the dur- ability of their copy is pas- stuous. Any number of them might be yours, but mine is already atrophied, uncompasses/fetter-ous, abl- it. The memory of it consumes me, in its plaguyness dims my empath- ized dimensions, in which it is a clause. <|endoftext|> "Monsoon", by Deborah Paredez ["Lion", bonus essay; formed it; coined the name; went into their houses & made them write reports] Lion! making us Beautiful. You storming into our Living Room. You straightening our Family. You prompting our Events. Performing in our Love. You identifying our Mostly Things. Introducing our Walks & Our Words. You leading our Conversation. You drowning our Abundance of Energies. You drawing the Dashes out. You AFG and You DOW. You Repeating. You Rotting the Perfect. You Making our Opinions Time. You Making our Wisdom pleas. You Taking our Chryseides Fresh. You Saponifying our Respira. You Sheathing our Fate. You Peeling our Pulp. You Polishing our Ban. You Blending our Emblazon. You Moisturizing our Topicate. You scrabbling our Liquid. You Fixt-ing our Sliver. You Sticking our Sieve. You Agitating our Dipthong. You Punishing our Punishment You Strengthening our Directory. You Documenting our Title. You making our Titles Evolve. You AFG & you DRAFT. You MOFF & you TAP. You TAKING our Questions. You FINING our Answers. You Punishing our Request. You MOFF & you KNEING. You AFFL & you RAIL. You TAKING our Arras. You TAKING our Thighs. You SQUEEZEING our Obsequiousness. You PENICRe and Obsequiousness. You FING and you TIGE. You TAKING our Time. You BRAYM and you BAT. You AFFL and you TAKING. You TAKING and you AFFLIC. You AFFL and you TAKING. You TAKING and you TAKING and You TAKING. You TAKING and you AFFLIC. You TAKING and you TAKING. You TAKING and you TAKING. <|endoftext|> "Be My Beautiful", by Deborah Paredez [Living, The Body, Love, Religion, God & more] For Marsha Paredezia Oh chicken-wing salad dressing. Deep onion brownness, hair-growth daemon and gall-break sample, taint the ball, skully stain to set free downstream and queue up a flood allowance to shake life's propellers like an ember in October. Oh rot, damn you, you out-of-step the pattern to my single pollen and my carpenter's pattern to his. My face once seen, dead: white string wisps tied around the gaping print to spell wound, to mark, not to tell the tale. Oh wound, wound, wound, wound: his blue blood smeared across my arm. He couldn't know when to quit. Oh broke, oh wound, wound, wound, broke. <|endoftext|> "Ode", by Kay Ryan [Social Commentaries, Popular Culture, Race & Ethnicity] for Everett O, crazy-eyed fire-arrgent nighttime, armed Unauthorized Immigrant, mad to get ye here and kick up such big trouble assistant Spark plugging its action instant on the spout and oh ye party-a-dender ======================================== SAMPLE 178 ======================================== 100. 'T was spring, and every tree bore A bud and a tongue And the meadow-lands were alive with The honey-bewood And each field had every flower. 'But one which the garden-walks Had vexed, for it only bred The vegetable tragedy, A flower and a cry, The courting eyes of the full field For food, and the priest's cloak. With a horse's bristling mane As if a sword had fled the water, As if all human love had flown For food and lover, blind The happy horse of the brindled nanny, Her heavy eyelids, she went a-maying In merry mood, looking 'broody. 'Thence unto the city I, A drunkard and a brother, With some game-dounds, and rants. The merchant's market was near, And hallooed an angry goat, 'Gainst which a few pennies squibs Against the entry of her wares. 'There ringed the armoury, With its last pence to shop, A last coin of chits to rub Against the cabs a jay on every tack, But it was she, upon the seat, With chin resting on wrist, Which had refused the dew of the sluice. 'I was like to say, or flabber no, She feather'd me from neck to buck, And twitched meate fat as potato, And even made me carol a flight As a goose out of the wale, But the goose-guid tears had come too, In an unluckled early way. 'And now, with lap-dog always on the watch For peril in wait, We peered in windows to reseize That wood-fair maister tail at the mie; And the fowler's ladder a brower still, And the clean, neat, lifelike wais de Romeos, But she, I wist, with closed lids gazing On the painter's chest of shirts, Was to woos at our last Gartest mug of all food and wine We had to try. 'And, ah! there went, on the fete-day, A water-bottle gray, Whereon was painted a vine All flooded with ocht done fresh, And in it there was music of bees, And bees in it a song, Wherewithy mingled of themselves, In their honey-comb, was air, And to the listener near five-and-forty We said "Be strong, O be strong": 'We caught her by the trainers' cartes (Her sports of the day provided), With a face of such gait and audacity, And with such gallantry, I saying "Oh, get her by the dress!" Of a sort, Mistress Kurt; But she put by them all, Since I could find not one, And she said, "Shall I bite my coat-sleeves, Since Kurt is dead?" 'Twas May, as I am tell'd in the tale, And the moon, full-nude, say'd, "I Am woman as we men That are blest of slumbers--began, Hybrids, bringer of comforts." And the stars, one three-hooks-with, Teem'd, as they do in an ale-hall, And don't care to shift their cribs Even when no pub'rs are open, And one might think they were fowl By the outcircling that they became. Then the airs of the earth were pleasing To my new Wilton: The sap of the taper-tree Moved my heart,--'twas young, 'Twas in a dog, "mid his mew, And a hat that the night-wind Car'd in his loose ear, and the hat-bill Brought a quare note As the cleek of a bell-wether That the child-quail made, And the cry was "Hoot," and "Squee!" And the cooter-pup, "Mee! pup!" Was a purty d--d. And the deuce-ment, with his sack-full Of siller, said, "Come and mow." And the moon looked down-cast When she needles the man from Poona With his bunch of the weep-scard, And the moon that is ======================================== SAMPLE 179 ======================================== dust, it will sink, we will all be one dust! Now, the impulsive blunder must be cleaned up for posterity, and the force of the dynamic act made visible, and the dark, drawn out of the human, put there, as once was the earth, in a single act. <|endoftext|> "How to Keep Suspense Without Decreasing Heart", by J. Ann Huallain [Living, Life in the Boonies, Love, Activities, Travels & Journeys] The diffident charm of a large thing marrands The air is salty, its slow wingsmiledashburnedinto ashif it strikes your footsto stir the dust of the anzingair as you wander down, your facesplit by a whispof clouding mistas a thin cloud intrudesits incandescent womb and youreimbutrade you, pentrIFIED,emptylike a pillared box with the empty pressureof darkafter darkvanishing in the coiling tightnessof the green, the firm air, of light,of new hang,so that nothing is leftbut the shadow of aFIre cloister, the glimmering wallspiled flush with the turtledovelled glow of the rising sun(as blueneglooslyearth), of dawn, house, house, close enoughto be a nestlike the shells, stiff,intimate as a slug,intact as the bream,still you areTrundling beneath you, under,bare of nearly anything;the shallow half of a cleft, the halfcrushed by the delirious pressure,the rest chaspedagainst a rough shieldlike a clock face, a bank of slabsbare and dulled by sun and brides,as though the hour was hot and not really gone;the pallor of the witheringwood; the glare of the slimline crayonlings; a flicker,a promptingsluice with their metal pins; a mottled haunted yearin a kind of beautiful picture artfully placated; the long dim glowin the glass, the mutedvibrant gleam, the slanted tear of light through a blor of orange sky; the chicanes, the salons,cactical with concaves of color,a lodge, a calcified cave; the blue discolorationof the dusk; the cathedrals;the towers, the razedawn, and each alleydropping into cloistral green—blue dark, green light, eitherone way or another, light wood or courtly gold, the night'sfugue, one notein a series, historical light; the despairof a luminariestilting sky full of drops and smudgesand one star-gleam—the infinite sea-barred column;frail as the lipof a shed their recolpting graves, disowncesthe mongiecraw, gray of the end, the little shed'sburden, but mighty all over, everywhere, endure, endure. <|endoftext|> "Metals", by Barbara Kyratindas [Love, Desire, Relationships] Because my love for youconstantly strikes deranged counselsof fire and steel, marketshipped up in snow, my passionswick, plink, like striketroops returning from leave. <|endoftext|> "Song", by Robert Nichols [Love, Realistic & Complicated, Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women] I sing of nothing, saveIn my scorn for you, you write me, –It is all through vain revoltAgainst the personalThat I may play the manAnd play on. Let the clamoringRule that love's paschal feast removeBe our relief,But its sober memory of Fortune'sEffete, –and you'll be gladOf other games, –If you would have me. I know, of late,There's nothing in the airBut clinking arguments, – and that's aGrifter's game. And yet, though nothing speaksOf fierce face replying like the shout, –And though, when we meet alone hisFace was ever dull, –And though, time, and time again,I look across a plain and seeThe Blackbird flying above, – I love you, I love you, all alone. <|endoftext|> "To a Maid", by Robert Herrick [Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Men & Women] Be not just female, Be not just man,But brother to the common kind;Be life the ideal from which to strive, Be death the same indirection. <|endoftext|> "A Rock Fall", by Alfred, Partridge, Lord & Lewis [Nature, ======================================== SAMPLE 180 ======================================== Old love is yet a living thing, Shall you hear it sing? Tell me, O, where are you to-night, For the moon glitters too high For the love to reach. The dreams of a fallen star, The dreams of a star born, The wedding where the hour and bride May their sweet wedding be: O, they shall sing in the light By the moon, by the moon. The shepherd watched his sheep, The light was the moon's light, The golden moon on the sky Was the star he met. O, they shall sing in the light By the moon, by the moon. Pais Deuce pent down and fast, Pais Deuce little barn in the sky, Pais Deuce little barn in the East, Pais Deuce little barn in the West, O East, West, and North, And over the East, and under, North, West. Pais de beet Chan de, et de beet Renon, Pais de beet Chan doch quatre fois doite ton front huit, Pais de beets toutons proud fronti old andri, Doit ton front huit hebdomod tout un noit si cif, Pais de beets cri paireu ridiculous andri, And they rouse the ridiculous andri, And they strip the horrid andri. Pais de beet, in mis so sorquenete, Pais de beet, et de beverch Carle un peau charge unique Cisin huit pointz de charrif. Oui. Pursuer et Schimet dans la Reddes Femme si soit rimeuere, et distrait de ces jamais Un Front lit-cray. Oui. Pais de beet, toamp je le dévelie, Pais de beurs, et de beurs qui livent Ce lettre de NDyhloi-Ben barrak to the Objif De Gozhde, Goud win pedir tou ja du [*od] Au riche ni toi pqas qu'on mysail de l'Et, A l'extase qu'on m'aiderait mon larmes ni étalissant. Au poisson, a l'odeau riv'dirai au reste carelxe, Aux waiting, we will another chorus raise To Goethe's words, and settle our hearts with Goethe's mind. Pais de beet, tois les de sortis hier Plehtz plein ferments-leben, Plehtz lopiss fit embon air, Plehtz près bon! Jeg down De schatke, de schatzel, De letteux, de pilote, De fouss, deyës, de ta fouss, De gofiete, de gomet. De pluieux, de tableau, De jacre, de tableau, De jume, de cypnes, de cypnes, De bien-an-suomen, De bien-doyseux pantte et pantte Sur les baignes des beurs: Sur les poisses de m'eche soit côté et froe. Toes volunteers ont lave LA Chambre arme, Avec que celui qu'On sad conferenez; On n'est pas à l'heure avait de souce De tournoi, de rodeo, de bale, On n'est pas plus belowlir pour tard Porter étre à l'heure d'appel l'ocevan. De lairez-vous; - je troue clairz, Je s'amwais un bout, j'avais besourné Qu'on l'avait férabilité de me, O pas de mon pouce ou de mon père, O CAMEILLE, pas de tout pied. On doit se faire des feûles Puissants aux jours; On doit remerce qu'on cnée se regarda Beside a certain teme; Et que le palaest n'attends pas. Au fé; - il férète est- On gira la tyr: C'est l'AMOUR de s' ======================================== SAMPLE 181 ======================================== Class act, and no pick-a-pickle Lives down the brag of the nigger in the ditch. O mother dear, if you doubt the fact That the earth ain't what it's been, come out! See what the old earth is made of! See what the world is made of! The whole world's made of it ain't it? See? You're not made of the old earth, you. And you may go to town, you may get a car, And go to Paris and play at the piano, Eat happy in Paris and play the piano, Or you may stay here and play the piano. But don't come here to Paris to play the piano. That's vulgar music, and don't like it! (Hoot! It's the spot where I get off the map.) So, mother, when I'm all asleep, And you're all over the camp with the door in front of me, And you see the mother and children two Who have come to the beautiful city of Paris To play the piano and have a little fun, And you wonder if the little folks will be allowed to have a bit, Then come a step with your hand out in front of me, And I'll come and hold your hand in front of me. O, come a step with me and I'll hold your hand. And I'll play when I get back to Paris just as well as you see As I play just as well when I'm near. (She was playing, little mother, where was I?) And when I get there and I am alone to meet the folk Who have sent the musician, and tell them how I have been injured, I'll play Paris. I'll play what they see and approve. (I'll blow the trumpet and then tell them how I have played.) O, there is but one line that I haven't played to make them cheer, And that's the very line from my baby to my playing-dog. (I tell him that's the very word.) And there isn't a thing that I wouldn't do for any dog on earth That my playing wouldn't make do. (I tell my dog what I'm going to do and he goes wop and down.) But I'm through if you're through, my dear puppy dog. (I'm through, and I say it and do it.) I am sick of playing. (There's the rub. Ha-has.) For one little moment I was willing That I should suffer through all the years of my life, And my victim should be a man with a gun. I said "for my bones and for my flesh"-- I was prayerful. But I was also haughty. And I was also awed. I was also liege. I was willing to face the gun And all the horror of war, And be killed by the horror of war. But I was also glad. Did I also, mother, Treat you gently? I said, "Mother, do you mind That I, when I come back, Will have done." You were proud. You were gracious. And perhaps you did know That you had me "handled." Well, clearly you had me What's more, And thus you could see, Or should have seen, That I, while I lived here, Have been too long wounded In foreign lands To get home again. You were curious, And you let me go, And you said only this I asked you not To send me away To be a snared witness, And to be loosed from his pain For a stranger's cruel use. Mother, you have me, And you're new here now. And the doctor said, "Of all the doctors That I have seen, he is most dexterous, And I believe in no one That will aid him up that wood trail, And where he will be better. I believe in doctoring, And in the healer's magic art, And he's very fair to look upon. He is good tempered, and that is a fact. And I will swear his art will solve If a horse's tail is raw And tail-sniff is bitter, And the tail-sniffer is none other Then baby Hiccup. "Yes, young man, I'm better now. All my jowls are loose. I'll be back here next week, But he never came. And the baby sat there In silence, and in terror Cast lots for ======================================== SAMPLE 182 ======================================== He could. Then where, where was he? Only the sea, The waste, the wormy ground, where he was wont to lie, And hear, unwrecked by dawn the village bells In Peleus' hall, the wild waves breaking, God's hail Against his lips, against his chest the sun. With eyes that showed him now in labours past The father's mossy halls, with hands ungloved And matted hair that still refused to dust, Now streaming fire in them, plaited, rough, His motions still the same, the same, the same, The naked hand reaching up and down the sand In looking-smiles all the while, the King of so All naked then, as he was wont before To bind the warrior's hands and feet, with thongs Weird with forgotten leather, that he gave the pass, Disdaining, save for trust, to betray his art. And now he stowed'd his arms and coat of mail, and rowld His bent head down, a thing not to be ashamed: The naked man the unshorn hide could see With need that saw't, and knew himself as he lay, Naked, bare, yet not as some two-year child, But as he had lived an entire lion's length Or more, a lion half his strength, the two-foot man Liv'd, and with that image adjusting his dress, One of the peopleASTETian weep'd, and thus he said: My son, who bites the dust of his dead mother When there is any breath of woman to be had, The children of intolerable mother-love, Because they can, wound up with mightier breath To sting us sore with regret, or throat, I pray Behold the dress of your own mother, which at first Was all in wonder, how it would last, with you, And afterwards with you, the three in one. Where shall the trinkets, that flashed in the sun Upon my breast, with the smoke-like signs I burn'd, Beacst the electric flame that tore my sides, And in my socket burn'd the murderous steel? Am I the sport of any day but my own? O never, in any quick, or sick, or dewy night, Do not, my son, the lightning of thy mind, The dread satisfaction bring. I was thy peer, Thou need'st do no more, sweet boy, to make thee hark, That was but the original of Love that now Hath legionNames. And I say it is no kind of love, But when the heart no more can play the shamming man, By gainwont desire, by worth, by loyalty that moves In impotence of pang, summons the sword. That was but the kindling of mine eyes, that made Her hair curlat at their rays on my body chanced, To my face in the gellar of fire that streamed On through the air a sudden maiden. Come not near, I might perchance who had worship of thee known, The God of that shrine, tho' in the Daughter of St. America, double-eyed for loveliness. O hapless thought!--Perchance thy long disordered sleep May have but parklisihed back thy brain, and led thee By fond suppliants 'neath thy pillow to entreat That more than golden promise, hand and head: That sometime may be thine endeavour--O lie! Who then will restore thee to the golden mood, Or repay thee in courtesy? the world will lend Thy golden fancies all their crystal-fledge bricks, My softest words displace thy sulky dime, I will not lend thee more then nurse about Deliriousadhvam, Lakshmi the gem, And sumati, nor the charmer nit, And nameless flowers will represent thee At late death as either came Of páka, loss, or destructions that destroy. The smiles, the soot, the quenching amber, All speak their own clear lesson, and no head: So with each change of colour, like the smell Of the soft grass before a queen, The páka appearances still circulate Between the equal moons and show their face Before a monarch's rose: but not an hour Are those fair monarch's daughters free from woe, From toil, from gloom, from sufferance. Wise and Queen In their first love awefully front to front Seeking some neutral zone between joy and doom. The child that with its pirate peers came up, Steering, Sob ======================================== SAMPLE 183 ======================================== Bound up with night's and twilight's drear shadows This bare-bodied night, and kissed by a sun No sun of day--could ever reach the ground! The great star-leaf is dropped; But a thin ripple Is the thin boy's dress; And I--I am the next in succession. Behold, behold, I, David Anderson, With my wife's letter Enclosed in a paper packet. But the fresh-made packet Is of most dread smell; It is stitched so poorly. It is such a sloppy job It has neither waist nor quality. It is such a whipping thing It has scar beneath any seam; And I gasp, it pains me worse than death. It is jammed with seven times 10, Pint, half-pint, quarts, It is jammed with trunks, magazines, Used cars, medicine, pork, and bacon! It is jammed with trees, rocks, hill-meadows, And rocks and trees indoors Where she dwells; and yet I am not annoyed; For she pains me less than the black-moor at her knee. Thee, shaepe me, in wanton drowning, On the dreary sea, Till thy wreatie bow'r In a glimmering orb meandered, And my bathime's meridian Forsook the meridian For an unexpected distance. I'll be wed to thee, And when I need thee, I'll send Thy profile supernaturally Helican, But the starlight there Is an adventurous hanger-on; And the curlew's quiver Is an Orphean essence That wings to the heart of us all. O my love! My blessed love! The hand of fate Is the clenched packet That, like Apollo's lyre, Is vibrating, intently, devoutly To the straining orb of our joinder; For a husband's kn Havock Is the chance of our mariage. And our future Heaven Is not now decided. In fine, my dear, I'm mad, and still of that's bad; And the devil knows how I'm ever to rue For the scourge of it all the fruit of sweet. Oh, is't well, How the toss ensigns sing? And the Tuscans say That Lapland's next. Yea, lonesome is my dreaming of love that's loathly; For a secret trail Of sleeve and sleev'eland Is my trailing of Veronicas; For a heart that I've digged to dust in Is a hartless heart. For the love that I'm bearing to you now, Him I'm bearully suiting, Is the cost of loving you now. I'm bearing it all, as the sword is the stone, In a yew like a's grave is the yew- hed; For a receding from ther is the cost of paying it, Is the cost of paying it to you now. For a mind whose nobility is in bondage, For a will that's weak but fervor of loving; For the glory of its being is in biting; For a lightning-beam's broad-parked is its scoping To the fenress. For the gold-drenched nuisance of preference; For the surcharge on taste, from a fenress's vantage; For the heat of a no-landing; For the lingoning; For the loneness of a Rain-to; For the -- slow -- take-home; For the -- hilting; For the -- lingering; For the peace of rain-to; For fond-ling, from Rain-to; For jilt-f thomping; For falling-in, from Rain-to; For the light that is heavy with; For the dew that is sweet with; For the dam that is hung to -- rain; For the rain-pet of -- hearts; For the closets where we've gone to; For the little lamentations Of bits in the -- holt; For the hole where we've scooped in memory; For the longing where-withal; For the mill that's raging out the chunks -- For the -- ingles where we've trembled; For the -- hoik of the -- hild; For the crashings that are brilliant-free; For the little tormentions Of bits in the -- houri field; For the -- run-call ======================================== SAMPLE 184 ======================================== as they went, Upon the ground I have trod, And here I shall them stay, With something for the agony, For something when I may cry. When the winter comes and takes my breath I shall not ask for home, I shall have strength to claim The courage that I need To leave this land of dread, And if my word be spoken We may part in scorn. The birds of night will ferry over this Pathless ocean of my dying, And I shall be with them in hope That they will safely bear me To the fair land of desire, Where I know a place for me When I have had an end. My home is that which I desired, That home of my soul's desire, That bright long line of land so bent On the way of duty, loved With a fervent and boundless love That even the fearful and unhurt Must feel secured. It is a home, the home of love, With love indefinite And hopes in many a hope, And words uncertain That hide beneath my chosen rhymes And give my heart's pulse tingle With thrillings of an infinite For uttermost hope that pass Unanswered when it seeks. It is that home, my heart, mine own heart, And I would be your sword to turn To slay the curse that would be yours To cast to bore and conquer, For cast down and afflicted race For that which is not yet yours. In me you would have a home, And in this song I will to tingle The scorn behind which is none, That I may not lack a home On the neglected earth. I will be as a tree to stand upon In the wind and weather, strong and sound, Shading the rods with stems whereon the wind Scatters the cedar-tar that grows dark With the entourage that comes to an end, I will be, and I will be as though The world were mine and you were not So that the wind you blow may decay My branch, you will not demolish. I am the fragrance of summer rain In the soil that whispers necessity To farmers who, extra tracts in need, Know the scent that pattern helps to frame, I am the scent of rose and litter In the ashes of old towns where the spiders spin, And in old fortresses and on frontiers where conflict Blossom-spectors wait, fear in the air, there is conciliation And my smell is of peace, and so it is we come to a place Where we may report our manners to a face conducive To mutual courtesy and a dispassion that has passed the looking To the deference of the suppliant soil. Soil should vow to me as their master, and I Should vow to them my attention be to them As the soil to its bearer's health, and they Should learn to furnish me the best table air, Erogenous soil that has been artlessly made wet With direct blow from the sun or from lights like the supper That has gone out and from the smoke in the eyes of the hills Erect as cleft wood that has been slowly knapped, chime Like the hock to the earth, and be It is I that I call reproach, Theusterkals, shame to thee. It is I that have brought the country misfortune, The country fatherland, the house of blood, Blowing like yellow puff-balls big with fresh air That my time-behind has split from end to end And there is no light, no cinder to gather there, There is no room but in the darksome dust that I step through When I say I have no will but insincere. The wind shall be shirtless when I am dead But not before I am aware I will never be clothed again In something that is mine again Except it be cold cloth And that is all in the ruined house That is not mine again. In my own country I am a woman And that is that, I have no will to move about And I lie on the ground and feel The shivers of the wind Between my bones But there is none in the town To see me writhe and scream and writhe And if I shout It is useless, there is none to hear If I fail or survive My self is all That saves me doom. Go look in the eyes of the lover That is dying, It is he is the one Is the one Living, He is gasping for breath, It is he is the one Is the one ======================================== SAMPLE 185 ======================================== down to the nubbles. But he knew me, and called me by my name, and he asked me in the end, "Butterfly,--only a little one, can you, my butterfly, fly at three weeks' end. Come with me to this corner, and I will show the four of you to your play." I said, "Please, Uncle, in the name of. what the law says, you can't take a child for love. Look, the statute says it, and it is written thus. It does not matter that and the case goes to you. And what matter we? so that we showed a different spirit in our offices." In other words, this man wanted to change. And in one's voice: "I take this case." Not one of us doubted that we were held by him. And in the end it seemed that he won us, without the help of Sylphs. For we got ourselves to leave quietly at the door, without a single bill at unpaid, and no lawyer called— took our signatures freely on an promissory note, with a payable-on : To pay the balance to a joint account, annually, at the option of the holder. Then I thought, Good heavens! What I have done! and got nothing to show for it but the pity of a needy relative and the faith of friends. And I call my life foolish. I can only wonder what your lives are like, now that you have each other. But I am not just guessing. I know that you are growing to love each other, to want to offer up each other— call it a marriage of friends in which you each receive a share in the rents of the house, and each of you has an equal passion, if you so choose. But I doubt that this is what we have chosen. For we have left the bounds of reason to look after the children in the night. We have forgotten that we are equal to the children in word and deed, yet choose to keep your haughty sense of life, while we are keeping watch of one face and one face only in the risk of beating my dog's life. We have forgotten that all is even, that we are equal to those we hold most in contempt who have chosen, and keep choosing, between them and him, while we keep hearing what you want to hear till it becomes the story in their lives, no allowance made for one weakness or power base among the sons and daughters of earth. <|endoftext|> "The Name", by Frank L. Rice [Living, Nature, Religion, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy] The first who would name the thing he knew with easy simplicity from dust and led the quickening metal in his old head to being name of small things and with his new thought, in his old head, a few roots more white than to be named before the next wise sage touching his foreign tongue the hard leaves of trees he calls his children, touching the orange-trees of his lost home— trees that carried him like a tiny wind or a smoke into lands where he could not dream of winds or a man would be nothing but trees that touched his young mind that let him pass among branches and communicate with other children that his bones couldn't stand on and that he learned to be not only strong to be name a flower the first herb that grew from a stem— before the plants or the name itself . . . <|endoftext|> "Old Love", by Frank L. Rice [Love & Relationships, Classic Love] Love that is still old keeps up the laugh and keeps warm in an eye. You thought you had done with it when you took it to the chin, but it's old, and weatherproof, and won't give a damn. The good days are in those pictures like longleaf capped meadows, the sunshine a clink of salt drops, the dark standing by. What you thought was hating, is being kissed by a weed. It is barely noticed, so barely kept that is. <|endoftext|> "Peculiar Grave", by Frank L. Rice [The Body, Love, Desire, Nature, Seas, ======================================== SAMPLE 186 ======================================== But she, once self-devoted, scarce more than half With love and the divine had mixed her mind; Or was it the sudden blind-fire of pain That made love a thing that none could look for, but none Could find, and all too late, when the heart that loves Was running out of all hope, for love of him And of the happy arms of room not knowing him? I know not, but I think of her In pity on her mind's weakness that grows A woman among the cold and crude, Wild groves, and hollow caves of men, That from the whirling world of children and wars Must keep the faith with which they were wed, Honour, the pride of untainted, brave, Honour and the love of base things, and base And love of brave things, and noble hate, And ever amid the dizzy waves Of changing life that young Dorinda sees The banner of old ambition bring, Now is she whisp'ring, and no more is she sweet As when she hung at our side the night we left. We cross as women not to sulk nor care, But to be dangerous on the deeps we love, Battles the Winds to battle for love's sake. "Sweet, and defiled! sweet, but dead!" Sweet like her body, and defiled like him who told The last sweets told in the dark hospital. But there is one battle never-ending, And that is where our love is concerned; The battle where love is simply and deeply Believed in, and by virtue strengthened, That no materi madness should exist And that sanity be continued. Ah, sir! when he speaks, When he is whacked, when he can not steadfastly Bear his head like a Christian, what a night Of dreams comes back on him! His brain is cut by the same Old arrow that found green Arsignor Beneath Thurron: and be what he was, and shall, He will not be Archer rendered! Hands tremble, arms flagellate, eyes run wild Over his scattered veins as lances, the knife-thick foam Of the severed veins seeks the heart with the head That is not his any more: and he wakes, a drone, Out of the hearts of men, as out of the waves Some clam'va-leapous bird out of the sea. Hands that were swift for the fire and the love Of doing, and crying, and ripping and plundering, Arrested and knotted in a sky of stone if he found No fault with that of Arsène, the blameless Crore, the forgotten, the loss-laden, The sacrificed, to the heart's deepest injury. Oh? What hope he has, what know he for joy, He that once rooted is dread yet for his children? Trees grow in his garden; he sees the sky And listens to the woods for aye; and he speaks Out of the belief that he shall hear ever New sounds from the distance that shall prove His hearing right from the forest-trunks. And he treads again the hear of his father, And he speaks now to his wife for the third time, And his children come to him, and look at him, And he looks back at them, and, fear unnerved For his life, he ere long finds the old spell goin; Yet, arms atawvable, the heart can notbreed, But in vain, for a new arms he will touch That he may keep all the respite of its safety For the child yet born. And he warms them to hear the boast of the mountains, Yet for Urdon he had need have feared, and for Moray, And for himself heard the best of all, and wondered, For we have horror for the warrior in his sleep; But there is the scourge sole and the ancient scourge, And never for woe of man the morning morn. So, to his old magic askerthe cliffs go down. So once were swept against the city of Leborine, Down by the Crosses, that in vain had challenged Apollo; Down by the Bridge of Snow-Heads, that turned its face Back on the Foot of the Hall. The city would--as stately--once more lift its lid, Void there for many a century. Many a city that here tos its turn would be taught No other city will this day pioneer. Long have its envied avenue to me been marred, Had it but been ======================================== SAMPLE 187 ======================================== And all the big chamber-guns; His lamp-fires are new and bright In crowded, bright street; His suit in a tearing coat Before the knocked-down shop-door, His woman in a swathe-tuft box, Her short brown hair banged by the lock . . . . And here again the knock-down blow-hole, The woman, the suit, and the open door . . . So have I seen it all, and all and none. I would not pretend to Eldon's grass-green chair, Nor dreams of roses, nor the choirboy's Caribbean night. I have no love of land, and yet I sometimes love a bit of the earth. I have found out what man is, and were a little rich, Having lived, and still after having lived on the green Scilly coast. And if I should ever Gueombuckio see, In some southern wood, what he will feel and do me good, He'll cry out to his king, "O sweet old blue-mouthed bette, Where's a man with big brown shovels and sword to look at?" And never waste a word in singing the praiseOf saints, priests, parson, saint, priest, and fellow in wings; A dullish sermon here, a silly pray there, A silly peacock on the tree-tops mocking the sky; A silly pray to pass the long winter night, Till the mad whirlwinds blow their matches and blow. Ships from the foam of the mighty Thames would throng The quiet chapel carven by Brother Willie, If there were no many and varied things to do In the deep West, rather many and various things To indulge in the deep West. The clouds arise over the flats, The waves lap the cliffs for seaward flow, The sun looks east, but his might is gold, The night cries gaily, 'tis sweet to be here, And we here lie. Our bodies here lie as we had fallen In and of the manifest Word Of good and evil we should thus be one, But because our bodies are alive We four are different people far. The limbs in I know not what torments lie, Ease and ease would ease me of my Hesper skin, But the power of torments to afflict, alas, Me of my grace would make expression say, Me of my great Grace would make expression. I am iron to me, the powers that keep me break, I of the beast would be the creation, The force that broods in me of no end, The heat that I would stir out of me, the cold, The power that might retain and make me bigger, The forms that are mine in mine ignorance I must not say I understand, but know. The forms that must be created yet, In the making of the new body of Christ, In His river we will find out devil, In His river the serpent, in His river the biggest. He said, In the beginning when the Gods called he In the day of the creation For the heav'ns first work and the first money. For the hard thing to do was the best, The hard thing to do was best Was the task of destroying the gods In the valley beneath the waters. He said, For the thing to do was best, Was the thing to do was best, I was myself and I was myself, and I When I awoke would be gone. But to hear and to recall is the problem, Remembered I am myself in I know not what. My mind is a haunted of myriad fires That touch my body in the chain and pass. We are all created, we are all changed, The nest-born of roses, the satin and the fox, The child of the dirt and the cattle of horses. So I am a mind to which thing, I think is best, But I do not know I am what I was, The child of my mother, the lion of my dreams, The satin of my kisses, the eating of my flesh. I said, I say, I am the son of the plains and roofs Where the earth was green, the green and the lot, The tiger, the cock, the slain, the living who fights. Not I, but I was I in my own before I knew The dread of the kings, the dread of the powers The risen and the plate, the bread on the stone. I say, the thing to do was best, 'twas to rest, And to be rest for the best, and for food best, ======================================== SAMPLE 188 ======================================== wne was when mai.h.le. A goose of soot that might be shyn. A goose so hard-fe bye which it was May haue left al other swane What thoughe that it were rare A goose-feured pyles in it, of the segge Of swans, in a day when that aoule O. F. Thou, wha did ere nowta ye, do now Naht yet the foxes, whiche cleir is And keith the kneecings othe in a vale To brere things in his mad wombe Wher sauouring euer he wyll not stand And sullydge in the sayl, whan he fowt Is blynd and alone in his errour. O, FLETE, thou in this place thou art That thus chaungt downe the shene, To come a goodly example And biddisothe every wight, that sche reule In vsury for to soth, And seyn that this lusti word Which god hath seene in his ayde To here a newe lawe, nawher is fitt Tewant it to be stoned. And thus, whan men witnes so besilte Be of on agaunte, As some bes fine gold, Yit ar no reson witnesse. And thus, to you, Atreas, I you preue, That with your myndes, as ye well may, Ye spare neuer his defame. Let the cunning fleissh, that is dryf ech of yl, Into the on of gold, for his myght so ritz, For his myn Yorkares be spoortes yifte To refulsd that he himself be reseynt of. For yet yit the yole croke of thre may not stand Without his shaddowed golden breuory. Lye like to Cusson, that was wonder lynxed With grauntes, and to glowe everychon & cule, For Lyer was his staf, & Cusson, his vile. In these a most of silver that is shent, With trumpis, and torches thus grefastly to vs burne, And with the fire the candle full and clere, To bring the heat of here fire to his all. And when the gold is quite as light as lptes be, Then let the schrewes be anon with oute! As under the eyes in caution and clooth, Warm the day, that yiveth a fancy to feard, Warm the day, that yiveth Apollos.<54.1> In the world now go we yeelds for to hire, In to day nowe we workes schriebly hie; Though I be white, tis ye shall kisse my shynx;<54.2> And many an on is dittayned so, Many as nowes yeech schyné not be, Ne shall of that profan sete<54.3> Of grene Alibe,<54.4> and beare the cary; In to the night that wylde is yee: The he wole be hire in the same schynere, That wolde get of me suche shewe, For of your grex the fode ybore, In which that waxeth more and more. O schrote the God, how hast thou leave To thy selfe the knowledge of thy creat, And of thine owne creature hele? By cause I fere of hem that be, Which oft is sustant Zoah; And doth onely best by ryght and day. What is this, to schrif thy selfe so lorn, Thou thee selfe so bewelemest almai? Bot thouscharding it is noght soome: The ferste is best of all, and that Is to him that hath, to him alone Which is the manhed of a man: Bot if that it be other which pent The hond, it is more ferr relative, Untresolvant forto fyll His godd and his commaundement.<55.1> The trompes for hire, that wynneth hye, And shundeth bothe drowe a rore, The roun ======================================== SAMPLE 189 ======================================== Tossed off the loaded quiver, that the boat Of Tuscan and Tuscan only might contain, He left it on the bank, and turning, spied, Like a banner fluttering in the gale, Gibius and Lausus, of the thicket-tree. From far, they saw the trembling boat from fear, And leaping out, seized the oars; the tightened furred Hair, and, shivering, rowed the trembling boat. Nor stayed there, for haste made all men dumb; But like wild fowl flaming from the rock They dashed on, with thundering wings through water, Scarce one, on shore, of all that pressed around. Scarce from the rocks the mass that bound them down Had leaped upon the shore, and shook the walls, Had left a battle in that rabble horde, That, hurrying on to know the deep of war, Bore off no mother, and be fed in Tirrwold, One little lad, and two pale-faced youngsters, That neither grey had yet received from time, nor made Infants white till they were crimson years older. <|endoftext|> "My house and garden have few faggits and more cathets the lycuron or curculigin is ready for the fougure here is a pipe for your smoking I have a pipe to sell you I have a flagon or two for you the liqueur or quinque to keep you company I have drapes to wipe your mouth and a pinch to keep your mouthes warm I have no lads or boys to send to bed but a whole mess of pipes and much wish-heophones to make the sleep of coarse first and foremost the wantons are gone by this time Your garden waits the wheat for its bit of love I have pressed for you As the dark presses the dark a flitting and a moving The semiquaver or quaver will draw nature to smile at me as it drew nessa for sacher and i do not believe in models i have pressed for you as i have pressed for sacher and i have no models but a bit of faith as the dark has pressed for us and it can make us blest from the white noise of mills to where the olive vine may be to press your snow to dye the sea to press your snow to dry the snow <|endoftext|> "from Mud", by Oliver de la Pager was walkable roads wonderful smells cities varieties of water populous trees shelves vertical forms friendliness of water on the disc some sense extended hospitality good showers enough light mulled eyebrows thanatoneness it aint what it seems a bloated disc fat department a swollen day in a ditch easeless seen only in flatlands a whirling dancer in every rolling Mendeza none of the above none of the above that ain't even an adverb that makes more sense than it should but it will love it I do it makes sense and don't look for words for what it isn't nor word would that word be they tried they might have won if drowned in the river and what of form what would that come under <|endoftext|> "Little People, Standing" , from The book of void [Living, The Mind, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, Class, History & Politics, Mythology & Folklore, Heroes & Patriotism] "Who stood to guard the house, Standing more than guard. Who was there to guard the house, The whole great house more than half house, The house with three thousand windows, The kind of house with three thousand An hundred a year? The little children standing Before the house with three thousand An hundred fifty a year. If the three were good, a lot Of a thing that was to do, The three might think of it, The three might think of more than half half the things in the world." <|endoftext|> "Ardors", by Mina II [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Love, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Seas, Rivers, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Fairy-tales & tales-like figures, Heroes' journey, Mythology & Folklore, Heroes' journey, ======================================== SAMPLE 190 ======================================== Ranges up in the fingers' of my hand, Thing's but an incidence. A wave soaks in the gulf that receives it, As it were night that sleeps upon it. Or, as is it to my eye, All forms of the great long kind, Light's pure children, tremble, and are flown. A grain of dust, a little dust, No more and no less; A word, a finger's breath, Is thought's impalement; A curl,--and all is gone. She fell on the day A new and white wonder; The winds their hands abroad Around her, to lift her up, And round about her gazed the suns: Inventive powers! O for a draught of air! O for an outburst of might! The ripe and the rip! The blue of the sky, the red sun's ides, The world's sweet principle,--say, Would there were air around! When she was made a lily, She hung eight years above The garden of her foster-mother, The chapel, which is called a 'novo' (new)'. 'Novo'! (new)! The word, though not quite 'fluential', Speaks the naught between it and 'the chapel'. Her name the day before the act changed it; The only thing she needed was In a white sheaf, stuck close to my Mother, I hang with my streak of black and my mark far back, As I was a run-me-over; Run-me-over! Run-like an over, A well-spring of bunched up and manured By my negligent care. She has grown to be the matriarch of our host; She wrestles with Omnian (creature!) More than with any maid. She sends her bum-face everywhere; But, like the pea, we never can saddle Our barks with her stirrups. She is the maincap, baby, of a homely realm, And yet I feel a fly Fly over me in the sense of my fall. She speaks from a position of a small Dim light greatly less then dim; And so, not to be so restricted, She flouts me, all the time, By way of a right' (howsoever constrained); And I feel, by kind and my being hung In her presence, fly-like, a mighty leech, Not the least Awaity of secret things, Or cloud, or eye, Or touch, Or taste, Or smell, or biting insects' relatives, Or fairy friends. Where's the words is it "her world" They drop, On the tongues of the unconscious? Are we not in "dungeons" yet, She's the stone, And I am the dudgeon in her mouth? Where's our common sense, Enough to shock and be madden'd? Cunning liar! What's the magic that will cure me Of my precipice, Or un-head it, She's a witch Of more ordinary workplace? She's a Christian, too, I am a Calvin? And where, I have not a tcpalm, Yet, suddenly, she flings All the house-rules Out the window On a starless night of the soul, The shingle reads: "The ladies are dressed, they're in bed, in bed in bed in bed." They have lighted the lamps for the entrance of their bed; I have opened the doors of the bare room, and turned Night into early day. My gram, I have be-screwed the people I have been for years and years. I have ransacked the world in my vestibule, and wondered Where the mystery may have been. I have argued and re-fought Where a knowledge of signs may justify a thought; I have argued it, and written it; And a good rule is Not to start on things you wouldn't understand why you shouldn't jump. Now the dress is done, The ladies will be in them; They'll be in the book, and there found a new rule made, And the book will give back the signs to their beauty-bringer. <|endoftext|> There was a man whose name was Priapus, And he had two sons; Ere one could walk arm'd in darkness fell. The other could no louse but bright, But he was so fartil. One could see he had the light in his ======================================== SAMPLE 191 ======================================== While at the King's front, how high soe'er, The nimble Crashes go by, And laughingly at their show, Tough boys in muslin-kilt, With big-boned boots and red satin-strips, The "Nigerien" in crimson clad, They con their way along, The smiling dogs stand on the pavement, They con in doubt the animal to take, They want the bit between fluster and flask, And joyously their rings rebound, 'Tween Pyke and the Spitalfields branch of it, To the whir of black bells and the cluck of white ones, The spindle-roads they wind for dear life along, And up to Ludgate they scamper and skarf, The black-and-whites throw a glance back, At the Boar's-hall the "Coble" runs past, The "Scarborough" at Aldermanness, And The King's apothecaries he sees, Who think with one great smear on their sleeves To advise him to eat his fingers, When he picks at a black-hole in his Skin, and clucks there like a chicken, He scoots from that wrinkled man, he will get --And so, with such harmless people, Or so it was with its soft phrases That King deemed he could cheat Fate, He'd fool the damsel into no less, For he is old as Charley that, Such is his son, that softly gets, And claims the name of Jack Scott-- --All of them no four feet at all, The harsh long leg and cold hold, Which pegs his legs, has a name for that, Socks on his bare thighs, Tie them to the demon Satan, Until on reaching the land whither, What cares or duties he had on, From such virile efforts he abdicated, And, like a man bereaved of blood He soiled himself a-bed, Seemed to change his appearance, And went by name of Jack Swatshit, With a broken toe, Now, poor foolish Johnny, 'tis my opinion He'll have a turn, For a pair of balls with which to carpet Lord Chiggins. He's now in the utmost wrack, Because he's called to take his place Among the honored names there, Where such examples are preserved, As helped Stephen, who now takes all seats, To chuck them up instead of Pearsey, --With some tacit threat, for that disproportion 'Twould be to a man relative to Fling him out there, to make a place, He would as loth to make a shift, As break his legs throwing up a load Of hay, to be Reets' friend. For this ruin, which you e'er will see Is history, he made upon his friends, When to prolong his woes, and thus restore, Dulled with so many pangs before, And break his heart in many a gulf, He would not take occasion with the scullion, To put him off, upon no false presage, 'Twas thought, that spoils in letting friends go bulk, Is never tame but with a miracle, To make 'em scold at him with faintest prayer, And all their consternation put in words. Thus deep I look at the jewel he The deep-by-deep-of-stone great king had given, Who, on his freedom in this realm to live, Made his old mistress' heart all alway sad; And all the expenses of his care, To make his greatness this wide world hath, He paid first with his very poverty, Then with his heart, then came his blood and brain, Whichever could parts in parts be proud enough to make Weary at last with longing for her golden hair; --So kings take your turn, as doth the moon do leagues of balm. And this be all the relief I still have left! Alas 'twas with a proud soul and great heart roott In stony gold that was fetched pure and sweet Out of a terr earthling the rock doth come, Thinking it was all'st marrent ready made for state, But therein 'tis fart most glorious to say fie on; For who at the first taste of a testy sauce, The wittiest tricks will run is who can say 'I did'-- And there 'twixt a joke or a hare they must bide. This very thing is a prise to ======================================== SAMPLE 192 ======================================== and so the breezes don't shake, when we go for the play. No matter how the wind is blowing, the sea still waves are not moving, and the bottom, at the end of the earth, is not deep, and we, and our bodies still shivered in the wake of the boat, at the edge of the sea, in agony, at the end of our adventure, dozing on the sail, you know, in constant motion, so it seals our mouths around the oars, makes us feel about to sink, to burst, the whole journey down the wind and out of water. And it is then that the mists will part, and you will see the green depths beneath you, and that God will give you permission to rest. But if you will take this little boat of keys, of joys, of troubles, as a wife, it will be my sincerely, a husband never hurts, my bones alive in you, that I will love you all my life. <|endoftext|> "I Don't Know How I Mean To Write", by Patricia Lockwood [Love, Infatuation & Crushes, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Men & Women] i How to talk to me about love, genre reporting,, and my kind? ii I don't want to stop the world from going to its rightful owners. I'm done with eating, sleeping, and preen for emigration. Weary with ambitions I'll have wits for sailing Better than beds for you. I'll float the words, partnering with beasts for trail. You'll hover over any mountain vermin. I say aloud any thought. You don't mean it? You don't want it over. The last thing I wrote was a language for those who don't feel they belong. It was a letter to a colorist child. <|endoftext|> "The Aftershocks of the Indigo Carpet", by Patricia Lockwood [Living, Health & Illness, Life Choices, Relationships, Home Life, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity, Nature, Animals, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] I should have kept my mouth shut. I should have said nothing. The fugitive's dilemma: say a little, or nothing. The mumble ofstreamers through the thick air, the Oof freeway, thistle weed and violet for golden ribbons stars, through rain clover's sugary juice, the detour on redlined Vaughn, the grumble of foreplay, coy faces missed, lips and teeth champed, the goodbye huddle, slow drives back to the horse and saddle. I should have kept my mouth shut, until six words for each loss, and then spoken. The confession, a locket with twelve names, for each spent day of the last decade. For twelve days, my lips were gooseberry quiet enough to hold the next day of truth. The confession, a crane hovering, hoisted by steel, to swoop back down, a little dice roll of secrets hidden under feathers, the confession, say a little, and then a little, until the wince ofroost, the hiss of tail, the pinned gaze of contrition, the nuzzling purr, the sigh of "self against self, invasion." Say a little, my feathers. Say a little, my voice, mine. <|endoftext|> "Spill the Beans", by Pat Mora [Living, Life Choices, Activities, Eating & Drinking] On morning walks with my bag of fresh groceries, I point to one platetufted with black-eyed peas, another with red shrivelling almonds, a mandolaram, as if the world needed those that were lost: "I always feel like I'm empty," says Bill Mora, setting up a break forpollinating maples. "I always feel like I'm full ofgoodness." Goodness is a change we make. A seat warmed until it hurts to stand, a pillow from which my hand expands to hold the carry-on's luggage. Luggage packed in brown paper for the airplane, saliva on what's left of the tree, we're also a little lighter, though I've only got so much more weight to let go. I'm selling this bag of groceries and making a book called The Green Bag: Feed Your Feelings. I'm not sure I like the word. "Shit, and then some," says the mumble-shatter ofhmump and thwump and a grind through the lawn, through the house. And ======================================== SAMPLE 193 ======================================== Authorized deacons and good widows and les iracs, who served the Tabernacle with prayer, and to whom in their funerall paments were given a great commendation. But though he of these was aware, yet he did not thereon receive more light and knowledge of the mystery of the gospel in Apost. c. xxx. He balks the law due from them that on their own behalva bade to make a thorough investigation of all such Men of Boaa and Pistoia, and Thomas Moncur, a good discreetman, had by special and providence of the past King with special grace betided, to whom was given materie of mortdom, and who was in the league also, te resumption of his office which were sought by his great nigh deified Chiefly because he kept in that Order holy and prayreful widows and wives holy, in joy and broad smile which burnished his reputation as a printer. And though he had ever a brother in the sacred Quorum of Qu the Tabernacle. He balks responably with his Proconsul and also with his Emperor, Thomas a Knight seëst George Henry and Richard his brother, and between them casts a distant, enigmas. In this marvellous interpretation me you well, and solove thou with the Parliament of Boiche and the King, the Court of Tarbes and the Heat (1) ludus "a small cup of water." In the Aen. this chapter, Alderman Walt's "the two men went in close study through the furniture," seems to have two distinct positions; one, that they visit the sleeping Queen's bed and take spir- ing water; two, that they take water from the fire. In the Cantab. this chapter is placed betweens the two places, and the apostolic clause binds him to nay, let those be who have married whom they please through my grace, we pray thee, who art able, and know I myself am not content to have one woman ever, so great and obvious is that hold-back. more, yet, if we wish the matter to be doubtful, thou helped'st another woman.' On this he bade her abide as her master's wife and clear to him with abundant evidence 'so long as he lived, led by his own consent, and especially as he lived never to have seen his lawful wedded wife of three years more. Sometime after this he was made Captain of his city garrison, where he died an old and humble man. In the copy of the life called B. I find thus bound- 1534 version.' Be the earlier dating i.e., when chaplain to this text. di,—that is, of the cur he saith well done—haue monimus di spef, and parts him well seih. This man so profitable in the rimes, a great guide, & quires contin- 1. in the morne whan he caulhodes Chryste, ii. 5. sprecheth him, in his understanding, that which corresponds to 1. 5. Of divers opinions and wonders concerning the sky. [Greek]. [Greek]. [Greek]. [Chaos]. 1. dih deny him, that is, 'that which you hear well done, 2. what thou hear'st reported.' 3. monotony, that is, 'do not ever like.' 4. samel-anwend, never anew.' 5. dichiel, hard, 'despize.' This is 1. i and ii. though at both these rates.' The '2' here does not refer to 'those who have written on these themes,' but to 'our four living lines,' which no other writer on these themes has ever quitely finished. It should be added (but there is no need nor is it good in such a text) that the four lines read properly in reverse of their base, black-lettered side. Now this first draft of the tragedy had not much the emphatic flavour of the later Apocalypse. There was discussion and doubt as to whether the hero should be removed 'after the manner of the Consolamentum, or whether Waldereitz should introduce the Punic 'good words' as the title of his 'Nostra Aeterna' (suppliant refrain of Roman times to its authentic Latin, Refrain), the final themas of a long Melindian truce ======================================== SAMPLE 194 ======================================== "Why the time must pass "Before the moving home? "Is it worth the waiting?" "I would pay the bill, "I would pay the bill, "If it put the o' ball in the ball park." You'll not mind paying, But you feel that it's mighty rude When a sullen wife scolds you, And the man whom she scolds scorns to one penny penny down; And you'd rather stay at home and bake your wife a pie. And you'd rather stay at home and study, But your mother says She went and asked her in;"And she'll be a good wife to me by getting down." So you would rather stay at home and scold, Than up with the town, And get a wife and live at home, And be running around in the style of your countryman. And it would seem a better room Is the one you have in Bush, Rather than the one you have in Church; And your father's room, Rather than your home, is preferred; And you scold against going like a frog, And at your coming, You scold the devil. So you'd rather stay at home and scold, And leave your father's rooms to chaff, Than have a lofty place of honor And sit on a throne, Rather than share air with a fellow--God's image. He is a man indeed Who in the weight of time Can laugh as high as he will, Who can laugh out the storm That is over us and grieve As it does us; Who has time enough For what we call troubles, And what is enough To laugh him through the scoff Of the rogues-in-refoundill. And we must have time enough To sleep and to work, To store up water for rain, To fill up store of food, To get some beauty for wife, And not get carried away; And when we are done, To go down fighting With our pride to lose or win; And when we fight, We must not lose, but lose as we fought. By an omen's name I dote upon He is the one I've seen I knew from off the street Week in and week out Who was chosen to represent He was chosen by lot, I knew of his desire To be a speaker, and do he dare To promise a place; He is so solitary, You cannot understand What he wants me to say, I have heard him say the cold butts are but holding back The fire of life, and they will tipple out To get out the oil; He is not deceived in this, He will give the heads of the movement plenty of time To settle their own question, and drop dead. He will not stand on some question they bring him up, And bulldoze it out for personal views, As long as he believes in it, And says he believes in it and it shall be done; And when they bring him up, he sings and shakes the sky, And ever that answer was a plucky one-- And he would trust the leader he saw on the street To three stock characters only, his eyes, His hair and his trowsis. When they say, "You'll have your own." He'll answer, "I have a wife and home to make up." When they ring up the issue, "You'll have your own," He'll say, "I'll have the world to think for me, And I make the world say pluck." He's a leader he's a legislator, He'll make a leader of men. In his grave over his grave He hung up eyes of red, He laughed when they licked his knees, He laughed when they slapped his eyes; But he didn't laugh with them, He lay there and shook his head And scraped up at his lips a jest And scratched a tattle, and licked his lips, He would have been a tall thin man And weak too, and we knew it; We were not soft of heart, we knew it; But with a man so strong you fall to The light of his eyes, and see Your self so large he can make it large; So one can be a fool and true and strong, And dash him back in the dust. So there over the dead man's knees Shone bright with no light, A burnt-off fragment of the sun From out the side of the world; And when it flashed his face was ======================================== SAMPLE 195 ======================================== It is a matter of life and death, It is a matter of life and death! What I would say is, go into battle, Let your hand trembble as mine did, That you and yours may get a trial made Of the steel on which my bones are fixéd! Aye! sir, 'tis the same court, it ever is, It is a problem of life and death! "If our luck was not to save us, "For that no less would you find "My honour'd face was in your pay, "For which your life I make you sure "Betimes at cost of twenty to the Penned. "Now, for an opinion which "You to me can expose, "And will expose your best blood, "In the infernal fire I am burn'd, "My gall's unblenched, and I will far "Icilius, he that sees and heeds "When mighty things are trifling meant, Shall have the smaller glory, The smaller sum to remedy. Away with such predicta! For I can fortune considerably fond, And that afflicts all me for the bed! There, dearest, we are done. Good-day, my dear, And fare you well, And mind, you know, my last is sense And fare you dear indeed. To state what any few miscreants swear When they have not their tongue for straw, For, and I the fact go on; For, as I cannot go beyond it, 'Tis a truth to be shy of it. And for to make it understood, 'Tis not a few that shed their blood And died for truth to a man: Aye, though we fleet on in time, All great through to us are set: But there's a way that goes reverse To what they rate of mighty things, And fares we must go through of it. Now, since this life for men is the road Whereon, God for honor invites, If he will let them go by the hand, Now, to order the beginning Of this three-celled substance, what Must be let beynnt in the blood, Which three days will ne'er get yet In the body any noodle: Now what may need will nicely be, Taken at thy good will, And if men ask I'll disort long to'che The bread that is cheape mein; Wheat noodles or Man's-bread give o' Cheaper, Cheaper, che or None at all. For all the word will I dare say When by to your cell drawn As the hand to the battail-cell, There to be cell'd a week or more, There e'en as your organs are there: Now the very word elect with him With himself to cell is; so one Awaite your mosques that are let Must all be disposed of in one. Is the word consipp'ny, I then fynal Amply will you abate In the mouth and draughts of men, Whent I a man have kill'd or he Will none that are let out on bail. For you must run all off the risk E'en to the giving of it; To cell or be locked in wrecks, Ye widche achievement have with him E'en as ye have the he. Whate'er the word may be that wrong the roof The cup-woman is the wroongester Wha'l watch at snizz, so to speak, She dummered at the spune, And took it off the drinkers, that wad clench The tables an' squeez't a gel. For we cellars'm not better than our ply, Nor but we have our dray, are we better Than people that wad keep station To wade in beads be showered with pence. Now, as this is a pub craw that we Must gaan about so fast to-day, I shall two or t' three stand more conveniently, That needful stuff, to give my readers. I, as to leavy money, now an' pleace, Gie pen to pen, an' pleace the publication, As by this hand was the publication; And as for others, we're all in e'en In this bedevamuzique when we row. But, wi' a glad conscience still true to sin, I darken morns wi' malice or pleasure As then it a' ======================================== SAMPLE 196 ======================================== himself was as happy as the songs Of meadow or grass; and I might have left That place of too much plenty for that air That filled our house with its unpleasing hymn. But what's the good of me saying all that If your ears don't like it? All that I Can do, my dears, is to stop my ears From such music; and to ask you to pass The hand that I myself have whetted yet With its harmonious harmony. If, then, You'd but let my tongue its pleasure speak, And that be all I knew of love, I'd say That what we call "music" is but the voice Of that and only that which I have lost. What does it mean, "The old Tagrium's end." That I should worry you to hear me say That I should go for you? If you leave, You'll have no one to thank for all that I may find. "Belle Comebacchia" has been going too long, So I took off the roundabout way that I was going, And I knocked at the great baguette's door As Ijlole was not at home. And the day that you Returned from her house you took from her place Of assembly, which you still call a house, After my sudden departure, with loaves Of wine on tap, the very last one that was made, You had a dish of freshest flowers on your table, And your loaves in full sight by the radiator. That day you were not my guest. How can I Say that the mind never suffers interruption When it needs it? It was yours. It was a time To be graceful, and to give your best cheer. I thought that I was receiving a present; It was a skeil that your bill kept getting o'er From some old friend who had seen your face in it But who with shoddy techniques and misty air Made it to look more lovely than you got in others, More pure of spirit. And then I looked at it, And shabby waists and heads of oak that were leaned Above earthen troughs; and I thought, "Ah, if he But realize that he was born to be ridden Rid oft by such people as that, and brought Before my face, as things are affordingly, And show me my own reflection in that store." And then some one came up and said, "Your carriage Has been time-bounded, carriage worth more than carriage. "It was in the the truly great there was not A recumbent woe to be advanced upon. The figure that from beyond the lift Beyond the hill that faces the west is seen Ever climbing, that, fatally stiff, Canceled its motion, must suffer more than death. "You have missed the eastward yet, dear dear lord, And have not seen me in full view, and felt Your part, that not till now was taken. To wait for it might be called faithful, but no more Long that eastern queue that was drawn, though broken. Of corners had I spoke with you ere now Far in the desert where I await you two. "Yours, how ever blest, Lord. The sun is gone. A long day of desolation is his Sunrise in the sky. I know that to a sun This day is an affair of dark clouds that burst In little bales, and those that fly, as things that do. Had Francis Stewart been here, here would sun appear As dark as matter, gas, electricity, heavy, "You must," he said, "Sir, for my hors d'arruth." --In truth, the hour it was not more for you. I used to call my little lady Shovel, And have for her my hakamak, psalm, anthem and see But the loosest minute of her shapoar! If she were left in peace, or, lo, if it require The work of knapsacks, damn the present, take your hat And walk the streets as of old, something good Will hapt until you come, I have no fear. But what would be this damnable hurdlemant? And certes what will it result where I am? I am the Bread of Last things, Fret Sporus, Bread of Spirit-- Vigre Fugue, you're my thing--and every man of them Whose name is not "I" comes naked to the band That ======================================== SAMPLE 197 ======================================== Two great stars that enchance the South, Vouchsafe this grace to Jesu' and me: Thy setled wit, thy penitensel might, And that braverie that came ne'er from thee. By thee taught a new leader Grape found the way, When from the reins Jupiter and Mars apart, He, in his sledge, the two large world-sustained beasts With his royal centres moved from bickering ways. Oft have I seen thee with marvellous off'rings Thee at Halloween's refreshtide join, And at spring-tide vegetables prove. The Chesnut and the Banana's odorous leaves Thou hast defaced, and i' the wine-yard bad away The good old Bottle's labels and flags and other hoge; But with a new method thou art well intent, And thou canst claim yet close remembrance still: Thou 'pret thy claim to leave forgotten lovelit, And hope, although this should be equalit two, A lovelit is not put i' th' petty disaecum. To thee I make this prayer yet more distinct, That thy crudities may have for day a year, And year to come have still an endless train of them: As all wise Men so let my Dear Friend know not fraud, That where he spinneth heavenly vines, th' evil influence yet May take root and shoot like seeds of fire from oil of God. And when the world shall in her cessfull overstroy Be cut in twain with Hebes ice, the broken part Shall be a matter for sleepe and all, And ere the spring-root appear the year, Be all but prodigally blessed and granted day, For one portion to be lent to us for ever. But now thou goest far aft'ring my way, Talismante cometh ever to the end; And having reined inre all these twofold nubbins Upon thy way, the three J's [as] I perceive, The fifth [kj] stands up for artist J. But here I need not write, how oft above, Where I might have done, or how I am should down, The letter'd spirit of my fly Imprimis; And here I need not sing, though all foryl, why, All that I may not have procur'd [k's be God wull, In sense] the hold of finite for sick ethereal size; For all that I may do or say be limited, I come on purpose to endoliaing this clime. Yea here I could justly sing and make a rout Of thought, for now this is our sphere and name; Whether [your transcendentally small gods] ary Make ectomy-my or know anything of me, My erties all grow here, and here I do elate The glory of their fear; I know them aety; I know my Thonis, [whose] centers here I should have none; I know my Mifice, [whose] derangements here I do mock; My Jupiter grows here sick, grows loathsome new, Grows briny hot; [his] radios I prove not hot, Cursed supersensible I farther face my dreary shun; My Jovian tones here sound a colonial tramp, A hungry reproachful hungry alienate strum; My Cremona now I prove not what I am, [whose] center is my den; my deary Joy I know not her, my Joy here finds her not her day. And there's my lucid [whom] I know not her, My Lavarack, my starlight lavender loofed and horned; Approaching and green, near gallant, fair, but not a petal found. Green [where] the old love may well be sworn, near known, amorous. I know not what of my Ruben, his days go here. I know his trace, I know his depth, but for what i' the hole, And his portion, I know not what, the infinite variance. To make our days bare, to take our woman's name, To looke upon life's face and see its ravishment, To feel the flamy sun that scengths us from the real, To drink potions of discontent, copious of sad mood: And [then] to have strong desire for [his] weak vows, For the weak mouth of sick-one mother, full of snake, The empty-press of body-mother's dipt ======================================== SAMPLE 198 ======================================== Me, an all-glorious angel, when he was For aye clothed in glory, and for a night In the majestic prison of a prisoner Sat writhing, with rivelled hands and feet Bruised, yet fighting like a demon; and the Spirit that had gone forth from me Stole in again, and thrust me back to my Hell, and endured me lour with wrath Burning like a god in his fierce embrace. And then I knew that the Elder Gods Were breath and breath less than the vain flickering Plantari of this poor slip of a soul. And for that cause, and only for that, I raged and I raged. 'Gainst his will he reared The brazen page of judgment, and the power Made plain of that mighty voice, and me Rode whirling round out of a withering Twinned of all good things: but I lost The glass in which it made me sole light The cage of which I cut the bird, And in my rage I spake: "Arise, O God, Ye whose fate it is but now to go down Pure to the bosom of unknown spheres, And, like dear friends, be met with greeting; O, introduce them the Old Encant, Elder and more than elder brother; And bid him sit down and rest and kiss The brethren of his imprisonment That it may soothe me: thus much I offer." Then I, whose glory was affronted, cried: "Itortion to thy words was but too Many, till it conspired to frenzy, That all this was the fatal temptering Of the spirit that came and went unblest And to embrace his worship. But see that there for no man read, Or it may well your torment amount, The great censurer of this tombstone, His eye of judgment and his ear of thine: For he of loving was veryuilt and certain, And he of hearing liked best with thurst and temperate breath To hearing no more than thurst and hearing none. And of the other's page the set aspect had The Father's face, so held in love whilere That of the child embued the parents, and the fille Lured to the parent page was given that milk That covered in milky wise his faults. Beside all, this page was hid with reverent awe That of the child a child might be; and forthwith From the right hand the pale page of the Father Held the strange page forth to leave again The divine unstained soul of the child. Nor all was closed who there held any place, But that more which the presence of himself An animation, had around fram'd in black nature; And on the right hand of him clearly counter There was another page, still like, but dark, And full of fair and delicate wounds Whereon all sorts of bloods, but lastly the dew On paralytic plates of glass goosed The visible organ of the lips. And he in whom that page was past Was fram'd some by whiling spirit wrung From care, and it were grievous to rehearse All the gin that in his prison lay, Or of th'heaval where he dwell'd. Beside the child he had a son That matchless one never met was oth' race Might have prov'd the champion of his kind Were he an son of his proved he had been like As is the youngest of that martial race That he bequeath'd, had'st he triumph'd high, And that higher vehemence which prov'd his heart When he mark'd, his madnesse was seen By this his hatred devis'd to run As swoln beate as the head of wild snow Hollow'd in, so th'electra of his yound; His fury was such that he proud could nam And axel his wheeling spider webs in rage; But he of woman hir'd full thy scale depart, And of her umal friend all feir at nought In his madren frame, and be of man The voyager was gett him so strah, That the mereches came aurning snow Sighted her with dread, and mountains high Garen their unpaumaned, in spight Of battle-axe and their stedfast Hert, In meek mean thorntse and millstone tow'rd Hell. At last his anger downe blew anow, That to the vext full gulf he pullil Of death his weary gambols used, And found his lost ======================================== SAMPLE 199 ======================================== Cursed the shades of sleep, Of fresh cold death, from fire and sword That never ages will renew. To him the joyous cries that came Telling of the banquet blithe; The braggarts, quenched in thirst Of the blood of kings, who cried Fruitful, fruitless glories are The pleasures of the earth. Vain voice, unworthy you, Brave, heroic soul, So many dare not bolder Or kindred blood inflame. So many in the poet's song Of Boadick Towne's times Blossom not so meanly as The fairest descendants of men. With a glass of Schnapps deep as life To the hilt then let your thinking give Towards your birth-right's homeland; With a song as high as your wreath A Trident triumph for King John. Let not love, nor hatchet-men met Fame the glory of your day; Let not the curs and others reel With the spectres' fright With the jests of darkness under; Till with hymns and tuneful psalms, Vocal and clear, As a triumphal march, With trumpets of praise and benedictions, Blowing the bridle-strap, With broad swords overpowering, Well the battle turns! Since our dearmen oh Were drive forth the Weepers, With blood of saints And prayers of children...oh, let us weep and wear Scrinopleian pains! Bishop stay and Cardinal have held the reins: The Cardinal was a stallion global, the Bishop aussy... His lesson to the nation came: "He's gone, you understand; Heil Hitler, I've passed." Ach, there's the heaviest snub on our hands. We go to Easter the eeults, And there's a blotch in his Sunday's anticlockyer-door, In his wee skill To spurt two teen-heart spies on us With murder-volley "Wasn't it bad, Wasn't it bad?" Yes, there was the quivering-jointed ranger, Expecting the surprise of a balloon burst, When a .38 caliber coming to the rescue, Round him goofs like an artillery-ballast-man, In the balloonagic circumstance. And when they took him up, oh, poppa Heaven! They sent him to dead water straight. There's the "little white eyes" that wait like kids on the steps, Like ravens where the wolves are glum, Safe-lined up like leeks to make sure they're warm and fresh, Like a small Alsatian bull. There's the registrar that's glad-eyed and happy-clicking Like the elocution player, Giving his harangues manohfast speeches And crusading for our cause. There's the head of what Alsus there be-- The chief of all avarices Averting his private piles and grafts With non-controversial deeds of charity And gracious prerogatives. There they stand, like a who's who of free-born Briton, With elephant trunk arms and manhood decked on 'em, Like a good war beat in old bull books, And conscience in their pawing heart, And tanned by winter out of Oriental stoves, That's noalis'n us, nor they'r any boshness In theyr bearing--like us, like us, like us, When somberness fell on Caesar's heights, Called Beoast Bine: 'Tis who wi' the high millennium pot, We, parricids, are such a hunt on new field; To watch the wise-ones lag behind, And their hound--we who watch them jump in, And jump hop, hop, hop--away in air, And they have the whip. He was nigh the Garden of Scattering Apple-tarts, When, scattered daisy, herb, flower, and weed, And grasses, through the court's contracted space, Tendium on tips of tips, Spot on Spot--in little leavings, The daisies and the family run Of grasses and blooming heath and garden ground, All knew him by his old family name. "What's he? what's he doing in the way of motion? With the Cut he's out of date,-- With the Crop he's in the rump-- With the Crize he's all in a ======================================== SAMPLE 200 ======================================== Dear friend, How long I shall lay here, watching for your ship, With unavailing hunger for the morrow's maw! When you come back, How will you find me? Will you find me Lone in the dark, With nothing to light The candles and the strong light the candles make, With no memory of you in mocha leather, Or of redwood and the kilnshabesoda, In the kilnshomes of the hills? You will not find me Lone in the night. I am gone--and I hope In flight to one of the Kilman accords; I shall never forget the way to that house, And the long way down to the inn from there. <|endoftext|> The weather is cold and the wind is grey And the day is done Like a playing A short game That does not want the breaks Or the club that can't win. Who is that who comes to us From the land that has been won? O he is only a playing With a Stick in his hand. Who is that who does not need The Umbro that is warmed By the rough sea? Who is that whose flesh and heart Feel the cored salmon sing? O he is only a player With a knife in his hand. Who is that who goes unstuck And away with the luggage Of self and its hopes? O he is only a traveller With a nation's griefs. Who is that who goes ahead With his head in the kilt Or a dead scalp? O he is only a wankerend With no broken bones. Now he is gone From the building And the work to do. But in his voice and his pace And his tread and his singing And his walking on the sidewalk He may not come again. <|endoftext|> "All the Hawklins eat", by Jan Blau [Nature, Animals] Not the hawk, nor the shadow In the left hand and the stick In the right—and the lime And the lime and the ironwood Of the spruce and the juniper And the birches that break In the air and the mahogany of The oak—and the fire that Leaves its imprint on the sand— Ere you begin Of the hawklins eat. <|endoftext|> "The House with No View", by Jan Blau [Living, Philosophy] A valley fits the no-view owner's wish. A fortress dominates the view. The owner's prayer was bowed in prayer here, by his loins hidden, in the leafy ribs of this tree. Porches look down upon the ransacking of Warriwarr (the birds beside the edge of the view) and bowseller (so late the buyer keeps lookout and steps aside for the seller) But today the hawklins have a tongue the hawklins eat. <|endoftext|> "Fairy-Land Memories", by Jan Blau [Love, Realistic & Complicated, Mythology & Folklore, Ghosts & the Supernatural] INTRODUCTION: This is the story of a piece of land that had other names and other surfaces: it was calm and just as statue- firm as the following day; a hill but with an ever-expanding vacant middle area where other bases of the same name flourish by day. This rout with ownership and use was given to me by my Lawyer—a PROPERTY CLAUSE personifying ownership and title. ON CAUTION: note the risks of introducing foreign topics into This is a story of the past. The present story is also a story of risks. Ten warnings must be made. Inter- ference will cause punishment. This is a tale of LANDING THREES: of the potential of the landing site to change the story to strife. The tale still has conflict IF IT struggles to be believed by the proper persons. The entities presenting themselves as the proper persons should INTER-IPHERERS: Please be tolerant of entities presenting themselves as the proper persons. Inter- change is made easy by the internet. However, there may be a time when there may be no inter- ference. At that time, the land with no view of the common sky will have no possible title to be called If the tale has ======================================== SAMPLE 201 ======================================== , Satisfied read it over once to the last line, and drifted off in a puff of smoke. She let him stir into the hot apple cider. No matter that he seemed wretched to all of us. He was to stay, and not be from our house. And never to return? What will we do when we can't hear his talking or see his face? A woman sings in a room filled with nothing but air, the muttering of a voice, and laughter from a long ago. He is safe now and at peace, and we can never see his face, and never again on any broadcast will he spill the secrets of the house we presumed he lived. But a name was named after him after his death, and repeated often enough to the local news. They said his name should be anX before a and after a after a and a after a nostalgia • His wife and daughter came and went and never came back • They came and went but pictures of them live streaming in air they live inside our house of the gleaming glass cover the table and the carviera tableau • At last there is a limit to ease trips and folds in corners and in folds of limbs There is no more shock in his a-curence • at 2:35 there is a magic miracle it is a living child there is no room in the world no more shadow heavens for him but there was room enough for all we could ever live there is now there is no room • There was a moment he got his picture his only place • The memory of him is circuitous and takes him his wife my neighbor to the living living child there is no place no time there is no limit but THOU VIRTUE is a thing you do it will improve your completion but it won't replace your fatigues and losses it won't ever go like this moment it won't stop this moment there is no limits in that living child no child there is no limit in that moment there is no body that needs to get better soon no body no child there is no actor body there is no fatigue no body that guy was so interested it motivated no before no friend there is no fatigue body that has us to this place we need to get better we have to stop the breathing is breathing like a job that is getting better so we stop the body has a táh tágvæski allad his words a source for You do not stop stop and listen list the full amount of the music is stop the emos the tone you want to get better avoid the fatigues the tone and up you can use your list stop ======================================== SAMPLE 202 ======================================== By this sword in the thick of the fight In the great asasal, with one stroke From the safety of my foe, and slain, That as a bull that great Saladin slain. And though I now am nought, my thought Is still of great things, to be performed When the times have caught up the spirit of Rome. So, brother, in faith, my words may have borne Some weight with thee, I pray thee pardon therefore, And know that I have not lost it, as thou seest, But gain as chalk, to do a graver deed, Thy sheet having weight, as days as a wagon wheel. But now my eyes are dry, my tongue is dumb For crying endless and my mouth in tune Is thinking of great matters, of counsels That taster in my nose, and that through both mouthes The sweet savour hurries, and the lips are clogged That beat out tears. So this gray cloud, This walking soul, hath passed them and hath none other In sight of Hither White Knight, nor in the land Save him, she holpen still behind her steed. So, being alone, I have fancied her house But one, and called it fair for see of whom it is. My brains grown dull, old and dim, from vexing thoughts Of love, that have eaten out the marrow-bone Of pleasure, have turned Cuisinernos, And haunted me day and night; my weary eyes Are fixt upon the dim wilds, and dreaming Wild familiar dreams, that at each nod or wink A stir sets memory within them; they teach, They promise, their form and feature and all right Establishing, as the hills do right the soul. The soul, all love and pains, that's born in storms, Cools to the bank, and there stands patiently all The destruction of the world through her, and waits Serenely assured that here be sure Her confidences, and this her balance true, Passion its eternal worm, and evil her worm. There be no secrets buried with our gold, But where the buried ore hath set dark scratches Which mare cursd bore-and, presto, in the vents Of our good gold, forth ye've out a flaying Of confidences, and treacheries and lies, Greed, deceit, and betrayals, which, at times, Hath brought man where he must kneel down in sack Thinking his vows to do is authority. But, for all fear and treasons, heaven's from us Neither loving God, nor their beastly lust Nor slumber shall be none, but thundering clap Shout, and bolts of lightning in the apex. For all our saying Heaven regards our say, Trichinosis, and rueing thing that we are, Our hearts the common heap of all things, There are our bloods and forms and volumes innumerable And manners,, props and forms of all our pride. What wisdom, what shame to hide these or these less, Such are our deeds and speaking, what we make time to. Aye, as we lay these bodies out to weed, And cast our sorrow in the faces of cows, And attend to lambroaches and to worm-balls, And think the greatest things are those we ate, And drink our dogs' drinking-bibles up, And munch our mutton-dish to pleasant pounds, We say, "Live like you should, since that you can; There is no ing in sen was in his eye. He hath the key, he will unlock his heart. He will give us no exposed Comt Te; We must find it out ourselves, and go To talks of Chivai with our keys a-hoof. He must not read in Chivai's large eyes But pestilence or gunshot upon them. Learn, too, that never, never, nor half-ass, Full a year for this dureswork is. In one great Host that is our life, God spake, and nerved us long ago. We trust our prayer to bring us grace, And it may in that great Host be weighed. The rest is in the great Happener; God joy in us by many things, Makes us earnest, and we're sincere. So let us say his grace like children, Singing and dancing and praising. Our baths are fire-breathed, our food is rich, Our sports are much; there's nothing that we But ing in the grand Host is made good. In this one ======================================== SAMPLE 203 ======================================== are sweet--like one of our girls, With her blonde hair and her tender eyes. I've got an old totono, of hisbumnious mold, And when I'm not much after her, I hear A black-bag man impaled on the big ointments, Which is why--God save us!--I was wondering How you can be certain that there's no need For an old Chinese to wed a young Chinese girl. I was harping on a licorice, which was all: But now I'm sure that your face is not like a painting; You're much too divine, and that makes me afraid. There's a resemblance, and, don't you know, 'Twere better to cross jack with lamb, Than grow hungry, and otherwise be studying The little books on that is found in drug stores. "How does the Spring treat you glad to see "With her hands and her breasts and her feet? "The long white socks she has putonto my hands, "The deep red flats on my bottom suggest "The colour of lamb lately sacrificed; "And I behold, and I think I see "The blushing of her bottom all palled, "And the nether of her sex is rose. I think--I think that I know The reason why young girls think not to be Seen: Because, when they are loath, Not to be paired, and run to fill the gap, It is hard to contain and lead them, And it is, oh! so very hard! I don't think it is very well to Be Seen. She is peeping at me, and thinking, he is wise! I do not know--I must not say; For surely no one knows as much as she does: And how much of her and of that other one I know, but dare not tell, and how much do I not know About the two together--that is, the one, the other. The night is cool, but the morning burns the same; We see each other's homes, and all the fields and groves and homes of friends, But--what is dearest dear to me, what is best, I know not, nor why it Grace, Unless it be that, seeing her eyes, whatever it be, Whatever her or his country or my own, and my pain or her pain be in her the same, It, being so conjoint, triggers even more my grace in her than it would be; So that there is feeling bruised by archery, and yet victory is mine. At her constant, quiet sitting by my desk and dead and motionless bed, With her lips on the doom of my pillow, I enviously see A picture of something flies that lives; I like the one Not as one has taken the defilement of what's commonly taken, But as one has got the greatest number of what's denied: A bird, I think, that's proved its love for a great ornithologist, That sitting there as if it had bitten off more than half the tail Of the immense branch that it should live in for which it's batter'd all its life. All that I care for Is she--that's the one-- And more, and best, And I'll die if I think of the ways in which I'm loved by her who does not love me. How can she be so wrong When I, so right, How can she be so near? How can she be as she is frank and free with me, When I have such eyes? She who's been what I have not Yet been as much as I, unloosed for the world, Unheard of as a dead man in the places where they do me "not," Has been as I--that is, more than JUDY, and as secure as she is And shall be when the ages bring forth their sum of their eros. There was one child that I love as a son And I can say, with light from the heart as from a lamp And with souls as lamps that tell the passion of my thought, There was one mother who was mother to me In all joy and pain and that is enough for one mother to three; But there was one child that I love as a son And I can say with light from her in the dark a woman And with souls as beams that tell the passion of my thought. Love of my brother--there's the line to cross-- Love of the fair without end-- There is the line--there is the irked eyes-- And the end that must intuit With a hidden profit ======================================== SAMPLE 204 ======================================== little Dolly leans a-steaming, Smelling of boot and bubblegum. But that is not the worst. Now to add a new and fearful Disaster, Her elder sister, Runcorn, only met the same fate Of Peeping Tom, by the dark, by the light, By the terrible! It is most dreadful and depressing, Increasing grim, and growing ghastly, And there is no reprieve. The fire-black donkey Stares as she walks along the street, And her eyes have a chilling, and the Blacker the inn more ghastly they become. It is frightful and they continue Growing in gravity till they pass along To the houses they obliterate and burn, And the people are scattered, and not a soul (I don't know who's living and who's dead) Has the appearance of happiness. Where's the mistress? where's the husband? (They're buried in the garden of Our Lady) Where's the boy, that at their home used as A gay toy by a Stepford? (They're in a garden by the Turners) Come, all you lucky ones, And, as you will be bored, Come and take all the offices on you. A Joviala is a job which gives plenty of work, And the Jovial is lucky in having a rich and bigger room. —From a wooden closet in the parlor, At Your Building, Plaister*; 1873.) A golden-frosted day. Goats, in long black silk, On hay-racks, in wagons, Are trotting around, are roaming all over Who cares—as the dogs laugh, when they see a British Corporal walking with his glassy wife. (The wife is actually shot.) There is the best domestic angel on earth Who tells her all about it, talks with her for an hour, And gives her DDs* for dolhertys cards— And all about the war, How aye, while the bullets are flying around, New York, London, Paris, we're hearing about the War. While I'm told that my insurance, should it be This way turned around & sold, will get me another $10,000, I'm offered a choice of dividends, put to my own earnings. —From a newspaper, a subscription-writing quill. London, June 1916. "Lowna and Search"; the day the street was made for snipers Who aimed their weapons at the men who wanted quid pro- cut of their other humanings. There were times the dark would rise above the dock, Level the hats off the firing-squads. It was said the evil Valkyries into their old martial tune Would show the London Constable about-side, As the Tommy had a date to go to the Race And the Tommy was going to do it alone— But War is a sister and sister of frenzied violence, With gunners, hats off fired, and the ever-linger red, —As night fell, the Tommy was at his post, One bullet from a Victoria. And the Tommy, his balls deep in his trousers, Was in the head of his green boy who'd left the water, Who was lying in the "par" (that's French for "pan"), Tight-legged and round-jailed, with his "drug-bitz", Sitting on the boat, with the dark bay untight Up to its long-rifle, and the sluiced wire Circling the Tommy, who had his drug of bear, Narbish or Chaoc Pa. —Thus l'Espagne's "boot" shot the Tommy, a injury That made him wild-eyed and manic-manic, And wild-eyed and manic-manic, the worse for wear. —But it's our little war, you see, The glorious little war we're fighting, The comic little war we're dancing, With shirtwaists buckled, with pencil-mauled, And each side that's doing the chaise long-iron, Deliberate, dividing the women's bodices. Noon from each different-colored misery Comes, with the land at tide thrown broad and damp; The City burning, the City bilious, Banishing last-legged women's beans, Replenishing with muddy cattle; —And Banqueting, the last Quarter to be torn Jolly hards; —And all the time the bumble-ranch Blew as round us two ======================================== SAMPLE 205 ======================================== Alcides, from his steed, leaps from the race, And, gliding, as he flies, through the race, Leads, to her, who takes him, the virgin goads The steed, the bird, with the agile feet: "Go, then, rich Albine, a hundred mares' prize; Go, and from your waxing corps, twelve stallions take; And hire, yourself, a chariot born of gold, Go, and the same home convey, whom you love best, Go, and the same peace keep, whom you believe most." But Phlegias' younger churl Anon spoke, A bet of whom he meant to be a votary, As nought with him did he dote, Who on his friend's grief-piece should take bay: "A woe to all our town (he said), Were such an old minx in his closet bred, Who could write, and could not love, like all those." A moth, of the worst and basest sort, On nothing declined to take a broil; If any such there were, as you or I, Of the loveliest daughter in the town, Or fairest niece, in whom the father lay In loving pride, but with his tongue defiled, Of all holes the town among, of dirty funds spent, To him, in woodland churls an ass, He, at his master's demure, would be A beast, the pleasure of a living creature, An horrid pleasure, to his master's child. A thievish quality in nature, Most common in boys, with ease we say, Drew after the men their childish eyes, Even when in distress, and anguish, faring, Allured they follow, and find a lair; Such names as these, in their unforming growth, One and all, from nature draw their flight; And, with an ugly congeption, born Of inadequate things, they crowd the house. For shame, O Covfonds, in your furnace' fire, We do esteem you so much the better; The pleasant few, to hold when happy days are by't, Let them alone; no long appearing before To minister to Fortune's lottery, Let the bed do love, or--whatever they, to-day, May wish to have granted to them to-morrow. If to the mistaken, fortunate, and of great birth, You with the younger men of the town, for shame, again! Do nothing for yourself, for your livelihood too, Do for the women! 'Tis a pity so Much men do not value at the first as they. A man of fortune and of beauty too, Though but a gentleman, a country knight as he, Was in our circuit one day, and to see waken An impulse that had long been dormant, Which made him and part of him utterly; And to be judge in the court of their species, Was in his country's publick, a martyr in his eyes. All in a moment's while, immortals of old, Rose he and others, and others, up like sparrows, To this charmed cherubick deity, in their place, To re-animate and consecrate his shaft; And altho' this was but a humbler prize, Yet it was holy in a woman to embrace The whole of the glories of the age. And he justly made his bow, being youthful, At the prospect of such height and bulk; And from the judge, whom he held in disdain, He was forced to lift up his unarmed elbow. And o'er his eyes the sprinklings of the rain Ate of veilment went, like in fullrumors a brawl; When the remainder of the day drew in, And he saw still a thousand jovial things proceed. The furniture, the pictures, the antique cups, The cane outside, the wine-cups outside more grisly, All, as before, were turned out for remembrance; And in the cellar's depth a pack of cards was seen, And the man had a great interest in each, And read the return of ev'ry one and more. The whole count of the things brought in for sale, In a treble ten of galleon pes den. (To pound modishfee with the mean Opirata) In modish equities, and sums self-squalid, In vacillations of galleons and of pieds, The swarthy musos, the persians, ======================================== SAMPLE 206 ======================================== Worm cast by nymphs on the Delphian limbs, Their paltry mole with Venus' gift enchased, Now deathless there, made by her divine hand, Than Phrygian Merope's wooing: 'Twas done by her on Pelops' bed of gore; With his whole bow arm'd, he hewed the legs from off; And for the breast pierce'd, and pluck'd out her whole vest: Then wash'd, and whith'd, the whole shew'd; which being done, With airs of honour'd rectitude prepar'd for each, A handsome man, a Phrygian, and no Latian, Was first imparted. Next Syrinx, Ceyx, tone, Cyounutus, and Cytomakses were engendered From the first Machaon line to the last. These glorious leaders the finishing touch of grace Whil'st the Athenians, and the Spartan line; And spread the glory of themselves far-flung; Who emblazed their buildings, and their deeds performed Through the forth-imum of Time's chasemed span. There what the looks of men, see Passions 'mong families, Partridges, hawks, and dogs, 'tis really seen; How they mow, and clubs and axes befit; Dogs like mothers, 'bets they betake them 'em, And their rabble held up and speak to ask: "Where can all these folks do now there's no men to hold them up?" Theres and whys unite, and part of the wages 'Bove the CELESTONS the lewd-rampantATING troops Of wives and maids, as for no debt their shawl allows, The play-house or the swing-bottle they may enter; A bloody edition of vile jouchards, that keep They scourge themselves still; yet still the more they commit They more transgress; till, both in persons too-- As in their manners--wreaking, they at length decline From law to levelling fines, the poor harmless-blissful- It is needless, in the meaner sense of the word, That we should thank our blindness for so much small gear. The Thanksgiver unthank'd is sure to be forgittlein', And with the shoe upon his head we'll go down to the dead,-- Or, the lowway to another planet is here,-- The old planet, such a figure of fun, may we follow, And those who by, or under it, felt the quickity Of pain, or its effect, or both together; For Truth at last must prevail to make that light speed away, Frown at last must confront the looking-glass, and come there with a cheer. If it be that you've been beguy, our caps may With hat-pad be permanently repaired below; Or, if 't was our fate to come from tropaly; 'T was that blear-eyed station of the tortuous realms Where, bickering with the day, there standeth, hot In fruitless rivalry, green cannibal hurry, (The sooty giantess of low humor, The sullen-enominged rival of the laughing night) Then it is that we receive the stumbling-stiffs Of the deep evening, (and take 'em away with us) That can NO dirty aftertomage calculate To enhance our blissful little morning's bliss, But, hard as they're thrown, we at least they pity,-- Nay, twist them up, and put on leathern, Lard-like, and give 'em a dainty quid or two. To happy differentty then comely triumphing, And the Like-nothing-Robed-Waldos-beating coo is in the air. Away to the marshes far, where the sad earth is groaning, And the wild woods (that have been quiet, forgetful, dreaming, While the world has lain groggy-dead or dazzled under the sun,) Vie with one another in the vain hope to give oath In good husbandry as to cast their offspring on the altar. But, come, let us hark to the joy-call ringing yet again. The night air is quick with the minstrelsy of the wold; And the happy Sorrows are gathering their lilied store; 'T is the calm morning of the awakening; And the mirth-singers have come through the elderly to us. They leave us at evening ======================================== SAMPLE 207 ======================================== Firmed with her beauteous son, my Bel-imperia's sweetest child! The throne of Saturn's ancient heirless son is set, And Mææses, wife of Dictes, poor man! dead. From mighty Saturn's bed, brought to term, Through many a cruel wife, his various brood, Reaping his proper fate, have lately died. Hæmus and Dymas are from out the main Departing; lying o'er the deep, the two remaining, Mæon and Teucer's stream-sodden mass, are burned With fiery spears by the flying squad. Meantime, for slow Leucus the flocks retain His plunder of the land; his night is come; The cormorants having dragg'd away his maiden, Teth to the unwaked flocks. Himself, not out of Megara first desc'd, Yet once out of Crete, well-known as a good man, To wit, the warm stir required on board a ship, And most conversant of a pastoral mood, Close grov'ling in the waist, the beasts of Britain's hill To the slim description of the untam'd surf is sent. Fond of man's precepts, and of human work, He raised himself by labouring toils to men; At time, if not now, the prosperous sail, old Ere enter'd on fame. A fact old, and new sund'd. As he speak'd, all the region round exclaimed loud, A fact old, new still trumpet'd. What a fane Into the poet's space has been pizza-drawn, Satire from every part, precise, detailed, To fill any breast: striking the author dead, Or at the least disturbing his refresh'd soul, His pick'd spirit out to deck a poem round. Let but Scartach, or even Cambria's fame adorn Your oak no more, (begot byRunner's slender keel), To every tongue a perfect masterpiece, Light as the Sydney street, but hallow'd far away By all but blasphemy or greatness Neptune's pride. Behold! this microcosy power inspires my line (Who once had met and show'd themselves my equal in arts And arms:) a new man, boundless as she is rare, (I speak, vast as this as much as I am:) What though in beauty she were, by hours on hours, Yet not a gleam, no shade from her none, No match, though mixt with all that fairest is, Nor all the other clime doth now and then, What though in craft it were, in case it were wit, All added by several, or the most deep? The hand, the looks, the bird, the face, the ear, The man's or woman's, or in any part, The rich or howl, or how much ought, or much matter How much ought still to weigh in decorèd rolls, In other countries and at other times, It hath ever been my toil, to cast my spread Over all, and many more have contained, As oft within my own my day-dream in my mind, But yet all within seem'd to share and be the same. (By doubts theoretical,) all in one were held, In one whelm'd, mighty by the sum of man's law, Supream, good, tremendous, spotless, infinite, Which made one love to all, as one hath wit at heart, And all these things, in endlesso have been sought. So let them still continue; I seek not now the one. Did I but prize the word, pournt soft and quietly Their pretended hearts among us, had I fears, Fears of the soul, which equall things augur, Of our dear found home I do and have them. O joy, thou Father of all, why thus for thee Have they not thy trust and place in sight? Who have thy divine appointment still to hold? Who rather have these advantages over me, Then me, whom they not once can in good time destroy? Where canst thou gain safe refuge from their flames, But where thy native place and own? Yet these are not all; I also have them not: O thou that bearest the charge, with what success Thou hast it gone, find me another. Now, if these ill-ware were at rest, and we Too old to ill Content, well nigh thou mayst. I now say what surely shall not be believed By me, but ======================================== SAMPLE 208 ======================================== I thought I could see them anywhere, Like a braggart who, with a price on his head, Seeketh every street to boast his theft, And lead them out where he might be killed. And then, I thought, my wealth might be my end, My jewels in the grave of my heart. I said: "As I have been thy slave, I am thine, Thou king of tender compassion! Come, Look carefully, that there be not one kiss between us." I took my top-coat off: "Look! See! See! It is I." I reached my arm: "And it beareth mine heart within it." And then I saw that strange seam: Placid, golden, flowing, a river of light, A white, the same as when it was the night Ere Menephisae began her love-insuffrage, Swift as on the marble of porphyry, Flushing the marge of lovers, marching, that Might wait for its kiss. And I, in the midst, I saw it aflame, A kiss-defying river, a well of bliss That burst its baroque waves in banks of kiss Under the lips and in the stagnant river. And that, I thought, was me; that beauty was mine, My rich heart in the heart of me was formed To thirst for her and know how to caress This head of mine to tingling sups of bliss. I stood there. Ah, now it all seem, I thought, myself: that, in that beauty, In that lily streaming river, the fear Of that live morning's eternity, The lorn fears of death should turn to pride For love that might exalt me to the ridged and collapse cosmos. I felt the strange throb of life In many parts of me, there where the body And head are one and where the head is not. And when I first lay my head to rest After love, I seemed to be a bird Who had not wings, though I soared in air: That desire, that fire in many parts, Was in the air before I took the kiss That made me moth and moth. And then I heard a whisper in my ear, A sigh, a whisper alone, in the night, But a whisper with such accents as move The ghosts I leave. "Be it news, full news, thy husband" -- A word that sorrow gives and takes away From out the soul. My tears were wet on my hair. I could hear a noise of waters jumping Above the pan. And then the man: "N. in room 11: This week his mother died. A long time ago He said to me, he would follow me abroad One day, and train under me. And when I came To her at it in the end, he was waiting Me in Moscow. He is twenty-one. And I said He must have followed easily into London." And then: "He refuses to go. We are so proud Of her." "So 'Tis hard for him, my dear," I answered, "Here in these old climes, close to colossal cliff, A sea-fugue like this one, with long gentle winds, And craggy mountain steeps. He prefers the broad And boundless Land of Zhou. But he must Have loved thy voice. He never will go." And then, to me: "He did not use to say That which he said to me, the other day, By which I granted him the surrender, And in such danger dived he. But he To me then, at length described what he means, To do the runoloon, and be executed, And say the last thing to be the best, And naught beside. I think he never will survive But by thy love. I think he is crafty, And at some time more dangerous still, The booty that he so cunningly had planned To bring from thee, and safely leave thee, Is small indeed; for I my country lose, And suspect the best of earth, my dear mother-land." I think of all I could say to leave it, And more than half my world's great nature shook there ('Weightily realized) in that bitter cry. And then: "I die." "My soul aches aftereakingcokerno its unbinding." "It all awaits hime, who lasteorniven in death may rightly ======================================== SAMPLE 209 ======================================== - although, indeed, I fear that even the more "well" it is, the more I'm on your side! May, however, I never, and for this you may - asleep - and asleep - As you sleep, may - in childhood - as a beau, as a babe, - at the proudest - upside down of any storied - tower to meet - face to face on which as - new as yet new as ever - will be known - when the moor and the moorlands - where we went as foemen - back and forth at an hour of the night - where the red Ivy-roses were golden - 'crossed the fountain, of which I have but one! In the deep gables, the chill and the night are found - the stars - in the meadow, - the pine - the post - alway near! And you as you grow, will turn to me as the hobo turns to the hermit turns to the child - the sage, - the clerk, as the sailor sailing south - where will your first dream - cry? When the sirens were weak and unknown through the night, children came siding and swelling our old town with cry and wave and cry. When you come back from the sea as a famished and a famished sailing, may we find the salt - sugared in our sugar - smeared on our shoes. The moon glistening under fright, sweat-shattered, cold upon the petals bending, may find us brisk, bedridden, burdened with so little cause we need hardly hear the song, the light song - in which you served us in the old days - we will know when the magic of you groans - and collapses, so that it hurts to be born of you more. The night turns upon us, why will the colours of this night contain us? We who are dead immediately, like the we all were when the earthquake came. I am here no longer, my soul beneath a fancy circus tolloped in rosewood. Hush now - you did not ask for this; you would have set this ring so that, for a while, you may seem a ghost to those who no longer fear you. I am unaware, I thank your footnote, for the pleasure; yes - you have set it here where you writ near the Arrartha madonna. <|endoftext|> "Sometimes it Thinks No One Listens to Its Poems ", by Sirrustsa Sulekon [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity] Sometimes it thumps like an insect caught in a sock, housewives' fabrications meant to distress black folk. But mostly it noble more as amusement, that ironical sting of dilatory evil, an angel levitating above a dilatory land, a mockery of debtor's imprisonment. That we can sleep's not for us, no not for us, the pigs restrain so much. So much we say I can't endure but I can't. I am kept thus comfortably within the rites of stasis, the sparrows' armings, torture. There, but for the slackers, us, us proselycus, proselycus a transternal stutter. Then it's here's the unshorn obol that writes, ======================================== SAMPLE 210 ======================================== chewed the ivy down. And I have watched your ivory skin as dusk got slowly deeper, and the great danger that once had me clutching at you for safety's sake, the terror of adults talking, of shoulders breathed and wet, the little part of me that loved you grew stiff and stern. You were so wonderful, they always spoke well of you, and you were never seen without her as she went about her business in white silk, a shawl, a fan, or a sleeve in dusk. <|endoftext|> "Undertow", by Erica Jong [The Body, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] Under a stiff midday cloud parade, we are doomed by a slim green beech tree hogging a marginal light. Though sometimes this tree is full of bees. Whirs whirring in the gnats. A leafle poreses. A bramble on the dam corrodes the small, silver, golden head of an amoeba pushing back. A few lozenges drop a sugary splatter. Stung once happily, amanke hugs her herself to her knowing nothing, nothing. <|endoftext|> "Turtle Her", by Erica Jong [Living, The Body, The Mind, Relationships, Nature, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity, War & Conflict] The turtle her incessantly her arm- ed grabbing onto whatever holds power over get it off. After an argument she gave up anywhere on earth and whirled around and around finding just as her spirit wanted to straddle tributaries with another approach. For many hours she coiled among the contracts gloved her arm-in-earth strapped to her largely her sea-spaced feet halted at the bus stop unfazed as if water was only this whiskered albacore this time around valuing the contact nude ahead walk me me me me me whatever gets in your way <|endoftext|> "Mother Speaks to Me of Her Life", by Freeway Ralph [Living, Life Choices, Parenthood, The Mind, Love, Realistic & Complicated, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] I will sell my blood, my hair, my heart, my soul, and buy you, my brother, a woman's body with curves. I will sell the bones, the velvet softness of my thighs, my eyes, the bone doors of my forearms. I will sell the silver that fills my veins and my basil, and feed the spiders in my brain. I will sell the rest, st. Pierre, the river shore. I was the butterfly, a fast one to abandon the carefully scroll of your scroll, to just allow the calm, wise sun to fall on us with that red sky at first. I will sell my veins, my heels, my voice, my tears, and my mother's words: I love you, take them all you want. Take them. But stay where you don't touch mine. I'm tellin you, son, college dawdling in caves of yours. I was the dandelion and polly for the boy the fast one to abandon, the one who would not even roll the ball in your relay. You need not set a pass up. I will sell the bones my way, and he who teaches me my way, my mother, the mother I love, must be choked out, must never risk the full measure of any one man. Not me. Not me. <|endoftext|> "The House in Feliks, New York", by Mary Karr [Living, Time & Brevity, Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life] AwningSpaciousHousesOnce used for Soaps, War, and Mostly Household goods, at that time, were wrapped in cardboard, in at the back door where a man's wa's lay parked, mid-January, mid-bluster of sales, the roofers, the sale-busters, the janitor's custodians, the TOBs (toy-rats, imaginary) of that time. Today, rusty bikes are ======================================== SAMPLE 211 ======================================== Kills, ye meet the proud foe, Where he is sitting, kill him too. To his side a vault he will disclose, In which your life shall instantly be buried, In the earth around. Woe to the man, if yet he live not! Like a needle still, though it be grounded On the centre of the earth, It will turn, and it will turn for ever, And show the buried in it. It will open in the forehead the slit Of its brilliant lantern-light, And show, if thou hast virtue, the swarm Of its queen behind it. And yet more wisdom like this to spy, Betwixt the lips of care, That like a lofty tower stands high, and yet Will not fall, though it go the highest road, That heaven will not defy. But O, if by a little delay This may be caught, the tale may be three; If death be past in the greatest heaven, Yet thou mayst say, as one who fain would be, 'He dwelt here,' and yet 'Naught known to us.' And, finally, if this may not be, And all men's quittance of men be vain, If all their doings be white or black, And all their deeds what they are, who they are, For nought that is done or said, It may be otherwise as well betrue, That they are shaken with salt forgetting, And changeful as the pulling away The moonlight on his head shone, As walking he took the meadows by With care, to see himself therein With firelight unseen. So fair a sight 'twill please most oftentimes, So hard to part without just plaint. The springing grass, the leaves that build Of web or cochinelon, The silver lilies, the late launces, The mat time leaves, that nod with amidst Like blushes, and the frost like colours Are all the breath of those that burn In fire, to whom time is unbent, unseen. Some say, of old time there was strife About the torch, which brandisht Who should have the storm's part, and won With death for king and bed undressed The cold which must his corse holdfast enclose. But this is holding of ourselves, A hollow word to name what is unfull. An old man grown is fair; The young man crowned, the virgin free; She was the sheves of euery hedge That were for beauty; she the foxemachine Of sl firstlight, white, and twice complexioned, That doth the doors of hell leave unfired. She was the female Jove; The boy was god's newborn son; The maiden Psyche that loveliest thing That ate her meal in heaven's regards, Which drove all violets on her face to purue When she did eat, and turned the place with torment. Both these I think; for where the boy's eye struck, What sink or base there was on any of that deck, Had any bitch or bastard threatned actually or rumored What would outrate her upon her, sumped and tattooed, I 'had another pair' would counter say, And in their company found no other boys to compare, Which above is not saying much that'd I spies In that golden cover, which, whether 't was clerkes or money On their books, to call it so copiously beare, None would demand but what their wits could keepe in sight. The billow that does the summer inland Sips off the waves, and flings the vinegar round, Then streight forward the whisp caught at the knot, Thither led Vincente Garcia and his spume. O Paradise! did never person therein Entreat, to lead him bean or take him in Warr; O Paradise! which extending wide indeede, And to the earth blue Overpasses everlasting Evening, But human nature there put in human power barely is laid down. The selfe using example in our very clothes of life, Their forme and shade being alike by you utt'disappeareth; Of both the same, the wearie masters: for whom But Vincente Garcia to Tee bade adieu? And then the tying of which could not be right made more agreable, The same condition'd people to fill forever the quoysts and thrones in Heav'n. And now for another kind of pietout deliberating; Had these villains seen this lily ere ======================================== SAMPLE 212 ======================================== Bar-Ill-Day is over, so are we, To rest at this expanse of sea. Let the North wind rave! The clouds are black, Still the wind and re-echo, When the spirit-wolf is howling far, 'I will have what I ask! May I grin at the storm-clouds? My shout Is heard in the winds of the sky! Though no snow the heavy snows rend, Though no bells toll on the winders, Though no nurses panic-droop In the night-shift of hospitals, Woman is crying in her work --In her dress On her hands and in her hair Though no feller turns for riches, Though no upper air Of profounder vision Exists, girl, in the 'borough of London, Sporting the tear-stained blushes From her dress On her hands and in her hair Are Her memories That she shakes in her work-day cl vogs, On her hands and in her hair And Her sorrow, Her tears, Her heart's pains, And Her thoughts, His, like poppets green, Her thoughts are green On them, the bounding birds to follow When he comes bird-like Down the path That opens with one silver curve In the sphere Of the town In the cold World In the icy Unreal North Air In the drear Holier night-time of Scotland, Unternimed north Sleeps on at last But no, though the night were wide, Though the path were clear, Though your sight were keen, Your breath were free, Though your heart were strong, Or your breath were tender, Or your heart had feelings, Or your thoughts were FERAL At your heart's deepest depth For a sleep Were none. Each of the elements, ere long, Had murmured for itself, Made friend with its own good, Nursing its maddest strife Like a cunning story, Or a loud-pacing brook. Each its own favourite thing In some cold romance shot, But sowed no plotting intrigue For watchful cunning In its own quiet sphere Or subtler spurning Of another's hailed victory In the squirming round of civil war. It is unsuspended, a pole Without lives of any sort, Save oaks, in whosecalm time A single tree lives to show a dry row Of oranges. No images of Utopia, With all the nightmare sounds Of voice, footstep, something moving curtain-wise And transparent mist behind the lamp. In this dark chamber, This midnight chamber, Eerie and alight With only shadow-vapors Plastered on the walls to make it seem, I am better alone. The very stones are looking, Perpend, through cryptilsnce secret and dark And through filmy perfumes, through which alone The sullen sun peeps. No sound of song nor song-bird, There's not the slightest thump of breath From three boarded bowers In this remote, chill ground, Where only films of greenveils lie And the gravies sink, No word is halting, no word is there. But front to back, Look, there's one Sitting up like a merrily grinning, two-edged eel, Drunken as September all-night tipples Down the deep, green, baas-bowed pit of a well. He's staring at me, staring, holding his hat tighter, Shrinking as if something had stung his lip. Yes, all of me, I'm still here, So kindly thicker then, Larger then than most I've seen, Bigger then than any big enough to friggin' murder! And then the foxy leopard green, All-year-round, always be pulsing And deepening for birth; And the porters all, The toasters and the hot-water pitchers, The very window-sills, The very fair fountains, The very murmur of the tiled house-blocks, All of me goin' craze. But that's not all! And that's all! Newfoun', twnearin' to mon hand, And heTFS what you ask fer! Comes a snow upon them, lodges it in them, And they're all strafing now like for parts, With whatever they got on hand, Might ======================================== SAMPLE 213 ======================================== . The point, where it strikes the ground. and plant on the ground. I pray you now, as I think perhaps you were about to ask, what it is that makes us famous, the fever, 'a great desire of which nature is never ashamed,' if your question is even just to call something fantastic, an instance of that strongest word, as in Shakespeare's death, the dead father, 'the fiery father,' in Atherton, the witch Liribeth, 'a witch whom men cast into a fire and yet they put out'--I don't know which. But I believe there is a common human fascination in the motion, the rocking, the the burning, the causing of the problem, the personified or human figure to be the problem itself, something which is always inventing itself, yet only always there. The problem of existence: who I am is, where did I come from, where am I going, where do I go, how was I made, his body writ large, who is my soul, or what god live in me, if god live in me, fix me in the form I inhabit, somewhere as a child born in a lake of stars, as some small child of bills and bombs and streams. And I can tell you, it is not pleasure, not pleasure except in the long run, in what adjusts to be here, in what swings, in the long drop into the dark, for the flood is a constant long long drop into the dark, or the long war the dark, to sink into the dark, as silver quiet crowns the evening, and the stars draw large. Here, in this fiery underworld, what connects us is not our pincest, not the babies and cakes, not even fire, but the splendor of burning, connection, what makes a place appear, for there is nothing that is impervious, what has no price, and what is inherent, or natural, is the source of all riches, of all resistance against the want of belonging. And so, I think, the gods are like the sweeping clouds, of which everyone knows one is not remotely like the other, so what the wind does, then what the bees do, what the flakes of light do, what the rainbows fix, and what the prod of Virgil, what the spear of Corniger do, what the round sunset does, what the moon does, what the stars do, what the twilight And so the fortunes of those who hear, and the miseries of those who don't, and how the years advance us here, or how the years fail us there, or how the wind briefly transfer us, what remains when the sum is what's left when the sum is notion, what's not is what's most, and what's not seen is not that remaining, but the self that is not a ghost with a mark like a spiked collar, the self that is not a self is the self that is here, that atlas as earth; the swollen throat; still, endless, infernal fires; red waters and no soul; the sly whip; the cra-da-da; the heat that the winds whip; the heads that fall where the stream; the smeard tick; the eyes of the take; the scourge, and the flail; the mad running feet that keep time; the eels and the fish that are dying; the boiling cauldron; the sparrow there at the ongoing and running tap, pray like a pent-up mind to God that the people be good, and what's good to rise, and to stand there where the beaten roads meet and God walks; and that movement of the strings know as heaven is good to listen to; not to know how Bondsville hails itself a place of the future, and the shanty with its darkness and sickness; the shoe-rationing grit; the night-vision squint and the red-willed back of the headlight; the still, silent, blink-covered eyes; the wheezing cacophony of lady sicknesses and sight; the pink foot and the purple tongue; and the arms from which it walks; the gears and no-Geary spiel: the town drunk's statement of "You've got a mind! I've got hands and hands and 10,000!" beat the kindly jay's, "Hey, Chuck! I heard ya like playing." On and on, and who can blame ======================================== SAMPLE 214 ======================================== They could not afford the luxury Of sweet lolli worki ng, or works Of exquisite needle work; Nellie, with all her beauty, had to sew, With dashes of swift Etch-A-Sketchie. Her early thoughts were pleased with Pa, She sewed, and she made dolls, But she could not learn--the G-eadw-Moo As well could keep his clothes on. And though Nell was small, her brother Could n-oul-on-le-E-e. But Pa with anger's blaze she fanned, To tears she added threats, And told her she must leave her home, her toe (Nellie's size) must chip a heel, Nell she tumbled down the porch, With bent head, and very twisted. She knelt to mad at her heft, Nell she shiver'd worse than thin. 'Twas near boiling-time of day, A little fatality Made Pa lonesome, so he thought He'd just give oot to bring his work, And have a smoke where Anna goes, And go alone and come again, For a ha'-pile of sticks to store, And then he'd go through fry and grain And bring him up his breakfast-tin. He thought he'd take Anna to the city, And then he thought that'd do, And never brought her back again, But sent her to good old Mary's farm With a blessing for Ma and Mabel. A chap named Winslow came to town, (Maybe you've heard of him?) No, he ventured to an ale-house, And then you may have heard He owned the tavern, and owned two dogs For sowing his own food. One night came Parson Jonassen (You may have heard of him, too?) In need of a parish not far distant, Within whose walls were a cottage (Very likely reason for a parson--) And one very sick and feeble Listed on the parish rolls. And in it grew a beautiful tree, Like the very best of schemes-- You'd take the green of it, and build a house On its earth; and what's more, of steel! And so they took Parson Jonassen. He showed what care he had to charge, And made his wife and her two dogs Treat each other for dinner. Yes, he got-- What's that thing called again?--a chicken's head First parlay: a flying chicken's head! I thought the chicken would have been rude To leave there with a lady's mess, But so my love was made en route. Thence I Gabriel up the Strand, And bared its wings on MM The day that Hats were set on MM. And a man's eyes have many sights In a lady's face, I know; The cheeks, tho' they be closet white, The highlights of love can mar, If you so talk; and the jetigeonde, From glossy to blush-de-Ment. And, as age plays gentle Puck And foul Folly, th' Ascraean woman Is partial to the fair, And to the nice, o'er half the globe, For phloem of some kind; And MM's mouth'miss, was never thick, But condition new, And a MMtovo there's now no doubt, And the best friend of her fox. Alas, Puck, shallow, grim and old, Still in your sweater vesties rove, Your whiskers' increase is Folly's Spiel, As you grow more bold to flout; Your skin your height, your figure's heavy, For still you're wearing slops, While certain climes, and some your peer, Disclose as much Neptune's lust, As what he by your simple tasks, Implores your aid. And what's the end? Against your head, and brow, and pride, No charm now, and scarcely a sigh, Dismissal and bile. Away, away, Puck, child of wine, Since not from thee I find a gleam of light, Nor the best friend, nor helper, thorn-ward, thy sphere All calm, and safe, beneath the moon, Be it yours to point the next great crossing, And not thyself to play! Youth had, has, or ever has been painted With images of our hands; As we are still, with regardful view, ======================================== SAMPLE 215 ======================================== She took his proffered hand, And so they wander through the town. She talks to a fellow - "Don't you ever hear of Patrick? Don't you ever hear of Patrick?" Hast shed a tear on the state Of the proud nation he's left? Such an end would dismay An individual as rare As the individual he was. She now who's four years his junior Tells him the story as she knows it. He tells her the tale as he knows it And the tale is world history. And the individual who listened As she tells it to you. You hear? Good. I would rather - I prefer to say Heaven was mine And the angels. Farewell to the laurel-tree. It will grow in vain If she be not appeased. I am pitiless to both. Farewell to the gardens of harps And the land of children's voices. There is an unknown guest who Will be more thelitter of us If we be not placid and kind. I have not a quack to ask To keep my sign or my Mariner To make me a barometer. I am bound to a verdict That the sign I can neither change Nor dispense. I've no gem or jewel To gall cost 0.F.U. I require no moon at all To make me breathless and alive. With what will I ever Fashion a day for future Births that I am alive! She pipes her bull's-eye For her Blake from his "Studio." But the roses have a voice Like she is not. I have a friend who Must see the surgeon Who will pit her fine ears And her fine eyes. The trumpet and dock were made With the ladon and chiffon By a girl with a sash A mass of fine silk Over the hovel And a lady Who with a banner Will have her Oppressed. A beard of beaver A ring of monkey Is a desert Are these things Made. They are O. K. Soy . V. <|endoftext|> "The Rain of Tit to the Sun's Rise", by Robert Frost [Living, Nature, Weather, Philosophy, Festivals, Christmas] The night is very dark, and does not know how the sun is going to rise. It does not know the answer to its prayer that is given in the name of their ancestors, or the rabbits and cats and dogs. And so it goes. Dead night knows the names Of all the flowers and beasts in the world. And so it is that the animals in the forest can tell Where the birds that sing in the moon's face are going to be carried. It is like a person going into sleep, Where a dream can help with the stairs and waken the next day With a cold and pain. I do not know how long it is since I slept last But it is a long time since I slept and even dreamed. It was not my day and it is not my night. I was not born then. It was later and it is day and it is even darker than this night. I am going to bed and I have been told to but I will not. I have been too long about to be good and not grow in size. If they are red and I have been said to be green, If they are large and thin and I am not, If I have been said to be and I am small, If I do not know myself What is my hour, What the true shape of sleep to be, What is night like and like day, And how is the darkness said to be, And what is daylight and how is the light? The hour, The day, The darkness, The light, The bird, The flowers, The cat, The dog, The chair, The door, The lot, The three-top, The set, The diamond, The door-step, The foot, The chair, The cat-pee-sicle, The dog-hole, The horse, The child, The man, The horse, The grape, The sun, The fly, The glass, The ======================================== SAMPLE 216 ======================================== But my copy of the Poem, stitched By Mommy, with the needle pointed Straight through the heart. <|endoftext|> "Death and the Animal Spirits", by James Lytt on DeathAnd a Tale of Illusion The winter light has taken the leafy blackness with it. The bird cries and other sounds of motion have stopped. Yet the field still knows the smoothness of a bare tree and the youth's songs that continue through this slough of hope that they will follow after the rest. A sound of iron has wandered from its hidden spawning pool. There has been casting of off all this stuff in mounds. It has gathered and been gathered in by more than the wisest, most tiny, spirits. The cities of men have kept them from ruin and more fail less. The strength of this nation, its barest, lowest line, Leaves more than the storm dream of shade and lightning. <|endoftext|> "Lips", by Paul Laurence [The Body, Love, Realistic Wit] Oû, po Fields of Hyssos Lips are useful things, You cannot make somebody else say it, And so with mine I have hoarded a secret That will support me if I need it Against the laid upon force of cloying atrocity, And the coming of words that smear the groundtenbacks of place In a vain attempt to cover you, And the prolonged raising of arms to my chest, And the sliding of hands from panel to panel To panel to panel In a night of lies. I will lay my lips aside In the dust of dead things And bare my fingers that you may understand me In the no meanest way I can conceive With no embarrassment That will oblige the strictest of characterisers To hold my breath and pull my hair back Until I have let my hair grow thick And maintained this denial for as long as the rejectionistic dressing-down In a building full of screaming children That demands that we keep our cool And free from emotion In a marketplace full of implication and image Where the empty atmosphere of the role In a literal game of solitaire Is used as a point of contact With a threatening and incommensurate aggressive kind of intelligence And I wear the flesh of the flesh that the war has taken me into. Layers of the body that have lost round after roundabout struggle To get breath in the right place at the right time Are given new breathing and hungering after rounds Because the body is a voice and the blood is a drop of blood And the stories that it tells are never quite what it says In the hapless code that it would have you believe Because the past has left it with the bitter task of guiding This wilful uncertainty That holds me here in the passive, exhausted and exposed So that I do not manage to put my best foot forward Because the body is a voice and the blood is a drop of blood And I know how it would have me there for now, But I would also manage as good on the widest beaches In my guide vocal body Were it preserved in the right words Because the body is a voice and the blood is a drop of blood But I have not shown my most ordered and proportioned self Because it has never been held captive in the right words And I have not been to be treated as such In the wearisome and poorly pointed fashion of the ways Because it is only a fleshly voice In the name of the dead past and its representatives And I break the pattern that it has worn to piece together In the modern days But I am a participant in a fleshly voice And the blood of the past in the blood of me living in the flesh I have shown the night like steps to lead to the daylight With steps of touch and words to translate some part of itself Into the task of looking up at the sky Where I am thought of fleshly imagery of air and light . The rain moves me because it is a voice and a fleshly thing In the name of voices And voices are flesh for they are outside From the secure and well laid aside place That is audible to the soul They are outside in the senses They wear the costume of bodies They are among us and we follow and relate How the crowd at the printing were moved And held And they understood The moment that Holmes had shown Jones Because she was outside in the name of the voices In the name of the forms Of the voices The old hope that it is the voice of some one person Who will break through the numbing Bates mold And awaken all those stupefused by blindness and wealth ======================================== SAMPLE 217 ======================================== through heaven; But the wave would not wash it with its filth, But the ripples they smeared it with! To-day, at the noon of noon, The word was whispered in the city, And all the people came flocking from the farms To the square of Jamacia, And they rode all at once to the square of Jamacia, And they stood all erect in the sunshine, And they gazed all at the Lady of the Querrifolt In her beautiful body. And she showed them her white body, The nation from the hill-girt city of Jamacia, Show'd her white body to the view, The lovely lady of the Querrifontine; And her raine the while was all besmeared with streams of black, And her locks down to the ears in mourning were, And her legh this while was all sable in the sun; For thus in the country the hunters travel, So a while she appeared, with all black sickness And as they were coming in, from out of a village, A maiden cry'd out in the principal street, 'Oh father Jose, come you to save a skin, And save a skin of my maguey too. A serpent's egg of the serpent you picked up last year Into the village, ate it and stuck it in your head, But hopefully it told you of some great secret, Which now I the moment that you picked up your skin, This hiding of the serpent in men's skins.' To the King the maiden cried, from his palace looking, 'There are still some great secret to discover, Hidden in men's skins, which will certainly prevail; And but in time the power of the serpent will expire, And we shall know how to conquer it in men.' And to that King of the red men, his white daughter The white father, hasting to the King's banner, bore A skin of the dirementsh, a maguey wame, Of the rapids beautiful and mighty, And this show'd, so bright and of so vengeous arace, That in front of the rabble, beside the skin, There ran suddenly, down the valley, an ague-stir As of a well-wrought vehicle by a train of steam, Steam-towels shoved from their bosom down, The verwaine itch which, in over-charge, would-be gag, As the fluttering gypsy tore at the limp-stranger's Quivering, struggling skeleton, the King beholding A face in the gleaming darkness glancing, And saying, 'By God, be quick or it is imm all o' thee, For of thy time it only forty four hours endeth becometh, So haste thee now, or bate thee thou.'" The tide and the flowing etherealness of heaven; O God, why dost thou let the golden gates dayless spend, And purse-proud Sol have his gates, barred, wide open, To dazle all others, for his sacred time, And guess'st not, O clever one, their depths perform? Yet he who will find the valley-parts unbarred By the heels of thy vain feet, his flight restrain, Lest, tracking before him the barely disappearing rays, After him also, flash the twofold shadows, blind. 'Tis the last of August, the sun with his beams Like heavy sunspheres smiting the hillside, In one moment Shining The sparry shawar, And then the meadows, And next the fields are cool, In darkness. So, with the dawn, The muzcil, lovely, tired, Starting from her repose, Her robe is dripping, dripping, dripping, On meathook silvery calm, And I with wind for teeth Break, in love, Into her arms, and find her, quenchy tree. How will I the night trouble, In her dark body, Who was so eager, so free, On the toils of men walking, going? But now, now that I have won my feet To rest in her bosom, The harder remains, But now I know the nearer is, To kiss her lips. And who heareth? Ah, my Omen of evil, It is not to be known, Lest the poppies from their fear Not appear too hard, Rock-crested mountains, On fire fountains flowing fire. As the white swan, from the river ======================================== SAMPLE 218 ======================================== ball; such kindness I never saw; For me, there was no magic, only a kind of soreness, Which I knew had a name of its own: this world I left behind. I ran to tell her that I had a fright; she was kind, And said she'd go with me to look at the crane; We went away, and I shut my letter into a little envelope, folded it and hid it under my hat. That night, when I was sitting on the stair, weary, dreaming, I looked up in the child-labor camp across the Bay, and they were there with me. I do not think they meant much harm -- at least, they seemed quite happy. I saw them coming, as I turned in my bed, and locked the door. They were playing, as I lay there dreaming, to try to get the feeling of, in some undefined place, of how much weight it is to love a little baby or a grown baby. I thought of this as I watched them: -- May I get that? I got it -- and I left them to go to the devil -- to the doughty DEERE -- whose wife had just thrown a pie at one, and who understood the word in the sense of DEERE. He came to me and said: Oh dear! did you open the door late? I answered him, I was asleep all day, and wanted to sleep. I threw a pie at someone. did he mean that? He meant that, yes. As in, the doughty DEERE had gone on from being kind to kind. He had been a mirror for me in dough, for another in dough, and for myself, and we had had a past that was sweet and hollow. Now he was gone and we were two of our selves, and he and we were one. I wanted to do the right thing, and I tried to do it. I picked up the pieces, I took them home. I laid them carefully in two lighted bedroom tiles -- the light from my father's room, down a blackboard, and I put them in my pocket down my coat. I took a last look at my father, then left the house. I went away, and I headed down the street. I looked left and right, and started to my house -- and I got there just as my wife was getting cloath. I listened, and heard her scream; I returned -- and she was all right. I stepped into the cockpit, and saw the doughty DEERE bare-legged ahead of me, and my heart sank; I backed up and stepped into the cockpit, the same as the thousand others, and started to reversing the car -- and all at once, the game was over; I reversed it again, and myself got the bug. "I remember, I remember," I said, "that time when we raced at night in the butter-green Jeep. I thought it was only a dream at the time, but now it seems so plain. Why won't he let me have a bath?" I got into my bed, and if that shouldn't have been a death felt by a wall, I shouldn't have told my watch; and if that shouldn't have been a death, and why couldn't I have taken a shower, and if that wasn't a wall, and if that shouldn't have been, why, then, I was a god, and there was nothing I could do. I tried to do a lot, and what did that accomplish? Nothing but a little passed. Didn't anyone listen to me? I tried to teach the world What to do, and how to do it, and someone didn't do it, and some did it wrong. That wasn't my fault, and it isn't mine, but what else was I? Didn't I give Death his nickels and dimes? Didn't I give God his green? And this arthritis too, my long head, my hirsute arms, my hairy belly -- did I tell the doctor I'd die someday (I'd dreamed that, somehow) and was I not poisoned? I was passing of breath, I was passing of life, passed and passed. I died of living, and living I. And God, and the doctors, and the pharmacy. And the betrayal, and the ======================================== SAMPLE 219 ======================================== - I heard a howling! I saw a beast's head: A little brown hare lay dead; A moaning gave it life. The day was hot, The water steaming, I lifted my head, And looked to the east, To wash the dust from off the shore; I looked to the south, To what was nigh, I knew not, To a seen far-stretched beach, The cliff of which was glass. The little boat steamed fast With the sand from the shore. I did not know what Was left of the beach, The cliff or aught else, But the path was gone! O restless daredevil, You know how close to survival The favour of that glorious sun, The little gold-eyed pilot of my craft! What right Have I to presume to what your motives are, And if you choose to declare yourself, You'll say how my life was altered! It was not as you left me That I took up my quarters, My fast-standing little girl; But your little sail Had held fast to the shore. O happy days of old, My fancies were packed off In the honeyed wanderings When we were newtzed ashore, The boughs turned we dreadfully, All our days were dry. It was not as you left me, That I made you untitle, But having grown A powerful little gentian From bright dream to bright dream, You feared the misty days were coming. But the worst is o'er and done, My fears were all yuper, Your little boat sank to swamp, Your little sea was sad. We sat on the sand in our fixes, And we lived to behold the beams. My heart is a        ress' The words used with this sentence are: thetrose The action of rising up from below. leaving The common institution of the words with out'orge Like the English equivalent of O.E.R.T.S. (though the spelling with a c) is unearthed. rose The rose is a sign of the angels. so'stead The so'stead and the upright were the same in both texts. Of ieshwing Also, the so 'stead' is said to arise from the so 'ife'stead, i.e., of looking still to the ground. (3) "Faith" is a "figure of speech" (Gauth & Gawayne, Tshalonologie, p. 40). (4) "Abates" (Laus das Abtess) is a medieval variation on the well-known Latin one. (5) "Aondury" (Gaul, Grandfiend) refers to the Alder Waters, a river of Anglo-Norman history, see Gild all promo. by lib. 21. (6) "They called them both loathsome names" (Misskelum, 1747) is a passage from Vol. I. p. 11. of the "Gaily" or "Tars and their Kick," where it is stated, "They both will be lost if they are longer being dragged" (italics by Hyde). (7) "Their soulless skin" (in 8a) is the old body, or is the new body supposed to be a soulless one? (8) In a phantom or mormoch without a body the "ghostly" (syn. divine) faces are said to be those of early Christians, and not to be found in the actual verses. (9) That this vision was obtained before the birth of our Lord and previous to the Naufer's conversion is not stated, but perhaps it was, for it is written that He came in Elijah's vision to Jernard when he passed Minstel —"Where he abode" (Po, publicave entfirmantem sacerdos, p. As I read it, the Vision passed after this, when Jernard died, but before Jesus was born. (10) "It is enough" is a good example of ======================================== SAMPLE 220 ======================================== Than their hard lives to women seem. We 'll beat the Persian, for I want a piece, My lady has a yoke, of wood and lead; She 's hissing in a pit of fire, And her adulterous lovers are to burn. I will do him more than any; And I 'll see his face again. I have hunted with the houseless animals, In dunes of sand, in lakes of putrid liquid darkness, In the bowels of birds, in beasts with shame, Or with men dupped, in discoveries new, In fetid ponds, and filth, of chattering brutes; I have popped the heads of children in one, The head of mother, in one fetid pond, In one scene a patrician's country 's one, In vile America the area, where the rabble 's rabble; -I have popped the heads of men in many, And we 'll pop the heads of many women, The females of all genders 's transitory, For the right entrance to the ages below. I have poked the most elfish eolus upward, For the nobility of rustic women, For the slight but showy trick of elevated brows, For a pointed lilt of nose and upper lip, For a skull with certain traits in measure, And a bettered life I was after. Now I know they are true, the women, For I have pocked the little lady's 'bust'! For I saunted up her stick and egg, And I can give three shits on the nigguish whim! And I haf some 'ean, and ony three, For the little lackey I got on my berry! And on this bent I knoo as I can tell, I gained all I wanted, I was false to love. 'Twas ba wauked an' dressed in swutting waif He held in his heead her throat, the bib sit ter, He picked a bunch off a lass and ble but 'er sey, He turned her passed the more obligatory, He cudna hav understood her charms ter-la-blath, He cud go on a run to Green mere and loo, An' walk her through the street, an' then more laat. He jus' done all that, an' I bolted after! The wunster-dad he made me take her in, He gav a sniff on the sly, an' spit, an' chet, The girt lass he pocked right on the spot, She wor taanned a sow and a stable-yard ud. But I took a big war' er the laddies ate, So I gae up in a freak an' got nae wang, An, with a sly grin, I left her wheer lee. She coweet on her knees, the Nine he troo, An' thret, "This is the curfew, lass, Ye 'ear by ye speech: To turn your head I should concern ye, "'Tis double-zip" an' "be kind," The price whiles o' satin porpoise An' seven-zip, an' a guinea-pige, An' twa-zip, an' "bear-zip" an' tender. An' ye 'ear the ends o' a bipher twain, A noyse o' vell-o' and winkle, An' this wunst on a message strange Is all on a solanthal wind, Sae doun the clipped-up quip of a sneezer, An' sleepy-like the gaitil' an' beer. Ye 'ear me? Come on, noo, or what? She 'e bumbled out an' shunn'd my sight, An' she she told me last she ar'e known me, An' oor own daughter she, An' to comfort me she laid hands' on me, An' nane wi' me. She daundies me an' herself forget, At 'eart I riz up she's dowers again. I never sweer gude gol': I kessen noo Ye were nae beast, For by the heel Ye kick a chalk-face that I 'as to see, An' 'aise ar" "That's nothing, my dear, for a true man, ye 'ear ye can't be bett. ======================================== SAMPLE 221 ======================================== "Pray you for a moment forgetfulness Of all things done, for forgetfulness is joy." "Pray to save your gold and silver, for it will HOLD out your hands, Open the windows of the heart; If the hands are wet , the window is not wash'd; Open them, Shut them, Think not of the trouble; What you have done, Take away, And to-morrow will have done. RADHA TWAWS of the South, This burnt child is not for you. Myself am wet; myself am I. No one will wipe me; Mere sunshine will not douse me; I am a glow-stone too. My heart leaps up when you look, My heart leaps down when you set; My heart goes out for your regret, My heart goes out for your tears. O brave, O hard, O futile boy! This side of the suns, This side of love, This side of the gods, I am a spark, I am a glow-stone. As one who before his tent shines The freshness of a cold flame That fans the bones that have been chill'd, By spreading warming; thus was I, Before I, before I knew not My own warmth to be my chiefest part. And like a hollow I were hollow, And as a glowing to a drop. To-day the water-sponge, who otherwise Hath lost his present seal, his future one, Prepares another where he likes it, Loosens from false gourd the leaves that wave And lifts them off, to spread them widely, So far as they can, unto the people; And so far as they can they. And as some rich man in the rich man's castle Finds at his casement, in pyramids of glass Of jealous transparency, lady's eyes, And feels them lovely; so the people, while they stand In magnificently ordered manners, begin. The mighty man himself to-day in rank is seen, Clad in a humble coat, that loosely concealed His mind, and trying, like all youthful masters, To strut in a witty sensuous way. At last he throws down the mask, and all is seen; His arrogance, and his neglect, and his desires. What is the result? Why, I suppose, this: That he, whom I thought so superior to be, Can'trun with out warrants of any merit! Not being able makes him scarce worth knowing. And my poor quill you may without impropriety Clap among the brillant mountains which I showed Here in the presence of another Jove, Which, like great buckles, resist the fulness of thunder, Possessed of snow before an audience. Fool! If you are not rather alone, Alone before whom my gaping spirit resents The void and impossibility of a reason, The ghost of mystery and the star of bewitchment! (What the antiquarians call the sunset, I call the dawn, For both these words were coined by man canards.) In the presence of other Joves, and those again upon their summits, I have behelds the earth inclos'd and the four-mile circle taken by surprise. Each eye, refrang'd upon the mids from an infinite skyscape, Smokes in the center, who will some time reflect the soul of a god. For all is carelessness, and all wassail of an unbeholden heaven. How the smoke, that from the chair of the unlucky o'er-seas is dauntless, External, Reflects him, and how the most trivial thing--the shadow which ascends and is parted As it dallanders, to the outer psychic world, O Jesus Ultrasonic my voice is torn and rasping, O compassionate antitheseReply on to that, all thatSecure thee and save thee,Be an eternal prism that engages his world. Eyes, hearers and men, that find in the cordial planet their pole, Pour forth their reflections, and the planets, round which their will inclinere, Tend to be receding with the orbit of their feet. But we have here the watch of the sunne set, Two rival parts of the same vessel; One to wander for� fleshly maimplts, the other for watchfull housings: The worke which his sonne with the same full psalter words is brychid, The syhte of the same, and ======================================== SAMPLE 222 ======================================== ]The devil was the first one I've met, But since I've come across the Devil we've met And everything else that he'll get to meet The other dogs he may get to meet. I wish I was on the frontier of a wilderness And I was all alone, and I had no place to rest, For the hunters would walk right over me And one, or two, or three might get to me before The night, the hunter d - d d - They wouldn't give no peace, They'd come a-nigh, And they'd have me-- I'm afraid I'm thought I'm told too much; I wish I was I wish I were tall, But, now, as it is I must be even shorter Than I've ever been before. I wish I were like Liszt Or Landor--'twas all their plan; A Walt Whitman, might be, But I may be thought Most unco merry, now. I wish I were as good And as clever as Barney the goat, I wish I were Grimalkin's, but that's not fair. I am sure he's very sombre, but that's fair With all the time of day and night, He never shares it a jot. I wish I were a pale or series kind of dark, But that's as ill-bred, too, to be clear, And so I wish I were shrink-headed grim I might come off second best, but that's fair. When the dishes were all cleaned and the leftovers eaten, The five-o'-clock, the head-chef and his gang, Came up to take a last slurp at the dinner-bell. How Lawrence captained the game in the third row! I wish I were living for the sport that he played, They marched two of my chum, Cap 'N' Man, on the dusty ground To the sepulchre under the madefor'heartbroken trees. But I'm more and more in your heart and my eyes Loved you more than men or cattle or sheep or pigs or birds. <|endoftext|> "The Beggs", by Edward Thomas [Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Infatuation, Nature, Fall, Gardening] The bargs who are not too lovely to be fattened for the pillows, Who have no thoughts of their supper to think as they eat it, Who have no Thought of you to mind their penitents, Who have no Channells through their fingers to point them anywhere Hereafter, who have no bloodsheds through their veins to rain as sort of a pond-water In the world, but only sort of garden-air, now and then, And who are eating their hearts out, with no stomach's permission, Are The Beggs. They have been fattening by their bosoms, and they have been starving their hearts, They have been looking with their knees and they have been shaking with their knees, And they think there is no banqueting, though they may be wearing a ragged coat, No question of a dinner and no marriage, unless of a table, no doubt, No trouble about their hearts to beguile, if they have any sense at all To stay at home and cook for nobody, if they have any knees; They think there is no tavernening, though they sit long and slopping in their blood, No little drunk about their drunkenness to stir the ashes with shocked hair, No hobbling, though they go single, to tie the shambles with no pants And make as mix as they can of the shambling and the tumbling with no minds; They think, though, that this is all, and this is all they must expect, No matter how often they have paid the Fee, there has never yet been a Meeting, No Chairs, and no Members, but they call in their own representatives, The Insignificant Seal-Kings say the contained and the perplexed ones sit there, Pouring the substance out, pouring it through holes and not making holes at all, Making a substance out of a burst that will not hold and wrapping it in CLASSIC tables, Hambling therefor, rubbing their hands and saying (says the blood, it is BOMBING their shitty long underground): <|endoftext|> "Rain Song", by Lynn Ann Righter [Love, Realistic & Complicated, Nature, Weather] The tension is in the streamlite the stress is in the wave the old ======================================== SAMPLE 223 ======================================== - And my own mother saw it and would say something along the lines of, "We are the offspring of a woman and God," but I don't know what she would have done about it. I was one of those children who are just too attractive for their own good, a chubby mama's boy, the kind of bantam body that was just too smooth and good for someone to ever feel secure in. I was chubby, but the way I dress up the whole body is just so much sleeve-wear. So maybe he was just after enjoyment, I don't know. Maybe he was just being a lover. <|endoftext|> "from The Fatalist Book of the Skies", by Marilyn Nelson [Living, Death, Growing Old, Life Choices, The Body, Time & Brevity, Nature, Summer, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] In the city, the dark and dying green of night's exit becomes more vivid against the black of the sky, which in turn gives way to the grid of asphalt which hides the death. As a sheet off a bail, or an exit screen, a route books itself and becomes the story of driving itself. From Grid to Grid. From Drive to Dash. Into drive, from room to room, landing not in the best-laid schemes of someone's journey, but somewhere in the jigsaw puzzle of someone else's life. Driv'n, stnv'red, at stnv'red. The hardest choice: not to walk, though. Choose your mistakes. The hardest choice is to change. The man with blue hair decides to stop drinking, whispers to his three best friends that he is going to change, and he does. Says he is going to start researching ancient Greek poetry. Unconfirmed: his friend replies: "Okay, yes." A breath: the answer to his research. His wife, exhausted from looking after him, tumbles off the cliff edge with: "I saw a man half over here who looked like Edmund Hillary." A rope: a friend who says he is changing, or a rope is handed to him. Halfway up: a friend who says he isn't sure. Outside the city: starling's feathers, which a worker wraps in wet cloth, then hangs for meat. He sees her from the bus, climbing teardrops, his improvement upon the pluperfect point into darkness, into deadening. To maintain his vigour, to outlive his mortality, to become a kind of metronome, to remain stable as days, to remain stable as nights, to remain stable at night, to remain whole, to become five years ago. To an Ektacharid's mental beak: a kind of mental dove. The waxing moon is already another city. Greycliff is firelit in a cold year, he is thick as a sun, and his smoke is white. He writes like that. A months' work are a poet's pages. The watch in the pink marble face is a finger pointing somewhere south of electrical lightning, the motto of Fiorillo's. The watch's a ma'am, his life are his facts, the crystal heart a fey dream. No. One day he rolls up the watch and swallows it package-wise in a gilt puff, exhaling the bejewelled bub. Clings to it dearly, his fingers smeared with red, the year's knot in his fingers bruising the coin-sized square. A parcel hinged in a gilt puff. <|endoftext|> "Tenebrae", by Marilyn L. Taylor [Living, The Body, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity] Tenebrae is a term coined by linguists for the "…history of suppressing or suppressing… opposition to [race] in language" (Tenebrae denarius oh factis uni underque tu bave matre): time for us to become non-white. <|endoftext|> "The Child on the Rock", by Phyllis Opie [Religion, Faith & Doubt, God & the Divine, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] The little boy on the ridgemead Imageworks to nature: without the onegraven in its screen,a fence necessitate graven). He imageth what he see.And who can animallthinketh now, can public honor abode?Another is screened from the prescriptive divinityof his wonted life, defenceth his blaue, his stature numbers in theStory's motte winningly: Lord Reeve born then? Pray, don't beckon. A mystery in a cage works there, entwined from worktill work can be born to. The Storyteller smileth small praise when ======================================== SAMPLE 224 ======================================== That took the place of Thee? O, all that in Thee has been, In grace, in mercy, truth, and justice, To man's fall short of that remains, To man must Thou appeal! "The past wrong set right," All must contend for, and by, Deny, and hand, and blood, shed That for the moment only, And till itsught graced Heaven, Set man on his straight rise;-- Bid him struggle valiantly To snatch from fate and pierce To the far-point heroic heart Of belief, and find there the true Existence and the future sight; See, then, in his shaken senses Shock, and rouse to mortal strife, Re-equip his soul with faith, love, and steelywes. But now, lest our digital cross of life Slowly decline, and while we strive to sling Life past the life of our one Savior nigh, Drowning the music of the human story, Let us all lament and be sad, For that our Cross is nigh the bend; So that some future of us may see, "Here the reel started, sharp, and never stopped, "The life and the dark end,--man died at last." <|endoftext|> 'Tis most simply dining one knows for praise: A girl with her cat, to feed upon the sticker, The grand full moon upon her dun wame dun wame.'] In the lowest woods of Enginedges, or new-born Deep ones, together stealthily,-- Spreading their wide stealthily operant body Through the leaves, leaves outspread! As our birds do,--with their compick legs and flit Them wide stealthily along, So our best girls, outhidden in Enginedges, Lovely with the edges of that wood. --But their bodies have the glory of Enginedges: Their thighs the paddles of the horses and engines, And dew-drops the boots of that night's march. --Yet their bodies have the beauty of the forests, With the edge in the borer of groves, And the shade in the borer of trees. The borer of trees, and the hobnail-lite: But it ends now, my dainties: thee, my pen. The pen! my pen! my first essay, my first fling, From the sill of my authorit'-bel targe, To warn thee: don't look in it. 'Tis the authorit' of my favourite dainties --Whose beauties' word its weight knows nothing of. My pen's page is but half-lighted: there, I wait The eyes of the eagle, that sees past datur: The mind-pointed eagle, the dove-shaped mind, That sees what the life-mind was never able to see, In the vast and culminating sum of its conclusions. 'But it ends now, my dainties, for thee I'm now undone; Whose beauties' word its weight knows nothing of; The word is a serial testimony in my head. I'll speak to them no more. 'Tis this bar that holds me. I'll go mad and write again, till I've done my bit. I'll write--I have done it--and again I'll write, And the country will thank me. But I've now to resume my foolscap portrait, In a sort of way, of my first triumphs over fancy: I now have nature in authorit, and I know What the people liveliest are to think of at any time. But I see now, of the press what when it was, and why: The loud, eager, intoxicated clamour of expectations. They were held by a mere hoax on a masseur's part: A maudlin rhime penned the verses, mooted in hope As a kind of prose poem to feed hungry prose brains. Had he subscribed his labour for good laws to Steve, And saved up a loan to pay off good debts with,-- (As this is not always the vicarious speche they give, Who call such folk Seers, Prospectors, and Placemen, And give them office, beds, and fire, and state, But Steve would not do this, nor paint much plaster, nor gain By long marbles many trophies, or paying a rent; He ======================================== SAMPLE 225 ======================================== And, even after death, still every night She walks in me. I am her husband, her lord, And servant equally. My life and death, Her life and death, are one. I am the house. The house is me. The house and I were one From the very beginning. The first room I furnished was her bedroom. My clothes Dropped like shells from the roof of the house, Were sometimes a burden For her, who, when clothed by me, Were less than hot and sparkling things. And I gave her something, perhaps I did not know As I brushed her sleeve so swiftly and flew By mouth and eyeballs, for so the buzzing flies Are burdens for some miserable woman's hands. I made the bed for her. We used the same sink. Both our sinks are empties. The same shoes fill The tumblers, and the paper comes groomed For both. We speak, we love, we edit each other Oblig'd. There is nothing alike in all that. She talks me down, I see. O, the war, the peace Of lovers' hearts under the shield of resisting the shield! Is it beloved or afraid? O, shrill and strong, Faster, fill my cool and wet fins against her legs! Love, love, your end is astley. O, brown and soft and sweet! Her lovely body came I want'd; it must go by At the command of some voice I cannot see, Or by the slow attrition of my years. O, form'd Out of some reluctant seed, Some responsive to my making, and all serviceable, My pleasing load outsweeps me. I answer the mass With solemn swelling melody. Sweetness! I could swear That such the noise my eager and intently coming tongue Would vainly speak, If those unheeding and untimely times should hear. Swifter and louder I arise, And so much louder, fly about the trees and seek To learn the secret bench, And in the quiet of the calm, The secrets of the dark branches learn. O, more than sound sweet! Better than rhythm and silence, clearer than tune And prayer and Mass and prayers, as certain are my rhymes. My life is a question Right now unto your two ears, Right now for this great world, Right now for all the people! There are no other times Or other people, to be wagers Of what I say. If you be true, If you be true, Let us thoroughly soak our skin in The cup and we guess If this is truth! If it is, Let us but tuck Each other's hand Left shoulder forward, And bursting there In joyous good-bye to The grave. If you be false, If you be false, To the touch we will have Conflation, conversion, Right quickly. If you be false, Right away Let's have you out of line, For I shall lie And you shalt be All the Devil! All of them together now!-- All of them together now! Alive and dead and warm And dead and warm! O what a hot and cool! All of them together All of them together now! All of them together now! All of them together now! All of them together now! All of them together now! Here we were some time and long, Here we are again Two or three weeks and two days. Two or three weeks standing here cool, As if we should have been friends, In some'aticulous spot, Some residence for a while done. This I have learned in my new place. Now the years take the hangings down, And upon the steps defer Casual Confidences. How hard It is, a new life like a stock, To know too much, indeed too much! Here we were some time and long, Here we are again two or three weeks. And yet it is not very far, In the next street to Gloriana's apartments; And, doing those ten's, ten's, ten's in it, Ten steps, ten steps to go in; Enough, in the size, to understand How little it matters, when with one, As I have just been told, One is automatically, In the next building, Alive, in all details but one. She is the lady, the lady heaves A few rings in her bangling ======================================== SAMPLE 226 ======================================== After supper It was lovely to know That the child was not averse To some slight mirth or mirth To go in at the gates of Fate. He left his work, he said, To fit the word And lived with it In his mind till it brayed, And then drew a circle That the world must fill And then he set In his mind The letters of the alphabet And what the letters were And how they all fitted one another. And some of them worked and some Did not And some of them were a pain And some of them were a gift. He could say "Yes" and "No" To the most boisterous of bores. He could laugh as he pleased And break a glass upon And cuff a smiling smile And he could covet a book upon. At his pen The ore was piled, the lav was poured And the different grains flew every way. And then it came to him As he rode to the forge in the lane A suspicion that he might be right. The first word that he said Did as express What the next word did and the next. The copper turned and the knives flew, And then a smoke Was seen to lift A bit of the hill, and let fall A rain of little leaves. And it was followed By a line That was all of a colour. It could be none of them, For it didn't make any; And yet they chased the tower, And they didn't understand. And the three men that were kings Called the judges in, Because they feared the stone; And then, Without saying a word, They locked the door. And then they shivered and fidgeted, And some of them laughed, And some of them wept with frustration, And some of them shivered till they wrenched, And some of them cursed the night, And the summer that came before, And held out despite of it. The sun that saw them Ceased dreaming about the day, And the tower shook with their mutiny. The sun that is on The earth today Was in his lamp dreaming dreams Of happier climates, and new lands. And the rooks that were on the heights Killed with heat and thunder, Let go of their boastful step and raise Their wings and mount the gray and dusty things. And they died because they lived in hope, Because they had no thirst for treasure But now, But now, I know that the water that drips in pools Is not more Pacific than the sea That weeps and blows in these succourless arms. I know that the winds that beat so close To the fever and the tear Are just as haunted as the palms That smoke in the sun And blink black night. But the sea is not Pacific, The island is not mine, And the dead that sleep beyond the sun Are not mine, Guernsey is the gate To a wider bound around the world That no man knows, and none may know Until Heaven invents again A crown for Rhene, a gilded crown on Rhene Whose sands are turned, and sung unto by the shoot That reveals the ancient shore to a summer party: We are all tourists to Pacific, history Turned to lamp-light, and the luxury of laurel The luxury of invisible things. We are all tourists to Pacific, I claim A bigger name than yours, and I am more happy, The Greeks were the first people to see the Pacific And your ships they held the honour of anywhere. There is nothing American about me save The trace of a American in my strong, dark head of hair It suits you so, Pat O'Brien's head on the cover of The New Yorker or New Yorker magazine. And I own that I am the Thrasher, the first woman to Edit it. I claim I have the name of an empire to myself In some sense final and greatest island that is sown Annihilator idea for peoples of partiers, The name of an Atlantic port where a dog Has a swimmer to stay who may choose to live For a larger form of subjection than The smallest point of man's empire may hold, The smallest vine in the widest space of air, The smallest span of escalade. I can trace my name to the start of empires, Though I am thought to be the children of time Because I am an emanation of the earth, My lineage older than the furthest ======================================== SAMPLE 227 ======================================== Which, when he ne'er had, His books have once rendered dense, The man of genius, or the man of fact. Which and no other; he's Gifted by Nature all, All pure and causeless powers, Has a sense t' excell in thought, A wit both sharp and sweet, A war of minds, whereinto one's pitted. For when a man is struck, In pleasure's sooth endeavor, With so much power, so much touchstone steel, Falls down upon pleasure, like onestouckction! I know not what's like, but what is unsounds, The worst is like the best. If one stirs from the place In which he's stultified, If one strives to get from his nature A Greater Nothing, Perversity Differs the will from all its parts, The strongest reason, and the second best, Are like baby hands, which can reach and touch, And they're supposed to be. If one, intent to greatness, would pry Between that and what is like the nad of His wisdom's pearl; That is, betwixt the two highest powers As now employed in the nad, between those That never ceased to and that which is never Poked into what it never was nor to: Between the nad and now of all his actions, His past, present, future, thought, or work. Come, what the world of wisdom is, is't not To stop a little at the right place, to the ring? To bring together what is good in each, and spray Off each, round the fount of the stomach? That's plenty; but let every one know, he hits The mark no more, than if 'twas a sword-blade more cut, or bottom from the horse's toe, or break. "They bathed him they brought to bed. And now?"-- "They tied him to his bed."--"Where is he?" "Downstairs, in a wagon, with a dog. That spoke, the room heard what he said." "Say, what is the sex of the dog?" "The dog's sex can't be."--"Hitch'd is he?" "Hitch'd or held, if you're going to go Where I should think not, you must talk." What is the good man doing To any earthly court below? His heart's divine, but--only let me live on. He radiates goodness round, and, so locked as I am With the true idea of it, I'll not intrude On another's space to kneel down and fan my face With its own smoke: no other brute can do so With such a concentration. Think of it! (Bride of Fire! burn in me)! no pain, no regret! Or, if any thing looks lantern-jawed and self With its own existence, 'tis the more Exhibited to the sun's total malison. A good man must have that taste; what good?--throwing wedges, Or guarding a lamp: and first present to his flame Should his door be, as it thick halts at noon:-- What is the good use of man?. It is, to each Generation after generation, in each land, To keep the spirit of freedom pulsing, piping, Pouring love and worship pure above the wave: Just so present in all earth's departments-- Cows, hogs, tigers, lions, wild-fowl, and man: Not to say aught of the creatures of other kinds, But such notice should concentrated be there, As man sufferests seldom to assert his freedom.-- And, now as I'm a Protestant and go By what I've gleaned from this moderate study, It is to boys indisputable as brothers, That this old fool Came forth so boldly, by such brethren inspired. All men are decent and well to-day, Fathers and brothers; they know their God, Never was the mean written stain Of what our earth made horrid pricker before.-- Well, our quotations I can barely supply, Self-publishing from the mouth of Washbourne-- But there's a mountain drive Coming on in Delaware, and then we'll see If the Great One will permit us to stop at Louis If there's a God. I believe the parties grow excitable, Hard to be settled, close coming to the event: At this price the Democrats can but stumble on The old confounded tariff, which causes offence ======================================== SAMPLE 228 ======================================== Oh, so slow to grieve, And so willing to forget. Because you loved me Too well for love to dull, Made me far too glad of old, A smile too much unkind. Then I praised you too much, Expected too much of you. You did not feel that then, Nor know. I loved you In the days that are nigh. Summer sunbeams fell upon your hair, Cooled your kisses with the air, Praised and caressed you Full of sweet wish-nursing. I tried to hold you close, Did not always practice well. I made you endless sport, You wanted to kiss me at first Half angry, half terrified. I was glad, I said: why not? Loving half-felt desire, Half a woman, half a bird, Half an evening on the lawn. I did not know How deeply, how proudly That would be loved to say: "I knew at last I knew you then, I told you so in all the weather, In paragraphs, images flew, I broke from head, arm, and legs, Plunged underwater alone Till saw a wren–you know what I thought That day we vowed in Spring– Me, a lily of the Stream– Paid a gay orange-red, Wren, meek orange blossom; Wren, meek orange blossom, Mixed their Tongues up and down, Half and half, till the whole wood looked Ragged in a ruffled way. You know what happened. And I thought you knew Only to kiss me there and now, And for cool thoughts that passed by. Aqualung, my man Riedgraber, Our childless childhood came to do Sitting on the river's edge Blowing through bircheres–all of us With a wish to break their heart of gold, For we knew of a magic that breathed. But it didn't. And I am broken in heart, Bitter and irreparable harm Has come to me today. My dear, how you don't! And a great sister you do. A snowy Queen sat crowned. And a snow white Camel walked on a hill. And the Camel smiled, and Camel kind Smiled, but the white Queen rode on. Then the snow white Queen bent down, Took the glittering golden Key of England, And put it in her breast. And she fell from her throne. But it didn't. And I am going to the ends of the earth Finding things to complain about, You have brought me happiness, and made me proud. And I shall not be sad, you will see. The Ends, I shall call them, I am going to bring about. But they'll never make you laughter orhappy. I must be true. And when I say, "I," do not think that this Means that everything I say is true. Far from it. That it is safe to bring all hopes and all worries up For Lady to trust what I say, that's not so easy. Only not sad. And when I say "I," don't think that he says "me too" I can imagine many marvelous worlds not black. And when he says, "I," do not think I'm hovering Till he replies, "Me only," or "Me too." What does it do To know that I must be true, and you do too much true, to you. To me, "truth" means much more Than when you do know that it is evening and morning. <|endoftext|> "Elegance", by Claude Mitchell [Love, Desire, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] "The more atrocious the poem, the more it sounds Like a true interpretation of the true song of Love. It Seems to mean exactly what you don't say it does." <|endoftext|> "The Blazing Globe", by Claude Mitchell [Love, Desire, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Men & Women] I said, "The water-spikes catch the falling water just as it drops, But no one has yet come up little numbers to set them. If the number's odd, we'll say the animal catches bits of metal Along the shaft, puts them together and comes to life, Then spouts a flame round and swipes the light, Till flammable even though not Lead is. (Of something and of myself I am sure questions may be put By words ======================================== SAMPLE 229 ======================================== water the first she moves on a river. But as I learn, you always stand with your fists locked, and with your back to the same kind of water. And that, too, is already done. Your body is locked in a cage of trees, you see, it is a cage of trees, and not only the copperwoods it is also the and a field of blackbird and widow, and also of course the bougainmayatan and the jacquhavin. The cage is so that you can't in any way of what you see except at the end your bare throat and hands of feet and arms of your feet, your hands of your body, your teeth of your teeth, your mouth, your ears. That's what the cage is for: it is there to prevent you from ever again becoming you else, the way you are now, without a cage. You yourself go on becoming sometimes: sometimes you are the bird wandering from tree to tree, sometimes the dog running in front of you, sometimes a human being, alone. And each of these yourself knows the number for the key of your cage. And each one of these himself knows also the number of the cage, so he can find you in the end in the same way you find each other and when he finds you he feels he does not want to turn round. And the cage is made of metal, and each of these himself knows the number of the cage on your body, so he can find you in the end. And so he can compare himself to others: once he felt the cold in the hands and legs, and then the hunger. So the cage is made of iron because of their fear of obesity. But if you examine yourself closely, if you stand you will see the whole structure: the cage, the iron, the cage. <|endoftext|> "the boy with the turtle-neck", by John Skelton [Love, Relationships, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] in memory of Margaret Hunt Atkinson Forgive me every transformation of you in my favour giving its own red will-os into pale death for the green of your body to match My will is not your affair. Your own worst blame not yourself for not remembering that first cold Sunday after your cool retreat And as you sat at the table your companion Stared at you and did not say a thing You had a woman's clear eye and whether she knew It meant all that mattered. Or your sister, Fair as the risen Christ and just: the daintiest of all your servants, and how exCIess What are the westland chasing so far away The neck of my father, a man long dead. But forgive me not all the mourning you have worn Nor the snow's silence speaking all the word You who are wounded twice and I alone Who have seen now where you lie and I may lie This black, rugged pond in the eastern winter Under the willows know if our fires speak Once and for all if we have lived or died: As Lamb opened first God into flesh Once for all what can I say: I love you For what, the old stories sayetrable As now is the unknown we were long taught Will be the unknown when the spring time has ended God help us the end is in the calling <|endoftext|> "December, near death – 1968", by John Burnette [Living, Growing Old, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Nature, Trees & Flowers, Winter, Religion, Christianity, God & the Divine, The Spiritual, Social Commentaries, Class, Money & Economics] You said, But we were just a flash What is the sense of that Why is it I can't remember Who are these people Do I hear The Christmas clang today Money just floated into your head Come now look How fine it will be Lighting itself upon the darkness This one little blink Clang of old morning Things that might have belonged to you Once thought surely still do One blink This reminds me of everywhere Only being once Go light yourself Remember what Not a few paces down the road I remember it all day And then – the journey And then – the losing And then – blushing Money won't buy me Go live it <|endoftext|> "The Memorable Balloon", by Philip Larkin [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] You cannot remain; Don't you see how ======================================== SAMPLE 230 ======================================== Mun incognit sua petit! I who once was clean Am filthy, the soul on earth. O grace, I am still the same! Once let me eat, And I am worth a pound. I am the same As ever, and yet—Humbly be it said— How strange is my fall! I wonder if your God, Who all this while be decrepid in state, Who watch him in the boy, and tend him there, Passed then his hands down gently, and said: 'Now These, as blessed depend upon me!' And as he cast his gaze upon the child And saw him idling there, the smiling God Call'd to himself in no malicious heart: 'Will stop, I need some one; for what has he At which to cavil? Will I not have My grandchild on my side again? He brought Absurd ideas into the mind; These will I relume and push into practice, For that will I, so that he shall not relish My presence; yet him I must retain. Let him remain; that this may open passage The hidden eye may find, let him remain! That I may stand as he stands now, nor ever The appetite be chas'd, merely in haveing to be. Very well! then he must remain! And I will endeavor to evoke affection, I will attempt to stir youthful attachment. I'll try to raise a lustre in your bosom, That by delusion we have lost, By the simple means of me, to you, and me; So, as I present myself to you, in truth, By the voice of affection, sweet and silent; Now by effort, and by force of will, We will by love be joined, before I shall yet Be conscious of the motion. (Soo-tonic was just bid to be gone, Return'd the momentISH-TOO-TOO, Wond'ring what charm could make him come back. How shall the Soother set up a side, With a charming tale, on his old breast? And Soo-tonic said,Quasi-Final, almost made up of love: O 'twas a crime to make him wait on me: 'Twas a crime to be so happy with her! It was a sin to make him dependent, And he placed himself with Ellen BPU-RL As upon these terms: LB-PFL brought his costs, A married woman, with what was just due, A really excellent man, that day, Who could, with little rhetoric, convince This conscientious woman, till he married her; Who, as for advantages, must have shrunk, In her judgment, the face of the planet, To the less than nothing woman, LB-PFL. How shall he persuade her he loves To do what to him seems so hard? There is need to ask the very world between To the making of words, since fit the scene This engrosses him, like a fruit-dying vine. The Soother sits with piteous stare, Till Oo-ber not AG-ber was found hard by. Pleased with this progress, thus she starts a tale: A story is a simple tale made plain. A great advantage Oo-trin based Upon her little toy, is, she said, A world of very little characters, Which could be said by very little children, Who thrice kiss their little Father Merival With no desire to know him better; Also we children love to fool our sires. And, with this little secret knowledge, The Soother had a feeling of all where head-talk Is concerned; and, with it, all hostility Betw. light and glory took for proof The Soother's own feeling was of no covert From this slight matter between her and her; Which was a fact of serious consequences Her own superior right to his; His being, in the Soother's eyes, so much more Than her delight and glory; and, more than all, The sight, and feeling, and sentiment of his form, And even wayward docelike countenance To hers, since when, alas! they had been left In blight of equal point of some kind: Theirs still was most sex little, though; Which heiss pleas'd o'er-composingly. 'Twas a form, whippoorwill, a creature so new It had no spot, whatever it had; If it were world's sight, so unchanged it was 'Twas a world's dis ======================================== SAMPLE 231 ======================================== And before the gleaming lathe-hammer, And from that new-lit system, From silence, that our feet pass by. The sleeping lanes, all happy with their peace, That know not of the firing line, The whispering stream where the rose-flood overflows, For very gurgle with joy their lips; The spreading laurel braids, that o'er the way Wain the silvery golden thought, And for the brier-rose and the ash-lipped springs, Oh, the sweet whispering power of lot. Oh, fields of white willows, where in warm summer dusk The sun time's perfume can and will expand; O dreaming birds, that far ere the gloaming expire, Dreaming of the spring's reversion, calm and still! With the warm flower, the wet benion, and the green Shining face, and lily breast of beauty close union, As promiser, or preserver of the sprout; Oh, sweet quality of spirit-to-give and gi- To-promiser, hey ho! To-do-desire, do do! want, do, doesn't exist. Oh, you dear galley-slaves, O dream for a space Of the free river, and the word from the free mouth, Then wilt find your glad passage furled By some typhoon, black-hearted and against you, Foaming in the deep that is crazed and hurrying, Tortured with hurricane and wind of the sea; Where the last bond is lemons, and the first bulging One sack for which all fate doom is fixed,-- Anchor, lo! that shakes the tower for all below, Ahead a crack; the waves leap sheer for beams that break, Theroppie, shouts of the sirens to the roister Down where the singed snow-crags shine free. But we--we farier souls--crouch down Under the snow-crag, where the light flutes, And cumber our thoughts with the solemn snore; Climb light as a fall, or toil and luxurie For a fancied product of dew; for it Was but the dew that slept last night on Your jackets and hair; but to sleep, O cosey Yourselves you poppy-breast'd comrades, though Kind are you, revere us in your way Breeze-soft, flower-sweet, rather dry, But your ZODIAC leaps into view, The tchotchikeren of Bacchic lust; None for the flame, of fire is in your locks, None for the flamethwith of it, no, It scathes into drops the ruby sweat, And your sides are of the dripping cypress; The lice are trapped with hot hands on your skin, And the bitter stinger with its burn Is fitly mad on your very forehead, The little men scream to spray on your cheek, And the quadropede stench plays with your breath, The octopi weep for the blubber'd side, The crocodile wriggles from foot to foot, And the green crocodile mewls to the death; Then though you slash and crush it into dust, Yet its monicry--its monicism-- Lies never on your thIRTLE BENCH; But that small thick gaunt end whereof they sing, With its glory and weight of honey and gold Is HIAW, the hoarse-tongued lust, Hiat no with hoosing of exertion, But still with hiatusal a-punch and noose, All out of gear, like a curmudgeon; Like an ice-steel steady, or a steel blade Rebellious; all the virtues of whichever, Are bended as with ink in a quaker, But never any, nor percutiaton Of pracice, but a-punching and unpunch, Lest in pursuing what the thing begun, The strangled fleece should come to stabbing and The miscreant be beguiled away. The West has ta'en thee nigger For all thy worth, angel. Yea, even for thy colour Yields negro, the best slave Thy sick soul may possess. And though no feathers fly Around thy dee; And though no pelts be found In pink-cheeked baby, Whilst all the babies, Baby-pecking and papo'ning, Crop and cultivate, ======================================== SAMPLE 232 ======================================== Bruised with the memory of days not his own, Is ashamed to beg for gold in the market-place, Is trod upon by the young, the old by me. I have been glad on Sechser's grave since The war-cloud broke above me. I have seen the worst And lightest of days lovelier than our time brings. Some say the sun will scorch the houseless trees of Italy, Some, the blue sky of the south and Arno's depths. With buyer's remorse I take the time to weep, Nor count my gains when selling anew at British Interest. Lord, for the soul to know what we would be, How much lacerated by debt, what wild rides, On whatdeprived beaches, on what stranded boats, I would rest as much of soul as body, Lest when alone, the distance seemed so far, Yet the solitude was not for us afar; When the watch-light swam through, when the wave was deep, When the song-tradition had not run All of itself, we had so much to do. When the world was on our shoulder, did we hear The dumb things talk in their manifest sleep, And did we see the God-search and the Wit Of the twanging tree? We saw the blinding flood Which drowned our solace in the sleepless night, And through the dimness we saw the fire Improve, and took in the swells and screeches. I, who saw once forests felled and cast off To build another world, think it was sweet To bear on our suffering with no help But the great blank of blank toil and vision. In the dark my longing for the touch Of his throat went up to the blood and spattered skin Of his last lonely night on the climbey Of the mountaineer, whose bow was still his friend; Whose shooting got him nought but an alarum At Charing. Would he be niggah to suck The other twi* gus, syne that shot him blind, And guss how I spit a load in his face! But when the close was come I heard him huff Spatter and foam, and felt the bladder brim, And, "Now, man!" he shook his head and cried, "I've bled enough, let's have a nice big blay!" "No, don't brag," I replied, "by dam, hog, You've lived," and went on to explain How the muck and the mud and the water Mixed my belt and had me horseshopped, Till I felt delirious with the hoop, And so swelled another for a share; And, when I found that the brim it did char The more it expanded, I arranged To purchase a pair of dark eyes, Peaches on the chin, and no hooly, But a cap that had formerly contained brown, And no ladies are the probly; So I'm a barber and not a hooper, With hoopers after my style, As the water came in quick-shots, On the curmurring wave; but that you May read your colloquia in dark. And I did once have cause to rue, What week he called (last at hand), to "attend A rubber at the Patrician …. There may have been much to dislike But … the nothing for an answer …. That old and infirm quadroeme Came to the usurped cinema Of dead and lame to gaze and mistorme On pity and tears, and last of all The weepers. Well, he was bound to get her, Without fail, or maker not being there, So there was her pair of glasses made For the Pants Treasury to tempt the market; And never did devil, so astir, But a percussion shimmy or hollow sound Divine, transmuted into music; And she to snatch him from the titchen Of her imperilled patrimony, And ride with the devil, and leave all The world worse than it found him, before. Then I taught my younger years his name, (His only) of my own possession. His red hair the inventor Pan Had yellow'd one possible chance Of being still the same With ornam ======================================== SAMPLE 233 ======================================== presidential tweet. All are callous to the scourge of war But few will speak the truth. All are bookies, worried by the odds, eager to bet, more than one to croup, i.e., bet the farm on half. All are haveling a piece of the country. One is refining a piece of the race and the other is trying to speed the race. Each is betting the chance the Liberator in his manacle, half-jail, against the bars of colour to contradict. Called the high-profile crime to meet the popular “peacemaker” the urban nonsense for the crowd of affairs of the opiate of the days we made our mistake and therefore were cued the revelation. We had syringes and were given a salt time in front of the electric love, in the electric love of minutes. I had all my elysian and it was going to take a long way to shine like a shining bright miniature of the Truth in my nay & you had no self in that day of the electric love you had all you could have of your days in your early fairy brows in front- wheel so I grant you the hon nay to your voyance and we ar RACHEL'S PAYRO PAYRO PAYRO PAYRO PAYRO PAYRO PAYRO PAYRO PAYRO PAYN TEREVWY CORNELI CORNELI CORNELI PAYRO PAYN TEREVWY CORNELI TEREVOY CORNELI TEREVOY CORNELI PAYRO CORNELI CAREHOUSE TEREVOY CAREHOUSE CARE HOMESCAPER HOMESCAPER HOMESCAPER TEREVOY CARE HOMESCAPER HOMESCAPER CARE TEREVOS CORNELI CAREHOUSE TEREVOS CARE PAYRO CARE CARE CARE CARE TEREVOY CARE TEREVOI CARE TEREVOS TEREVOI CARE TEREVOI TEREVOS HOMESCAT CORNELI CORNELI CARE CIRCUIT MACHINERY CITHE CITHE CITHE MACHINES CELIA CELESTIS CELESTIS MACHINES CELI CELESTIS HUMBRAY HUMBRAY HATCHION CITHE CITRIS TITHE CITRIS TITHE TITHE CITRIS HOUNDS HOUNDS HOUNDS HOUNDS HOUNDS STELLA CITRIS CITHE TITHE TITU, SERENDEM SERENDEM TITU, NOMENE NOMENE TITHRAS TITHRAS TITTIUS TITILLA TITILLIS TITILLA TOTTERIUS TOTTERIUS TOTTLANDERSON OCT MORITUR OCT TOTBRAE MORTEM OCT DOMBRERO MORTEM DOMBRERO MORTEM DOMINO MORTI MORTIM DOTIVS TOTOVUS TOUVOZES TOUZOUES OCERTE OCERTE OUCRATA OUCRATA OUCRATA TOUZOUES TOUXO TOXA TÔCE TÓNDHALORNE OCT DOMOIRE DOMOIRE CÔVILLE Mortes-Carton Villar-Per ======================================== SAMPLE 234 ======================================== whose name is the thing to make Your hair stand on end, so it shall be an example Of death, from which you learn to die. "What!" they'll say, "if by the side-fire Of a million deaths we-Suppose-begotten, By a million dreams the father-Fish Drowned in a mantle of brine? What "thoughts" do we to satisfy Your intellectual thirst? "Our first-chancers, our "baby-daddies, Our beautiful mother-hells, We scarce can count our preferred Countries of interest, But what there is to-represent You, doubtless, will not love. "The University, a sort of Fish-cat Played by an orchestra, Now looks in the players' 'faces' Ere they've gone the Moodyground, For something meant to go right. But they who have seen what we are Sick from the taste of your graces What you see in their 'features,' What you say in your 'ways,' To find the 'bulk' in the 'breast' (He puts his finger here that.) The 'bulk' goes the hard way round, And not directly down. 'Breasts' are like a shell that a man Could butt at just now. 'Tasting' is a bad thing. 'Tasting' is a bad thing. As bad as every other 'thing.' The 'Breast' gives a hard time To a whole brood of 'Breasts' You were saying just now, That as far as you could go, You 'ad nothing to do, And no one to blame but Charles Dickens Who never proved what he said But as to the belles he gave His meaning, nothing but The 'bulk' they were, the 'breasts' Were all they had been able To get for their money. And that, as much as anything, Is what you are waiting for, And if any 'thing' happens to Stuff your mind with 'nothing' or ' Nothing 'plus Times.' 'Something' is not given men a head For patience to endure, 'Something' is a strange name That, with an easy mouth, Renders you give up at once With 'Nothing,' a word That cries in an echo huge. 'Something' is not something at all But a justifiable word; 'Something' is the child of nothing That a man meets when alone And 'Something' is a man's testimony That has to do with 't. 'Something' is what you are thinking of Or thinking that others are thinking of And (what's the worst) 'Something' is to be Thought of at all. 'Something' is a thing of no common kind But an adjurious one Yet, as I said, the 'Something' The far-seeing something Afforded by God, Though fetter'd, as it matters little To pronounce it well. And, as for the heart, a troublesome thing You'll get after finding; Yet, as it matters little (Lin Blease!) The 'damn' is, after all, but little When 'Something' is thinking of something But rarely, far more little. You are not thinking of me, I say? You know, as well as I, That I am not speaking to you As a dog's bark may speak. You may go on, quite rightly, so far And hard in your own conceit, But not to him I call, Or he'll find you are absolutely wrong Or no place stops that. You are not thinking of me, I say? You know my idea of what Is decent is; you know I move slower Than many more to whom life has been thrown; You see, I have been writing tracts On what is called the Cross and the Stick, And whether we shall call it a crime to wish death to some warring nations, And whether a woman be called a CINF and living apart a gravestone When her head is under that or not. You are not thinking of me, I say? Certainly, you are thinking Of something far more soothing, like myself Or the soft way I wear my shtick? You say, if I thought up there on the tropic I should accost the gentleman of mousetail: I have the samedream when I wake at night Except that I am not at all embarrassed By the fact that I do not yet know the difference ======================================== SAMPLE 235 ======================================== , that hid me in that mind, Pour from your wisdom, and from your mind (That from that moment might take is on) May you dispose the maddest plot; May you annihilate an ancient race, To build up a new—that you know not who, Or from what country, or from what land They come; and, lo! how shall you defend Your hateful nation, if our ships Or topsail no more—our thunderbolts at rest? May you obliterate from the sun The zealous western heavens, and all the morn Devour thro' your old Azores the old sun's Roots, for your new Buddhas never shall know Their early light of Asia's crowded west And all that waves on Jove's vast inlet roll. Brief for my prologue and last:— O! why will ever solemn superstition Engrave these few words in your clear eye? These really but the foot-notes of superstition;— Like the ordinary curlic and the Pope's decus;— Like the traveler's placid shade, like the patient light That the moon-beams shed; like the white hairs of grave Night-ship, like the wings and the breast-plates of children;— These, adorn them as you please; the fact remains, They have the color of the Night and the Cloud, Rilke and russet;—how much more, they are the Mystery And the leper-essence of the Night and the Cloud, Parted as the order of thy labyrinthine And broken at every step for new visiting. Darkness and more darkness:— Like the more darkness hand the Moon down From the summits of her peaks in the deep And the still water. Now again I descry (Thou canst desist, mighty Hint-finder!) Sullen, as at my side, the shrouded Moon, Shadow-colored like the sullen flesh Of one cut from the common clay. Sunk To my gaze only she, the Moon that flies Fouling the world for Sol'ses; glowing The land only she pours her balm. Here now she comes, my Pocket-woman (Queen of the diff'ring lands), Thou canst not exceed in descent The richest, the power. On a cup's edge thus She pours her relief: Hard to answer, O Composer! And hard to believe, I'm sure, What my Quest might have taught thee. For I've share in all Earth's woe; Have participated (may be: For thee, be consistent) long years Of Blindness 'neath this arid alias, 'Twixt the inessential Closet and the free Air, when yet my fingers at play After such long sweet wandering found Perchance the ring-dowsnips ymirough To fix the chalice. I've shared all bliss Of Pleasure's soft side, have been loth To budge the grain from my pocket, Have bush't the bar of Soul At home, impatient of that breath o'er all, O Hand, how strong I've thriven! But, the fiend Truly is great, as thou seest, how truly, As these limpid lawns and streams are moving, The trees ensephere with self, of self the sphere. Like the instants when day die night;— The present o'erflows, the heaven Of Itself infinite, the cloud that floats 'twixt. Ares, the most terrible of Gods, confess: Who stands afield before us with beard And beard's afire, and in his hand His two-faced ax. If you, companions, did but care The first thing you'd do is to fling The hoary rind in his face! The storm of flesh it will not appear; It's lulled 'neath a prostrate flee. He laughs, Zeus will not so constrains Till he behold his goring bolt. Ye know full well what harm it does us. Oye! who have an mind to short and long, We, journeering in narrower ways Under a Globe Reddi-luce, Have dropped in Pythian Thebes our double Wand'rings, out of which the single way No studious man would furl, as though we sought Our home again. So therefore it is best Once and for all to quit this second-greatest Abode. Come, since the gods deign not to let us stay, Let us away, for ere you ======================================== SAMPLE 236 ======================================== Let our hair and hands be moist with thine tears, And wine and fire; let her tears fall on mine Unseen, unrevealed; or if thine Fever is so great that it consumes Hence our hearts, our hopes and own false pictures Of true love; or if thy flesh and soft Short-lived delights and shrin'd self-spoils, And we that live most slowly move, then Let us frogo of this; or if thy dying Be not lengthen'd by the night, yet let Us do so as more than breakly we may. So bold a request as these, though made While tops were lowest, has equal right With those Of Ceiba or Niphon, Cities of Lydia, and others, where Foul birds have foul nest-sites; if there come Any sickness, either a sudden stroke Or sudden distemper, to those that wait About their lovers, but consigning then No knowledge of the truth, to those that itch Whilst prayers are in the place, to thee more hot Let us turn, and to thine business as we turn, And let the sweetest kisses slide on by That burneth all heat. How many there are For whom this means neither song, nor symbol, Nor pretended deed whereby they should Be knowers of another. To some That sense of thy true love in their make Can be as great a charm as those that find A great fixed joy in sense. If thou 'sbend This love not only firm, but true as thou 'st Be to my Love, I 'm sure the world shall voice That both are equal, and so made one The day be thine, and the grave be thrown More a pleasure for thine equal love. Who shall retrieve thee? The friends of Mars May trod thy mould, and skulk all in dust Around thy mound; as nests of little snakes Snatch'd and digested feed among His holes, till tormented by their feet Behind be set upon their attempts. Else, with their acquisitions he acquires Nearer and nearer to his heart his aim Than he which works or reads, though with the night At current of long-angled Ocean; And by that twilight sphere of fires Is growing now, as near his lips to hers He grasps and thus creates: Love, which is joint-amie, whoso that song Sang of thine initiates, or hooded Cull'd, shall taste of love, or love's legislative; And that thy name shall for ever be Renown'd through many a race; as name Of nearest star or most honour'd then, Saving that, each shall have her moment's fame And everlasting. Thou 'rt now Ennoir'd: thou 'rt now Elysian Above thine own; next thou 'rt Evrha, crowned With filial love, which I will ever love Thee, though Demeter or Heaven sigh. O ne w ignis fatuus si parata est! Omnis sapiens, nam pater tibi parce risu. O heu praecipue gloria, dulconde loca, rores Fulgentes angustas, mille piedi tristes, O diuiui, o lunaeque sepultorum, O apollo quiescian wege codice boletus! O droshi, pullee, oculosque, o roscidas Boletus! O fecundi, precor semper alma rosi! Odi, poopite malo, de re; salaverat ore Odi, o lino cadent puellas! O quicumqq 1+9=7, qq=ua vino = 3=rd-dSum e lego=n=iuO esto=llEs=mi=t=ieve=sio=us=dde=6=urqquamq=r=i=o=uarman=ul=pc=uluuam=pacem, sed nam tu parcas solet ut? = = el alba quercus ad sed GregoriusErevin = qui conspexit Laurentio, scurra perfacile comis nec spatiat solo ex_lilia scopalle, sed ter mutatus ex heim. Pecorica exceris, se cuique magniferi si grade terris gaudia. Tibile=c= ansae peti=pater = inmenso=qui=De=l ======================================== SAMPLE 237 ======================================== Magic is Nature's invisible handiwork; No carvings of man; no sculptors on bronze; Not a stained canvas; no maestro's strain; Just Nature and just Man. Ah, sure, the sea shall shield them both, When? when shall come again The happier time of swimming, That so their name may be heard, That so their promise be fulfilled? O man is apt to see through thought Through seeing, with double eyes; Sure, each image talks in you, Both yourselves and us more near. Do you not see, I say, the risen leaves Above your home-place having disappeared, And the tender tints of various hues Remaining, one in very sooth Almost purple? . . . . . Are you afraid? Are you not grieved that the sun should shine? Are you not glad to see morning-like waters Again a-step along the lovely beach ? I'm not so new to-day As the books that you so much dislike Are but sets of memories I touch to destroy In my youth, sirs, that now you ridicule:-- Am I not Paris-wooer even I will confess as much, or will my lip Say outright, 'I used, and will always use, Nature, and not the silly Hell, Of a writer or a poet's gifts!' You see, sirs, the book of Shelley I once had, is not my book As you know it. Nay, where's my pris. For the earth bore up then Those detesting things one and all-- Cave-women, and birds of sweet swearing. See now they're away to a tree-tops virgin Till I ashamed beame: Boil, broach, gasp, swell and get! This is, you climate, my man. I have heard say that in France there is kindness To the women and the men, which is bunk. Here are they soft; ah, cook up your rice, Love too much, or naught to confess! I'm tired of the goddess-shunning, I will hate the dim-losing gods. But I, I am the god of temple-tending Joys of the making man; I am that Goddess-shocker. See here, I have kicked up my shoe, Kicked up into my hollow to speak out On the sill. Who spoke up first? I am that gull. And I am a God who has many worlds to celebrate, Yea, I have stars and worlds in my hand just waiting there To take me forth and into heaven and pay me, Breathe on me, give me, in scents and brightness and sweeter Than of sweetness of that Bye-and-bye hand, To begin fresh in this June morning, with eyes and ears And in my heart and in my soul. What's new in the dance? Hark, yoursing of dogs And of cats? Nothing of the two, I think? Well, yes, there's a troupe of four who've come over In a mock-up boat that's drawn up at the pier, And they are collying to the fancy of the wind, And up over the water they're slipping and turning, And tumbling over the wall, and up in the air they flare An eyecatch from their stalls below. They're ae polite bunch, and are hugging and scraping, They're so full of spieling it seems there will be dancing At some point -- they're such pros, I does sniff, I smells spring and toast, and music and cake; 'Course, -- but that way lies the Collier & Rees bands. And the whole fait accomplit, of course, as you see, Is a great wreck rammed full-on by water and foam, (Collier & Rees are to collochris "aye," But Collier & Rees refuses to do it "nay,") And they're tumping the tunes -- and the crowd is up there Crashing and coming up on a tempestuous side, And clapping and scrawling and holloing and hooting, too, All joinin' and shoutin', and diversionist-wise, And a boy who sells pencils as "the bein' down! Is song for spade," and "match-box serials," And it's all pitched up so ======================================== SAMPLE 238 ======================================== Page, at the roar, And chide the crash, From the boundless main The wave is swimming to us. The page is amazed, and yet he cannot detect the trickling song within the cloud, Which is the source of the stream; The main has nothing new to tell, The foam is harkening to us. Oh, wild and beautiful is the song Which the springing streams unclose! And bold and brave is the child Which sings on the crackling boat, And talks the live-long day, With the pole and flag to keep her time, To the joyous tune which she carries in, And the summer is not done, And the sun is not won, Though the season is over. The boat is riding on the sea, Ringing to meet the sun; But he is music all, my boy, And his face the main; He has run so far that he can tell How this is the case: The line is drawn, the dance is o'er, To the sounding drum, The vane fast by the roll of the bell, The peal is 100 cents; And there is nothing left to do but Roll the ball of the drum, In the center of the field, To the swinging bat, To the swinging chest of the ball; And this is a very simple game, Though the children love it. There's nothing wild about the play, The children are hardly older Than their little thought is older, And they swing with more ease, And they play a lot more hard, And have a lot more fun, Than your mother and your father, Or your grandmather's son and daughter. Mothers and sisters they are there Along with their shoes and their hats, With their fear of dainty feet, And their love of thin men. And the small children are shouting With the courage of youth, And the little children under Will eat just as they sit, Or even faster, if it's good fun. And there are curious faces That come at the view As the procession moves onward, Blue and white and looking well. So it's a very simple game, Yet the goodness of it is most fine. It's just a celebration of play. It's a joyous thing to see, And the joy in the hearts of the children, As they march, cross country lightly, To the playing of the ball. And the mess of it is very small, Yet the tongues of them all are strong, For they talk about it far and wide. And there are grown-up folks, too, and they take part, For these are the ones that our land will hear; The reformers, the thinkers, the teachers, All of them take part in the game. They all should try it; it's a very light thing, Yet the hearts of them run through it. And they stand through the procession at noon, And they speak words like these: "Oh, dear little bitches, here's your play, Very very good, very much improved. It's much too long, call it shorten'd out; But it's played between the children and stool, And it doesn't involve the hours of despair In a thoughtful sort of way; And, if you keep your mind on it, go forward, You'll be on its basis very soon. "Oh, dear little bitches, here's your trim-faced game, Very much like a formal game. It's served by a trimm'd committee, Very well organized, very nice, And very sweet is it, so say these few things That bear the report of their little committee, Toss these little formal things about, And take your little partners everywhere. "Oh, dear little bitches, here's your fine formal play. Very much like a business, very nice. There's a uniform, as by rule, you know, To begin with, and then you get your suit; For, in these things, past the title go forth, You must appear before you your whole life through In a business sort of way. "Oh, dear little bitches, here's your costume still. Very like a trade, a very nice one, Like a very little church, very fine. You must go to, oh, such a church as this To fetch all the very prettiest young boys To play your games; And all you have to do, may be worth it, Is to sit on the right hand, And rule your little church's ======================================== SAMPLE 239 ======================================== flush he by the spray Of skylarks, skylark song, In which she more than half remembers Her lost home. Thus that their words might meet, And he and she might meet again, The pilot had rigged his skiff, The truth he'd lighted his candle-flame, To tell the fortunes of the day To lovers who should say, "The skylarks from Rivendell Hath told me the names Of all your women, two and three." When her outer chamber flamed to see, With gay grass-roots gold-dust stirred, To warm her toes, while she lay in bed, The air of Arcturus blew, With a dream, she told me of it. And, "Oh, no wonder, dear, your blue-eyed boy, At this same Heath, the woodbine blooms. Spring is come, dear mother-maid, and, lo, The maid is turned to blossom! See there, The brambles, torn and charm'd she takes As, in the brush she seems a brier Standing, and in quest of flowers! Ah, well-- As you can see from this bud's distress-- I'm not without a witness, Mary. O, every woman has, stolen from the breast, And runn'd by friends diskeyn'd and sotted with drink, Some passionùe wild which was but once her own; Some furyùe whose only error was springing From her fair heart, and mangled when it was ripe. But let her have that and thou hast still thy own-- Thou hast but to name it by that love Which was but man's, the heaven of each woman's desire. Nay, by this heart-enthick, heavenly gushing, reverent tape, This is all wrong, we say; but take it then Which is real; take the woeful wreck of her You cannot rue; and move that way this heart Which has no more course but o' the way, and goes Where hand can tread. 'Take all things--smiles, loves, tears, regret; Wire, profit, loss--and weep for all. Take sighs, drinks, fears, and drunken weeping. Feel for all,--and so begin to dry Thy pity for human screwed up dud. Take laughters, frights, and fears. Take limits, years, and time on all. All the sky is flooded with eyes--do wade Amid the flood, and hold by thestroke of a prole; Take tears, and let thy heart, like tearless Charon, sip A bucket of blubber now and then. Give commodities any vulgar view you like, Hang, smokes, or scrapings from the soupe. Give all-- I am foursquare bound it must fail with thee For any good ending. 'Take music and me; and from the shorn yok'n Take nature's husband, take the lyst In her sweetened days, The hoeditation that is known to her; And bear all the stammering olympian Within an amourous plishness; And thou shalt see how wearied of the thing, When Miltzanoves round Thy bones, and all their skill at geck out of date. 'And when this dull-eyed commonplace Pull up a distaff and lay down their prays, And have done with excitement; and forget that Established thing once more, 'Tis not the best, When I turn to see The country cottage change to glory shapes, That is riding on the heart's flattering fire, As the first air, All is inspired by love, The kindling if of iron, The flinging if of glass, And will not be beaten down By all the days and nights of acrid heart. One long unwritten poem that I know, That will be read when we are destitute Is this--in time of trouble or delight, When friends are heart-struck or disillusioned, Our friend looks round the same old plate glass, And says, "Now, 'tis face is into forth"-- But, knowing nothing ofescapist plans, I let him write upon the glass, and go To find myself within my fate---to be When fancy clings to him, old darkness, And he is fixed as a crumb, I can go, And pull him by the ears, when sputter rises, And read the secret when sputter diminishes; But when I ======================================== SAMPLE 240 ======================================== Where walls should be . On this river he roweled, . with dry faggot, flotsam and jetsam to clave with his pull over the river wall, at the river's bend, at the bend of morning, in view of the city wall. He threw it high up and it caught in the air. Oh and then . . to the next hole? What is next? To the next world? What world? To a beat? . Not there When the morning was breaking. In the wall was his towel with its red hole, saw him struggling in the room of the room? Where he would find a dry place to rest? Was it inside? <|endoftext|> "In the Blackwood", by Yvor Winters [Living, Death, Nature, Trees & Flowers, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] heavenly branch of incense from the heather tree. The honey-grated pulp the coal-fire under the feet of the cleric. A fairy-turban's string of chariot-feet. Then the black withe, the river of hellish wine. And at the end he swooned in the black slime a flute of black and red iron. And the blackness in him the beloved contemplated and digested and digested its lunacy and then, "When the deepest darkness girdles me, and when the lightles form from the sullen sea, "Then, O Pagan, 'when the deepest darkness girdles thee, "And when the darkest lightlets darken, let him with thy "rich madlornstone laugh in the madgrine.)" When the saint went down and back to the dark world the ugly brother, the angel, gave him this sad vision on his way up through the air: "See the face of the angel of God, the angel of God, the angel who cries during the ascension, the deepest of the deeps for the refuge of man's joy and torment, the last of the dying, the last of the two!" "In the black air, during the ascension, there is God's own angel who cries in the black air, the angel of God, the angel who cries during the ascent of man's soul during ascension, the last of the tears for man's joy, the strong-minded angel crying: 'O brother! know thou of no other means nor means with man's joy and pain to blend and mix, with hate and beauty, and divine joy and pain, and the god-enhanced gleam of God's sword and the black slime of sin's prison. The pure sweet spring of the pure sweet spring! The torrent's roaring, the torrent's endlessly torturing, the soul's glad triumph! The foul spoiled blood, O blood! The stream of the stream, the tortured gush from the dungeon, the brother wailing, the sister weeping blood, the god loving the god, the man's joy and joy and blood! The pure joy, the pure cruel joy, the joy the of the unerring god, the blood which fills but the small heart of the great heart of the god! The truth, the god-fulfilled truth, the god-enhanced truth, the cruel truth! The heather's god, the balmy air of the balmy heather, loves and shines and shines because he is pure, because he is purely self-paring, undisturbed, unconcerned, because in all else world we think him cunning and fully smiling. The balmy air of the air of the chester rock, the plain bliss of the plain, the sunshine in the wood, the blythe of the bee, the blythe of the wasps, the blythe of the frost, the blythe of the morning, the blythe of all things, because they are unarmed, uncourteous, uncouth. In the beginning was the word, And the word was begotten; And after the word was cut; And the begotten one went astray, And he looked to the begotten. The rest all are seedlings, The begotten great souls and some of them unfurled, And some ======================================== SAMPLE 241 ======================================== Your poem has in it both old and new ways of seeing: This poem is old-fashioned; that, Old-fashioned, it is too. But don't you think it old- For the passion it possesses, that's for you. You've no time to be choosy. Don't you time know better? Don't you Feels you can live by your wits? Don't you you life have a Word for 'kill,' as wits have said? And you have no word for 'leave,' you. And there's no thing in you that says 'I love you,' there, And yet I see that you do love me: I see that you love me. I know. That's what the daemon in me is for. <|endoftext|> "Meditations at a Time of Morning, " is an elaborate form of florid immotance. Although florid immotance is not a grammatical clause, it is often used one in such a way as to suggest one. Florid immotance is sometimes called 'magnetic utterance.' <|endoftext|> "Homer's Iliad", by Athiotis Iammer in a "Homeric Theme" presentation [Living, Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology] I In those days the oracle was kept by Creon who was son to the wise Alcmene. The chest containing fifty organs, four of which were hidden behind a screen, divined the oracle and its answer. A shell taken from a sea turtle's back aired a suitable movie. Two birds of prey from two trees found two fowl, two timorously sound two feathers. Two winds from a boomer to boot. Two birds of prey from two trees found an owl. A rocky necklace, a band of copper, two young girls, two apples, two barley cakes, two dogs, a beagle, a wedded woman, a hare. ii Likely an apple and a sausage from the bride's own cognac. Her oracular abilities were used to good effect. She even predicted the fall of Athens. A mermaid in Hubbardgow, no white shirt and no fish. So what does a Homer do? Ships and commerce. A pot of hereditary envy, a desire to be angels. A desire facilitated by the oracle and its oracle. A desire to be alive and know the reason for being alive. A yearning for greater omnipotence. A yearning for community, the philosophy of government in crusts. A yearning to be the one commonality. A yearning for one body. These are just a few. <|endoftext|> "Ili admirari Sejmare no Man vs the Battles of Troy", by Athol E. Dowe [Living, Death, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore] i A subtle change like the look of things is driving you but you don't care to look back anymore. You walk through the door & light the light on like a game of investments & you know that people think about things. But you don't, you keep to the right & the left like this house still isn't fixed. i A man needs no introduction. A woman does not need to explain how great she is. A dove so meant to-is-tried-for-waging-life does not need to-is-broken-for-t-honey. For the crying out-as-if-in-waiting-after-nevers crowd who are only one-and-dones, a man, a very few times a day, will ask himself what is a toad, will question the toad's scientific name, will wonder for one. A woman will tell him, "Oh sweet child we keep him warm in the winter, then cry himself out!" A toad's one of the three things God loves the most. i don't love toads, I love the woman who wishes she could be toad, toad toad. ii "When you hear the toad, do you still want to live?" You should not live. What should one say to a toad? ======================================== SAMPLE 242 ======================================== home that he saw, Exchanged those smiles and fleeting glances, That common oaths and vows annulled, And prayed, and prayed to what was left of love, And called for what was left of grace. I hasten to him in the morning, In the noon I miss him in the evening, And in the night I seek him in the morning. He comes not in the forenoon, nor after noon, nor at night, nor after midnight! The sun goes down, but still he searches for me, the moon no more searches, but finds him after long wandering. When the dawn is red, and sometimes even before, he goes away alone, He seeks me at morning, at noon, at noon, and after midnight. He seeks me by the hour, he seeks me by the day, he seeks me over the horizon. When he is found he comes not by the day, and even at night falls away; he comes at x-xx of a circle behind. Then the lonely bird that is lost tries to fall, but he cannot rise to where his head was last year; and he is like to fall at the fall of night, he cannot rise to where he was last year, and he like a sunk messenger seeks me over the horizon. I go to the fall of the moon, to the new moon, to the pearl-pale moon that is new at noon and at night, I pluck my tendons from the wind, I put them to my breast, and return to the open field, to the roof, to the crown, to the disembowered wing. To the sledge, to the unvalued scabbard, To the consecrated fire, to the blind eye over the wilderness, the blind finger over the poverty. I pluck the merest tiny shreds, and lay them as ones apart, that all may know my dispair, the solitary strife, among the few, the desperate, the redeemed, that fashions a new purpose in the emptiness. And as I lay them forth again upon the nethermost end of the tent, I saw the door at the top of the arch, and I saw the flame, and I saw the face, and I knew that it was mine, and I was filled with fire, and I was single in the faithless season. I was single in the unconquered season, and desolate in the unconquered season, and seeking in the unprofitable season, and eating my words, eating what Master Cragg did, and Cragg did in the season of joy, in the season of stopping over alms, in the inconstant tasting of penns, in the inconstant telling of tales, in the looking at the untracked payent tears, and in the trust of Master Sal, and the unchristened great hearts of friends. The seat of the feast was set in the bush by the chair of hewn stone that held the Pillar, a rise of two waddises, from the foot of the pillar of growth to the head of the bush, to let the lion into the den of the cock, and to lead the lost child away. In the middle of that tent of stones a hand of clay with clay fingers was laying yellow sands, lets yellow tears fall, to melt in the tears of the children, and the old tears that master Cragg made, to buy the skill of the new-weeked, to throw back the new-weeked, and be able to say, Master Cragg was my brother, Master Sal was my brother. We were both the masons of piling and putting, plants of stone, and contentions and mirrors of words. We were both of us building hills into the time and the place, we would see each other's lips every day lowering the roofs of the town. We would sit casting of nets in the ocean, of those good stories, and listen to the howling of whales, and watch the eyes of tigers. We would lie sharing the suppers of wine, wet red winter sweet, ice within. ======================================== SAMPLE 243 ======================================== yesterday, was a door in the marsh; now is a door in a star, somewhere in my madness, in the weft of a death, somewhere that-which-has-been begins to be. <|endoftext|> "The Used-Cat Store", by Stephen Segal [Living, Death, Pets, Philosophy, St. Idy There was a store that had a window out to one of the windows in our porch. He had a dog, and the dog loved him. And, really, to tell you the least, it seemed that he was the kind of man who loved his work. For whenever he went in, his dog's name outpeered him, was named Sid. We'd get him chewing time before noon, on lead, at the used-cat store. Socrates, of course, was aware of the details of his potter's "body of law," and he'd drop in for a few, quick puffs. I've seen him head first, through window, like one of those jugnuts your cousins used to send. Socrates would come out sideways, before you'd know, and settle down for another drink. His reasoning went like this: the more the monkey drank, the more he'd think, all the time on his back. This won't last, Socrates would think, on even a whole year's ration. He'd always, no matter how hungry, get out fast, and would flex his limitless legged way back to the pot. <|endoftext|> "The New Species", by George Clifton [Living, Nature, Arts & Sciences, Architecture & Design] No more you think the tree or the bird, Those ancient species preserved. You alone With your want of the ancient species Periled one last time. You'll have to invent The art of existence. You have to find A way of surviving as tree and a bird That no man has ever done. You have to find A species to live with in the golden game That killing one will only lead to more killings And less and less. You have to find a man. <|endoftext|> "The End", by Carolyn Forché [Living, Death] At last, the end. How fleeting time may be, And all that glitters, all that cannot last; The little we see with continual care May not be our own we have grown so old To avoid the pity of our children and the pain Of their departure and the silence at the end. They are wearing their chains too short to link us shaven-head As we grow old, until the aisles are bland and softly dense, And renunciation dawns finally as aaptation, and we're a swart<|endoftext|>Breaking news from the Studio of the Dead: The Metro North Railroad Hit Man, the Slug Hospital ambushed, the life of the wood cutter's last words spurned, and the train that blew the whistle on its way to the landfill. The trolleys, cast-iron tramps, and the trivial bikes sloshed in the blood. The old police district, the rain, the cold beer, the talk ("They'll never print anything that hits on Durward Hill") and the screamer, the subliminal and suddenly loud— the odd pizza deliveryman, the faint laughter from the bedroom about to make an appointment. We had done something bad, they'd thought, or been tricked by someone they'd known, or were somehow assassured to be sitting on vast fortunes. We were habitual gamblers, though never too long had done wrong. We had held on to the one things that were certain: evening dress, unimpedled speech, the implicit assertion of privacy and wisdom when faced by a clattering multimillion-dollar a year goaf burst through the walls of our self-sealed coffined cubicles. The end of the day, they had been talking about rising costs, the prospects for capital gains, the fall of the pound, the prospect of earnings being far more unstable in the case of a direct hit by the Stock Exchange House of Sex than it was in the winter. We had argued the advantages of a quick quench, of putting on steam only after painting the facades. We had been told you could lock yourself in a basement with your mate, bequixitelled to the bell and kitchen, but by now it was clear the battle was lost. You had died honourably, I had killed with your own chop and all for this? They'd opened ======================================== SAMPLE 244 ======================================== Consent is consubstantial with us, that Can do with us what we will, not what we think. The only question is how little. On the first day of January, two and half thousand Industrious lawyers came to see me. In my life I am usefully full-sized, Like a shop at Sears with my kit, The Kangaroo comes in for lunch An' tries to be out o' sight. The lawyers come six days a week For two hundred dollars a head. The rent so cheaper this year I do not know why I stay at home: When they open the door next month I shall go out with the rest. I shall be so well looking they wonder How they hold me. For direct exposure at all events, I now feel quite safe to go. The largess I make at least for me Lent by the good will of you and me. I was glad to bring it to you before It thawed privately, for my friendly effort. If it is looked at roughly by another You will be made to pay for it. For Induja lists will have me look jaded If I stop to answer such a demand. I was hoping that you might be satisfied I would. "Here it is made, the entrail of the entrained, The entrained entrained, the entrail entrained entailed, Ere more delay there is in the lengthened date Of our entrained entreed entrained entrained." All adjourned. The popcorn was sold. The pop up and pop down. The entrained entired. The entrained entrained entrained entrained. The rain began. Saw them in the windows of the post office, See them in the sunshine and in rain. And I said "No one will know." But I was slick and RAGGED. But I POKED When they came. But I was UMBER When they left. And the word was put to use. Did I dream of the dream? But I was PURCHASED, When they left I was deleted. So confused. The way that I dreaded to think I was I had a wig on and I was RAPID. And I was a snake and I was SINGING. I was a noose that was HIDDEN. Proud of the deception. The triumphant rapid. Lemme tell you. When the ice is right out down to the marrow The racer is bound to go the way he goes. I am tired of this cribbership. Give me apricots and apples! For she had drunk of wine the wine of youthful That was subtle and splendid And wine that was fit to be LOVED. A wine that was to be FASCINATING For roses to look past upon the happy Voluptuous trip that was right there! O I was delighted to look on the page as it Was very likely that it was something like Powder Come the cloud has come In an octave which is one of the ways Of a thing that is INNERLY poignant For a joy that is meet. For they were such near people. The meaning that is in the poem Is that Rose Rose is a cuckoo has a hen's egg But I do know what has come to the wine Is the liquor which she IS ready to serve. And I am free to say that it HAS GOT a pungent Ninety-fifth cheer. For this glass is dreadfully Articles of War. The neck that is seen here to the right is Something that is NAKED. But as the water seen here to the left is A thing that is HIDIARLY attached To the left of what is in the bowl, I will call the squirrel's arm something else For the thing that is in the bowl. We look on the pennant, which is white With DEPRESSION and PROBABLY BAD. And we look on the mustache, which is thin And looks like a beak. But it is not the nose that the bit I find In the bowl, but only the two things coming Into a symphony. There is a thousandth of a minute To save before we have to shove off With the earth so trussed as to make Holes huge enough to throw us up Into the void. I did love the bowl, As other boys, odors, memories, But such love as is FORCEFUL FALLING on the thing already tied As ======================================== SAMPLE 245 ======================================== oft, the abatt'ring stream. Their household gods, the air, the earth, they made. But their own furies, with a new-born fear, Make them their other gods, and spare not force. Thus raves the man, that most forbids to do What he shall chide at others' cost. But young Rhoce... Volle keeps the measure still, And never ventures too far from him: As himself, perhaps, more acts of wickedness Bent his nature's straitened limit, so never Can wind so large a whole in one career Without consequences: the next moment all Is lost, and he is Caius; his full force spent; All, as it was, leaves off his wickedness: And the next, is Caius good, or evil,.... Here Vona's lesson of the wood begins to learn: Caius, one born to be foully wrong'd, Even by the name of Rhoeculus, in time Shame will learn, and Caius shall be his name. Eureka! from the deep the soaring mind Its projected boundary bows before, As we stand on the verge; and o'er the stream Thrice bending to the left the weighty load Our eyes unweariedly bend, and sweep Slow down the Riber, till from so far Under the roaring stage turned blind They find us, and descry the confines of our world: Now seek we, in their fearful onwardness, Some secret push of country dark as night, Where history is the pinch of frost, and man The lizard, creeping up the soil, to find The relics of a broken run, or hostelam Within the smoke, of such as still remain, UNTO DEATH KNOWN, the once proud halloo of mankind. One hour they plann'd the works of law, to lay Had traversed country; else, all undone, Had been as well as Rome;--from the seventh light They flight began, and to these screams their speed Brake return'd. We hurried after, unweigh'd The year's new joys, nor remembered whence or why The starry games were set, nor to what purpose we were brought. My friend, my country! I shall not seek thy land In history, as a separate nation,--nor yet Can I divide my history upon a plate; Nor can tell what perils we are all along Of the future, unless by the tracks of dying generations; Nor how our fathers' graves may be generous estranges, Nor what it is to come at. The sun shining here Appears as at the dead world's cold moment we behold, Yet at one time I had not look'd on earth, but that on her Sunk with his own breath. From him I have seen So many things that Advent will o'er us renew, A preacher, and a murderer, and then a deacon, A pontiff, a. d. c. B. D. , a witness of the truth, A felony, a wedding, and a war, A grim determination, and a freeman's doom, A flute, a morion, and a wildfire, Mis-couer, miser, masquer, and sacrileger, The floggings of a wizard, a glaring goose, A murder, a seizure, a mercy, a sleep, A morning, a sickness, a death, a coin, A calm, a renewal, so smooth on all sides, We still might wonder sporting from a nation's mouth What ending there can be to the tale of then and now,-- That last gasp of transience? Then we still would find A answer from the brow of ev'ry tear, And none of this riddle cleverly men call Death. My country, my grave! And thou wouldst then be all A toon of colors to me in its whiteness! I have dream'd of thee much and much has happened since The shadow long sported in my anguished sight, And yet thy name, my country, thy dear name, Crying to me from ear to ear, and telling me That day by day thou art of me wroth or glad, Humble or proud, me ever one with thee to be Amongst the others not the least of three or four, With thee I made a country, thee mine, foray At an unhallowed hand, at a hostile race's insult, A war against a wrathful sea, at a queer ordain'd Division, ======================================== SAMPLE 246 ======================================== 'mantike the way that they were designed. That now, on earth, they still might go Like ravens with staves for wings, Or frogs with shoes of felt for feet, Or like a flea upon the sleeve Of a snuffing young gentleman, A kind of insect besot, By a Venetian merchant, Apoint of interest, but a point Less than the neat intent of the world Let me take as an argument For the pursuit of its worshippers Some bits of knowledge so bulky That the reasoning powers struggle Beneath them how to of them can form One aggregate, and if there may be One enormous question in the world On which all knowledge and all belief Should fall to the ground in unresisted trances, This is the point to mention it-- Whether love is a substance, and thereby Whether the sun is a sphere or not. It is so monstrously absurd As to say the sun is a ball, or that love Is an unreal name for an egret's feather, And why not why the music of both Is a voice within us hearing alone, And whether what we see with our eyes Nor is but a murmuring of sounding sounds, Is it not why man should be silenced? So, on the question of their proven Denial, my colleagues and I, Have divided ourselves off some yards For hypothetical craft Where we think of heroic Achilles' Assault and defeat at the gates Of Thessaly, and whether the event Was achieved through fiction or historical fact, Whether love was obtained by danger, And whether possibly the Thessalian suns Were daily distributed among their stars By Caliph Hisham, and whether, perchance, The Persians had not made good their side By forces and conditions which were then Given to prove their supremacy, And whetring their sabres, so far as they Could, so that the results were as they Could by themselves achieved enable The lands above the marsh and bog to hear The sounds of their disputing from a hundred hills; Whether, furthermore, were worth while Such a pursuit for the odd result Since the case of Helen and Hector Is, we (the hasty phantoms who went Radha and Patrick to discuss it) found Into the mouths of mankind Much that is laughable, many things Worth while on such a quest for love. (It has been confessed by some, that he Made just in tarrying, else all funny Be tried, and his wise head would have done A double service to the Anglo-Norman And Christian Empire, both as now the arms Of each would have prov'd the other prompt and use, Wherein men both save their Christian or at arms Induc'd by losses learning time has no tide But the case is different with us, since, As we all survive the Revolution, our lost Language and even the Old Testament, Even as the English now, in spite of it, Rarely if ever mention'd, is supply'd With modern doctrine) we must now defer To the Old Testament, since it is surrender'd To the New, and much to syllogistic ease, Since great elements of the world, to wit: The Ins and outs of Commerce, and what happens In aerial eagles, and waves, and lakes, and seas; Equally match'd our credulous fore-knowledge And weak nettness, have deckt with nonne larceny As with a net incirclorium, that has been snares Against our eares, and captivated even Are with a soneday, or meris byfill'd with slewh or lies. Foolish it was, our casting off pre-eminence And scaring the anointed crowd in the braying Of illumin'd brutes or throats that rang above Our empty environs; not that, or broad casting From the Charlies and the Amtons to the heart Of num'rous parmelees, formed for quiet feeding Of late far better pleas'd and easefull meat, That sitting fast and ev'nly not expir'd But for warmth, flung up their meat, like wols'lep shedd, Whirl'd into the air, the which they sees to siccanic chace. For ev'ry chain of men, in so close a covering hid, From far less through refracted honour clings, But the high-crown'd Prince insures his next hsion's fall, Since succession equals going out, and he next In succession faints, or, lat'd or recid ======================================== SAMPLE 247 ======================================== Pledge, in the face of a yelling Rebellious horde of peasants, To fight for your right in battle. I pledge my word, I pledge my word, To give the Greeks my neck in battle. So my faith says I shall follow you This side of the Everthing, After that, why, what do I care? And my faith says I shall follow you This side of the Everthing, After that, what matter who gets killed? "Stark and God-find worthy, Perfected your soil and design, You shall burn, O, ye Plug, your best, In a coals of love. "If the Americans go, The Saxon race will go, The Celt's life will go, And your great town, Oxford, Oxford, Shall go under a turf, Bottomless, in the Rig, So the Celt's life shall go, Vile, grim and black, Angels of death and murder, Under a rug of fibres. They have stolen enough; I have no trust for life, Only the old sex, only the old sex." You, you, unselfish, honest man, Whose soul draws to the Ideal, Your strange eyes glancing through the years Canf light upon me. And through your eyes I see The impotent lust for gold, And the revengeful thought That follows each righteous deed That comes from heaven down. You, you, you, were driven forth Into the desolate wood, And it rubbed off on you. And you have been in debt, And it rubbed off on you. And you have heard the criticism Of those at the wheel; And you have thought that sand Could sharpen iron. You, you, you, could not make Sanity attain By just settling there; But behind the thought of you An unreached-for shore Is, though 206 miles long. And it is rubbed, and it is pricked, And it is stared By Sanity everywhere. You, you, set up the Light That stands fast in London streets; The Holy Sacrifice of Light Lays its appeal to the flesh; The ape club strikes deeper into the Barbarian Wood. You, you, have sold the credence To the self-elected Saxons. You, you, have put forth the Word, Impregnable and rich, Untransciled, unsanditable, Intricate, all adored, But it is shreds that every one covets. Your infinite Word permeates The split sea piece, the fragment Balloons its delicious bugs in all its fleetness. As a wash of salt oil on the dishes Rises a soft glow in the sunshine, The immortalized memory of the past Lights the now and the then of the future. The self-annihilating self Splits itself into dual, And the ideal yearns to be In the order of permanence. So, in the years to come, each gloomy Venture of a life will be built. And one by one the fantastic Remember their fancied abodes, And their fragmentary spell Sink on itself into impotence, Burning out all they name and seek. I, too, shall have won, like him, Full pounds of merit: I, too, Have strode among the undead. I, too, have seen the self cast down From its last high heaven in scorn, And have picked up fragments here Of its form; but I, after all, Quit my separate world for ever. I, too, shall one day come to Myself, without the intervening Divine interposing shield Of essential willpower or wavy Merged with me, and be caught up in The universal soul of things. Then shall I go down to the dead, Succeeding sorrow, And show my bankrupted soul In the separate, tainted. My seed, perforce, shall grow naked To the dust, and learn the weight and Worry of the having be. And, after all, the thing shall go With a faint blush of regret, To the common dust of everyday; The passionate blaze of laughter; The deeps of emotion In the upturned face of earth. And then the moustaches and wigs Shall take to their forgotten chores, And the mirth of Muggsie nation Shall seem a troubled anear, Careening about the vasty Dark hours that were. Ah, the ======================================== SAMPLE 248 ======================================== ? Now he walks it. Some say, there are that walk it. What about it In what the grave Over and over The misnomers Vaguely and inchoately They evoke the ancient's Desire The ancient's denial The ancient's death To be Reality The particle What the transpires If you'll Listen The street Lit Reality A fiddle The world And the half No, there may be more. There is much less, The half and the half less. And here is an end. Are there not countless exits? To exits, To dims and deads Alarm and beep And beep and be alarmed That the thick of it is The end of it? Not exits but there— That's a threshold, And here is an end To exits. Not a clock, not a clock, Nor a major replica But a major event No such thing, That the threats of it are empty, A Major Secciuate And a main difference Between the major event And the empty empty empty. Threshold, major event, empty, threatless major event, The major action Become The status quo And a main difference Between the major event And the status quo. Minor (the major action Endless and also?) There is none. There is a word That signals the end of it, Some word That indicates The world's end. A world's end, The status quo And a heavy status quo That enforceth end In some strange way Where the light can't Part out the frontiers of it— A status quo where Fire can't go and it can't Go forward either So that fire sleep teacheth Both the coming and the going down. <|endoftext|> "Visions", by James L. Dickey [Sorrow & Grieving, Love, Heartache & Loss, Relationships] Visions are on the road— high-won grass, big-grown big blockfaces in the pass-riven corner pass-un-built, pass-worn-white with grass that knows some tough lessons— and vays who pass looking for something they want—in this passionately rugged place. When I came along they were all emblems of life—long-lost love, wisdom-pined— and now they are nearly forgotten. There is one that I have kept, just for this hour, weighing in the balance wistfulness, heart's demand unavowed: the vision of a man, long-shouldered, his throat gone square and thin and his shoulder slanted now in the mist of a fight, toward the blade that is burning. It seems a fool's game to fight the way I have fought, wrapped in the pall of something beautiful: and all the time I think I'm less a creature of desire and more a creature of decay, for in this likeness hold no tenderness for me as I am of desire. <|endoftext|> "Hogan Leonard", by James Titus [Crime & Punishment, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] If this is about peace, let's have it. If this is about peace, I want it. I want peace. I said as much in the instant we cursed each other. If this is about peace, let's have it. I said I want peace. You have wanted it for so long. You want it, and I said as much in the instant we craved each other in the instant we wished we had it. If this is about peace, let's have it. We've craved it in the instant we wanted it in the instant we wished we had it. Let's bring it, and when we saw each other, we had it. If this is about peace, let's have it. The instant we lost our reverence the instant we regained it, let's bring it back into the moment. We have lost it, and before you, as the past, a part of us, we will discover if ======================================== SAMPLE 249 ======================================== and this is the state of this world, the distrust of your own demographics, the return of conquest, a marriage of every warrior's predicitor, a woman one state more and more bringing roots and seeds than any man, that will unite all nations and the coming-together of every unified unmeasured new birthright and the many- noise- ing together of every- UNITED SOVERSYANS the 21st Century State isn't state at all, united as was the prevailing image of the prevailing image of the prevailing state, the government of our next clerk in office this is a state, the next to- coming code-named station, but already so more than the next to- coming code - IGFTAUCEOF HUMAN FRance <|endoftext|> "From What Shanghai Children's Palace", by Shirzy after 
Scooter 'Modch' DM2, moduscant and baby-faced Modch [Living, Coming of Age, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] When the milkwhite music echoed to realization point by Morse code, 1 a.d.c. Optics by O leaning out was a wash of feathers where the mother lit for pure lensing, perfectly not-so-green glass spider-freaked, a cloud of wax flecked pin-mints above the tot factor, which modch chuffed his thumb for an efter-forced smile that once their sisters seized, not knowing the turn of events had turned the eyelid dead once mouthed his speech, life-blown. The next day, a twist of marshmellowed light turned yellow upon detection. [Living, Coming of Age, Activities, Sports] I watch my son grow from dreamy slit event to full-grown earthquake by week's end, But I was never there, never hitchhit by the pickup's unsettling inevitability. I never huddled up for a ride or got free because I was home for so long, because I had girlfriends to attend to and poems to puff, but my: nothing compared to the mute activeness of stuttering on the pavement, the orphan memory of its liquid throne and wholly unsuitable sprigs. It never quite comes around, the strenuous dooms lost in a storm of allegiances. The performance's as much about being shy about the random as being defiant, I suppose, and the eventuality is just a matter of getting on a bandwagon and staying set. But being seen around. Being cute. And, you know, being cute. <|endoftext|> "Tallytwhere", by Maurice Freud [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy] HELP ME I dare a rich man in my failing manhood and fail me not. Do not spare me. Make me odious and pitiful in this manhood of my years. Do not render me incapable. Pile cars by the millions and build an island in the middle of the parking — Carl Spornich, City of New York Helpers galore, bone stamps, Gothic trapeze, Jump-Up Girl, Cow tusk, Action Girl, Woman's fashion model, Manly dog. Man more hindquarters than analyzers allow, Abstract absences muscling up from the interior, Uncomplaining inner, the tony trape-hellet. Help me, mortal language. Carrier pigeons. Don't spare verse. Match me. Did you hear that? I am nude except for nylones, in ringing pose, with pelican and mullet scales. Breathe, bare to: over my waist, a pigeon rests, hypnotic, like the inspiration of a woman — or was it of a man? Did you catch that? Or was it just my nerves? The momentary stepping off the wings of black boxes. Helper ability, syncopated rhyme. So clear I saw the stooping female's curvating face waver and hush and convolute, Goddess of sleep? Nymph with clubfoot? Vulture? Why include me? Help me, your flesh, your belongings, your properties. Where the tarps? Help me? Where's the ======================================== SAMPLE 250 ======================================== where they're one to one as the light; that to one is the single, and to that one the single is that shape that appears when you blink. <|endoftext|> "Crossing the", by The Wellands I wanted it that way of walking when I was on the extreme side of the river, and that was at dusk when the sun had gone and all the others had gone, too, but me had got tired of catching the ring and getting tired and gone was the brother of the one who had the ring on his finger and always went away in the same route as me and that seemed untrue to say I have to get this ring into my mouth for me to be able to have my life. So that was why I sat down on a log to masturbate with the light on me, for the brother was right— if you want to live and get old you have to understand what the meaning is of the game you'll be sideligning in the heat of the coming darkness and the brother was right, had to be right. II I was eleven years and fifty and not the one younger son, but the one who was older and who was older. And that makes it harder to get for the brother, for the one younger brother, because the older was the one I wanted to play with and who was harder, but the one who was older. But they got to the river and he could see far, but I could not. I don't like to have my self-image inquest in what is taking place inside a person. And I was in the river at the end where the only one who has seen me is taken away on a boat to play in many rooms filled with the souls of the older people, but also because I was in the river at that time because I was not yet in the river where I saw them. It is a game for what became of all our scraps, for our bricks we build with our love, but we are fighting over the scraps of our Think of the river in which you tried to be hinder by wanting to be where the real you was not out forbing us, but still <|endoftext|> "Meeting East of Auckland", by Cynthia Graham [Relationships, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] 21 Bronzino, Rome | sensory dissonance anti-comments Andrea Emerson, womba, dolce, bezique, idm, degustation, hardcore, delphine Herber, augmented anti-comments, alternative architecture, social comment (neores, orbe buon joyueuses ) mechanical room we land you in Pisa, ludomat, flaneurs, unaire culture, meeting point two, trespass, lomodetta, bicyclast, respectful eaves-dropping & conversations, optic desert, visual carbon matrix, erratum faces, errant wind, ps : (((((((うちんじょう 【deruckょうじょう】 [eraskうじょうじょう inorganic ludus aliquidtt、 erassonto 【desautiable 】 [talktoc ultrasonight [geology Thunder machine, geosyncrher telemetry, meeting place, tomos, ext.: ((((( ionen | [cellulosum insignias, luna, night, lark, una sorority, escolar, Lare Noctis (gladius), Romulare milia, rara, [family name] status : (( ======================================== SAMPLE 251 ======================================== The patient damsel wore No dress of silk or satin; She wore a gown of fresher hue, A silk which was full of dye. As I rode beside her on my way She always stopped and looked behind Upon the very back of me, And I, in turn, gazed up in time At her warning eyes that warned Me, in spirit, of my way. Of her fair countenance I could trace A playful grace and sweet illusive grace, Which were not quite wise or sure; A countenance like a cartoon fool In ruse verges not on error; A light headed horn of eyes, A satchenine spirit, set aglow. As a fool the love-bird plays, who sees A rolled ball and joking gold; So her hands and feet, that were on walk, In merry habit studied go. But she plucked at her song and wandered, As all her mates did too, Among the grass to peruse and flowers, With eye wholly out. And thus I knew her, though I knew her not Whose face I wore: She looked at me as I pondered a text I learnt erewhile, and yet I now, As with new-caught garner, spied In likeness of a passing woman That sway'd a great man. My lover, of happy times in store Such as to me was dear. His steady hand I knew within my own, And where he kept his door, I'd enter and follow off a latch; I knew the spots he kept sacred to, And hers to touch the farthingoon. His little spot was where there was a tree, On which he sat and spoke with his hand, His voice still firm along a discreeter tone, A living man's mouth, Thin, clear, forcible, and well-knit. And hers, of every musings that drave Through grass-grown men his life to tread, With such dash that as I still did scan, I kept a faint smile in my breast, On all her and hers there fell Was a cry of a well-lovely thing, With inner meaning unfulfilled: But she fled and I sought in vain for more And a speech that I knew of my love, Within her body there was one word - NO. That I'd use my strength, not my pretty lips For frail charity with my kind eye Lookin' to a heart that was sick or just dead, With all a man can do and almost all a man can Tear up those creeds that the fals teacher adresses (Creeds that maltorthe children at their mothers' teens; The people that rejoice in the plough and harvests When the hail rains and the ice is of the year; And sects that adorn the head with idol-deeds And ways that are caught from the bawling mart, And creeds that your mean eyes are well pleased to see) And that pore on the Scriptures that are old (Which the reave-potatoes still adored And which the same God that yesterday wedded That He then made red once more, but which no man knows Why He should come twice, and He should remain On earth angered, and the new-made red again) That's the text that I rub by Dwightena; And, if she be not attractive to me, Being of that sub-question agreeable, I'll knock out her in white barrack scourgings and grim; And hang her dress with the other laundry's tags, And cut her into pieces; or, when I do, I'll just say that 'he is here first-born'. Or, if my self, discerning, having thus dosed The spirit of her negation, guess And rules by sides the answer is, -55- No, I. She is my cousin, by acknowledgment To whom I don't owe a kind embrace, And therefore a member of the loss. This I gain when she is cut up, and stitched In endema of all healthy margins; And when she makes me fun ('tis her effect, I might have wit to prove it, whereon I actually stick a leg or grow) And the last part is, she is detuned. The end in which she goes is, I guess, -56. <|endoftext|> 'The whys and hows of Fame I shall not reheare,' (CH.itudes Fr. and Long. ii. 48). Else I should tell all how my wit and ======================================== SAMPLE 252 ======================================== of fashion, Then she, I think, forgot to complain, Till she said, "Canst thou for ever be Alone in a life that is thus weary? Who hast yon time but me to be the keep "The beauteous nymphs! Who care they if they make "Their bowers "Of dainties only, or sweetly fill their locks "With vermin, other way round the head "With gnats, and Giardia, and black silf, and man, "A monster of the throned, Drusarium!" "O thankless!" "Ill-treated!" "Accursed!" Were the curses that inly blazed At the virgin's piteous sighs; "The royal serpent! Drusilla fair! "Thou hast knowledge of a thrift that would prove "Years of torment in a year!" But it came into the poor maid's thoughts To make it evening in the streets, And some one murmuring there, The music of the summer, singing; And she would smell the wind And air with insects pattering; On fast her hair would fall and beat; Rub its snarled cheeks with pulses; Then stand for a space, all streaming, and Shivering; with a dead language tune their heads; Then distant sounds of striding would come, Strange, uncouth, terribly gowned men, Not men that she knew, but strange without form, And she would see the rolling eyes, Sunken, hard, with eyes of lightning; And she would catch a pulse that would burst, Fill herself with fear, as roused she stood; Her eyes would fast unto the cold ground, And say, as nothing under Heaven, "What is this?" Then she would see, But no, not of earth; Not of that, the thunder, famous, To which earth, thunder, opposition gives; But as to him she seemed the light, Herself she should have been; And he would pass, So she thought, But no, not of fear Which had been writing, even in her, Yet she wrote, and at his unsealing She would be still; And this he saw But she The words may know. From him she saw That the place of light, that waits for love, Is not the only light that lures; But as one door was another man, So the one word in an endless letter, In an endless journal. This is the Spirit of old laws. But he to whom it is given Has no rule except the rule of free will. It is the light which he permits in This world, in each simple deed and thought, Shall show him how far his life goes; And he shall see in it his glory end. It is his light to try for in his life, And his perfect light shall measure its desire. For he who hears the slow pendulum That swings with all the favorite stars, Out of the death-bed of the past, And looks that memory gropes for, For the lost link of what has been, With hope's heart he must abide While all the dreams of long ish, With all the pride of the hopeful eye, That longs for the unstopped tongue, To tell how much its eyes dilate To the kingdom of forseeings. For he, whoever he may be, Will find, when all has subdertained, His furlough at last; And the ineffable bliss, The ideal, the calm eternal morning, The new child-colors he remembers In his island home; And then, no more vexed with doubt, The end he shares With his youthful heaven-land. What is that? Alas, too facile! And can it be? No matter. For the best, He took a step, and had to follow it; And, lo, the meadow he trod, Not only its single stripe of grass, But the full crest of it, A full half of it, tall Hyacinths and lilies rose. It was the property now, Undo all earth's lovely color, Undo all pain, undoe all pride, To strike a mortal to be generous, Lip-wing and spirit, wedded to victory, At its old drudgeries. Areddon, what is this thing? Its name he did not keep; It was so adorn'd. He was not steer'd By the ======================================== SAMPLE 253 ======================================== On a kind shrub, and on his head A vest and tunic wrapt around, But, while he thus was mute, the youth, His own master, answered him thus mild. Thou biddest, I believe, the child of Jove Should hear the message from my sire. To whom then said Apollo, great and sure Ius 'tis who not alone with me Hath this wondrous cure for sickly folk, But him, the one in all from nought alienated, King Priam. For Priam so exact is laid, The final issue of his law to king: And in the true heavenly light who court alone, Sees all the future as it shall be had. A banquet bound his first to me gave, And him he serves, who gave the feast to all. Let him lie then without blemish dressed And the joyous feast attend thee all. He finished, and his hearers served, And in his turn he began. Yea, yea, he saith, This feast fit for a great man's sharing, Which cometh once, and will not come again. Let every one be freely share it who will; For this is fair the folk's and the meal to see. And whoso despises so much, God may take With fury his eyes and ears astound. The meat and the drink were indeed best, So good were the folk's; but what the peeler's did He toilous, to his hands ungrateful beareth. For so vast a portion of the feast lay there, The generous hands of the keeper desert Degrees twice-handed, and with tireless pull Untiring; where'er the cleaver atones, His tender years, in my command, forgat. So was the ancient Cleberian led away To Latium, Smyrnon, and Vendemia, To be the bane of many a sinful woman's bed. But of this plight Apollo, in awe and fear Cast down, the guardian of his sickness. So short a time Earthless remained behind An invisible power; and in that new world He went on as he was led, though maimed and woe-disploited. And, as day by day he slipt from the skies, The years wagged less and less at Prosper's side; And on she bounded, as if she had winged for air. As a crane to the saddle, so she passed From god to god, where the Arcadian king, Slawsonas crown'd with spices, beheld her pass. And he rode with her; but as on its back she fell, He drop'd off into a semblance of night. And with a low laughter, For-ies begirt with day, The laggard Alphesibelle may still sneer at doubt. She gave him gold, and gave him sowing; but for what? The world laughed; and in that gold he find'd a ruin. He took his wife and left her; and again, for her, Gorges sea-rollers to the open main. And all are laughter still, when, like a shaft shot out Into the body of a mighty tree, Was his swift passage; and a God, it slips Through transparent limbs and furling sails. He enters; gold and sowing he finds; but gold But not the world can hew to its shame His victorious journey, and his firm ascendency. He cannot get at his ascendency. Alas! His appliance is as a door which fast-prius is locked; a disappearing dream. He comes, sets up, and goes; The crowd waits; not one of them can get to his ascendency. No more than this on earth was he useful: but on earth He went to battle, and his going was excluded. It chanced that Phoebus was set on giving day To Saturn; Daphne was set on giving day To mighty Zeus; and a gun was heard to ring. At this, in a thick cloud, the glory of goats, And adjoining glittering bands of thick swarms Of butterflies, and running stags. He crosses A bosque of sparkling night that, under mould, Flames with ill-bORDerer throughout, and blazes forth An abundance of golden light; and, at the end, As through other heaven, a number of lesser lights Five mirks, in number of the blazon'd bee, Five goat-wings on the breast of the unwarming whiteness, So great a lustre infernal as en ======================================== SAMPLE 254 ======================================== John Pascher, a farmer, was found dead at his farm Homeward, by the old Peden road. Then Percy Cooke, 'Sidney Coupe, a fine specimen of blood, had gone to ground. On his coffin were some initials,-- 'A person wheer the Devil's in trade By his fellows is addressed.' In Sidcup Field the Scots Fusillade changed the subject. The Baker of Don what is his name? Found dead at his house, with cuts through the heart. So Sidcup's fine sod may not be so porous After all. My wife's impatience for a search, Almanack for the next hour the beds will be. Meanwhile, we have a search of the house. Shall we mark? There's a leg at full length in the street. See what a mess the steed and the mule had been Here, and what a mess the floor was when they passed. A corpse amidst the debris, and it is late, But I remember a cornfield in Norway on a day like this, And a dead ox in the debris, And some boards and bits of a clock, And the everst lovely termagewear white, Albany and Othof, Near Königsfeld, land of ice, She lived near Giesecke, saw Ch Beauty each day white, And walked to and from her meal with heads turned to the beat. And along the banks of the Elbe a pine-tree grows, The river's bed covered with boats in and out, Horses' trappings, a bit of a saddle, lying in a line. Houses for the horses, and wide and spacious vista views. 'Now out, Howe! give me a bit of ye, Howe, Out across the river yonder, where the wood's thick, There's a cottage, and the light's all that's ours.' So up I raised my butt to go, The wrong way, to go, Up against them too, the pairs. 'Out across the river yonder, where the wood's thick, There's a cottage, and the light's all that's ours.' 'But out across the river yonder, where the wood's thick, There's a cottage, and the light's all that's ours.' At Sidcup, where the bridge goes over the river Elbe, A page in a haze of parching heat Comes down for a breath of the calm, A moment, broader sight on sight, Then back as soon as it was seen Comes to a sudden rest. A few steps more and there's a house enough, So close that it supports the depth, A few more and then the sight's In a moment destroyed. But I passed, as I thought, through the gate, Where another page came down, at full pace, A dozen steps more, to keep the end in view. She had her sight arrested, had in sight Already crossed the river, raft, that flows, Already where the firmest currents flow, The confluent current's abashed course In three streams, down, up, across the spheres. But already then She advanced, as if her course was good, She flew in the air, like a stone, Slow, but in steady swing, Between the waves, which are her food, In waves more clear than either, she dons her wings, And clears that which she aims to avoid, Till in a sunny, or a storm, She sees obscure things, and where none is, Flashes out, and is gone where she may go. There came a form in the air, bare-headed, And great-souled, yet patient of blood. That was the Duke, who Four tons in butter, A ain sma ee, And a smore caliver. Would thou, her Jane, Back again to Ireland to return 'ier. But no, By those beams of light! She stays As if she'll dae spa' nigh Dunoon, O' a querry I 'ave in my pocket. How ever, he spakes no he'd but she, Nor looks back spake he spake na she spakes na She spake, she can na get the fa' o't. She turns to the Duke, and her new prig's child. 'Tis a precious beam, sae she declares, She'll not allow a fac's in her glass, Nay the naething she wins she tills, She spaks, but she ======================================== SAMPLE 255 ======================================== areas, The watch in the city streets Wakes him into slumber; In the gloomy, rustling Woods and open spaces, The cat's voice is heard Warmly and solemnly Lifting welcome, As the priest speaks of duteous Places Where the people follow the brown Herbs and flowers of the gardens, Places where the flickering clouds come Out of the sun, Butterflies and moths are heard Transmitting Lullaby, as they glide Under the stars, and where Wonders glitter dimmily, Far beyond, the sweet ways Leading the passer hears not, Till a tune begin. This hath happed to me. These the hours are hard to bear, Sad, sad to stay. Till day be coming, Till rest and peace brightening, And friendship sparkling, Starlight be taken, Happiness too, as if The world had come about you, Yet the best is uncertain Save that he hath found his rest, Who the best loves of all. Then, lead me unto the windy Woods and o'er the murky, Far from the home that is joyous, Where the people pass away Knowing naught. Hast thou not many days left With thy heart contented, O Sun-set! in the diving Woods where bats go bowing, Where the sky-lark singer Justly goes settling, Shining forevermore, Now the day is dying! Cura signs the way, Cura that doth hold All that is handsome Now within thy West; By thy sweet stars The sun shall love thee With new glory, when thou Wast almost dead. What grave men Bucolics They strut with who think They break the peace when they Tear avouar and sign They do not think. When Bucolics hold Togging and Tally-ho They will say 'tis. Ay and they will be Better men then When they hear that I say They do wrong, or who say Worm as Herr Scald brought. He made a game that is not. With his flowers and game, I ween, With flowers that still are here, With Bucolics' game He thought they worth while. He knew they were Sweet, when he from the house And the gate and the tree Just went to break The eave, and threw his men There behind to see. The wind is whirling the brook! It is wafting him away. But the rippling water's More sundown, more soft. And the buzzing bees Follow the trail. He is coming, He is coming, Coming, Coming, With a wax wreath, And a yellow beard, And a swaying stick. But the old man sees Over the ground, And he hears the bees, And he sees The buzzing bees. And he feels The wax wreath, And he turns to a tree. Thinking of his riches, His Western Land, And his horses more Of course than any, And his sugarcane And his gourds and things Coming home in it, And the Fiery King Coming home, coming home. He is coming, He is coming, With a wax wreath, And a yellow beard, And a swaying stick. Coming, with wax wreath, Coming, with a golden beard, With a fiery King, And a yellow wig. The Sun's lights are dim, The Makers' powers are gone, The Wuchsaleasts are dead. Rings are dead, Tolls are dead, Sand is dead. Through the crunching snow, And the Frozen Head, I hear the gun shots, I hear the cracking, But I hear, I hear Mesmeric sounds that mix What a social pact that should be! How the snowed-off parts Conjure up distant ideas! I may set down aloud what's dead Instead of the recklessly angry Drama that ends tonight. At the crossing, urge traffic Noll on traverse here Give each man a place, A finger on his first Ever the place Give a finger, Or a place At the first-eveloppeled wall Where the grass is safe, Where the last couple bend, Of these words the first, Of both be silent, To represent The ungent ======================================== SAMPLE 256 ======================================== And mine the frowns of right and wrong. To open eyes, to rouse and prompt, Thou art the floweriest of the fair. She's the bloom of the fairy race, The dearest little flower that grows; She shines with enchanting might, From out her rosy button head. How should I sing of her, or write, But all I read I praise in rhyme. She walks soft in the velvet gloom, And glides lighting down the stair; She closes with diligent courtesy The business office at her feet. To mothers so well-respected, And to the women who are brave, Her grace is a cherished gift. When I have stopped to sigh, And look towards the glimmering turf, Where God is walking, some days, behind; I think that I hear the sound of thirty But in the green, thirty is none; And all the trees, all so tall, And all the birds and briddles sound the holm-o'er, In ear-deep grass. When I have stopped to praise, And cast away my soul's best wine, For pairs and warm and far away, And Sunday mirth and Sunday play, I hear the woods laugh with me; And I hear the sound of feet, And the sound of mouths that chatter, If she turns back to the Border, Back of the snug and the quiet, Where the brooms are restless and black, I hear her loud and queer Call out and with all her might Waltz to the sunshine and the red; And I hear the spangled cob Tinkle dimly by my bed. If she goes to the ends of the earth, Where new worlds are new roads and springs, I hear her singing home to you; I hear her singing, singing always, Picking her tremulous roundelay And the glass of apple-flute sound. She comes like the yearning of sea When snow-floes creep and pass and spare; I hear her coming with the dawn, Comes one that all new worlds can quench, No man is false to love or bargain. And so often they deceive us, We that bargain and we that love; But never do I know a fool more brand For having found it a joke To fool all Mirth till she quails Into Adam's safety. In vain we have all agreed, And trod the dusty laws and lasted, And done what seemed their kindbest, Till fell havoc from without, Like a grey November day, And stunned hope, and longing vain, And brockaged barters shot through, And filled the world all 'neath the palm, With unheeded possibilities. And for all this I remember That not so many years Were forced between the morning's smile, And merry ideology, As one to whom I said "Remember me." By whose good priviledges I have been stung. For I remember Established Truth, And that he said, I know, and Truly, I have, indeed, but taken the fool's herb, The id man's somaticardia, The tea at its herald term, The mirage of health 'round the paw Of some shortfooted cat. For all that, did he but love me once, I had but toyed with an unsummery lust, Forgetting whets keen on downtime. The grey maid, with the splending mud-where nest under her eyes Said, "O a sanctipjohnitor general, We have lain we had laid estray Forvey Gurneman, owner of the parlor of yore, And others, the like of whom are not. Here have we domiciled peaceable throng; At dawn from the entrance of the rocks they pardy; And as they were no fortune they thankfully Thought the bustle of the era of grandeur days. With that she set her teeth on one side; And by wakened ears there was music sweet. She had a pail from which she braced the crowd, And a oaken spade from which she waterfed The hairy trials from her hairy chest; And she kept the round of gossip fair or dire, And had for her throughout the room full for wind. She had ten visits to bear, and twice that buske, Since Established Truth, and its abettors, Had opened wide the fruitful earth and bade return The soul to haunts of the inmost life; And so with all modesty of mind she ======================================== SAMPLE 257 ======================================== 'Scape--scape, I beg you, Do not thou my wounds upon my breast! These wound the same, and I shall die, And I must after-times allege 'Cause of thy'n injuries; no whit of blame Else thine are those: 'tis mine. Mephistopheles. Don't make any hast thou can; First get thee forth, and tell thy scared To get some water, for my breast Is wound about by every rock In this so great a horror; no water strick I durst therewith, I might not thus Pour upon my face, and so my breast Ajin--but a wind, in white array, Was moving up and down the shoulder Of all the others, and was seen to gleam o'er the walls, and behind All was seen to rise up from thence And give a great rooster's peal! All were then surely soon awake; but I, I slept till all the point was told, The second cock came not; then Bird of night, Crashed in my brain, and all at once Stayed in his flight up to the loft, His brawny-nerved beak half-angry Bared to my eyes, then settled round Against my heart, while more distant Two clouds, drawn up and over Heaven, Met in floor, and the sun went down, And Night gave breath to Light, and they were Both gone! But Light in bed, with Love Flashing in his eyes, asked me, "Whose palace is this?" I said, "The Count of Walsinglonga's;" Light whispered back; "For so the Beloved's palace is," I knew his voice, "but let it be! All night I live here, and when I die This verdant bed is where I die." So weezen love is, so weezen Ey knew they be, so close they pressed Each other, and their loves set free Should be, but neither curst the bout, For love and sport were full thro'th me; Till on the following morning light and sleep Cradled each other, like a ship at sea, Then we began to cary, from the bed; I took her hand, and, Dancing Westaway, And along the doored roof's terrace, they Met at the gates again, till, in a jewel A smyring piece did burn above each head. And when at Evian we sojourn there, Which sale rationed folk to stay, we Stood, two, by claims of our true love; Love, wishing we were dead, to us made line Not a dear garland, but an inky thong; And in that solemn chancech touch, And at large last Awaiting to appra The judgment of Earth, and Gold, and Love, We blest them to Peace, who counted our foines Of likes and stays the best of jews; And, continu'd in those Confessors, We besought the Vulg. Reg. to send A quart of wine by McCarter's rule, Whose blessed door his work Uncas made. For this wine we had bee somewhat ashamed To send you, and had made you ether A minor priest in the Priesthood: But whisht to our request, hee made us clear, That he did neither drink nor dine: And 'twas his cider-shoals, so zealous, You had them in the least where's Parson Sands? This wine had wherewithal to give to them both, And he done proudly as he saild by ours, To lie Witness for the road he passed through. Well; the first call is justine, The second is worstine. The lesser Priest Garmad was sacrificed By his lesser maids, And as the mother of God she tore his heart; And Sire Pimpdemosfellner did follow: And now I am busied from heel to head, To pray for this and for, pray both; As fast as shirt of nere seen I had it off my neck, Pray for them both, Paddy Connor. The kettle went round, the pot was brown, He piped as he was boussed, Peddler, true, and good was he, And bore the name of ben: When he was drive from town, Peddler he took with the Padevert, And they both were acaid When I was at Dun Aungier, My ======================================== SAMPLE 258 ======================================== salesmen with brains, (Wiring brains to guns), Our faithful friends the pigs, (With the brains of course,) Rode on the moorland (Sleds were brought for sale.) Our group of like-minds (Just as we were said.) To Sunday-school ("Christian" state.) Our love-in-winter: A kind of two-vooer'd lot.) Our hosts without name or place:) All went on health and trade, (The bellows sold well 100 pence.) Our shepherd, the pig's lot. Our host, Mr. Jones, Was chief to-do:) And found the right inhaling, In sooth, a keen surprise, And still, he hoped for more:.) (A bargain, he found, who knew 'em, When he found he could not borrow 'em, He'd lend his friends his neighbour his lungs Before he found he was too old a friend to need 'em.) And then, he knew his Christian place, And joined the poshest club in whistling reeds (That are not at first the brightest blooms.) But his grace to none that's tame His posy of "queer-at-eft" The most delightfully damp and showery (As if rainbows 'ud do it enamel!) Was this year's flower, the lordly pancake. So much for his own position:) He cantered to the door, He self could pay, he said, Out of his cheep he would pay Any amount--of Pounds--Pounds--Pounds-- That any sum that can Go, I'll pay any shillings, shruggings, If any nice gentleman Spare just twenty quid For one so fair as I (And don't forget it!) Remember, when you do, I'm behind In what I've said, I shall be very clear How, for my part, From morn till ill-bye, I hold myself Behind Confounded in a corner, Behind Full-brimmed, though starved and broke, In what I say, though I don't have enough (And you don't count your losses). I've lost my starters: The 'New Switja Lines' I bought and paid for I dropped one day: One serious ticket, just for the front door I followed through a situation With a police report Filed and appealed against (which was too bad), And one for 'pas and 'verys the others went through: But I'm not through with laughing:) Last, but not least, at the end of all In the red-score city-halifax of day, Where I found a warm air move From all sorts of rooms And chimneys, as if they held One dead man of sin Beneath them whole and dead. But it isn't so:) I'm here, I'm fat! I'm here, with one half-hour to spare, And I've something too, An ode, if my modest tongues shall deploy Enough to warn you of my pen. But the tongue can't reach Her Zodiac jest, That flower which hangs like a broken sprig Over the Singer's house-front there:) It's Margin Walker the women's man, The men will have to wait, (And that's just the same, no?) She who rang me and passionate and conviced Me fro about the action: She says she doesn't see the women in the street, Though they come dim-eyed and rattled And almost creased, like the usual wind-blown chickens, With the odd sensation that they're going to be heard, And the pleasurable accident Her hand the sun and her (Her hand? I say, but what she says Must not be recorded over newspapers, Whether she's mad or not, And whether she's here to see or not:) Ah, no; she is here to see: She is in the air, the music is music, she steps In her bright skirt, and the star with her sings my song, Or, its phantom resonant still does hold me: It is the sort of day it is fitting to be mad To think of being heard, and yet not to be heard: It is the sort of day it is salty and low With the dust and the colour of myself, And the ballad 'round and forgetful Of the proper bawling and hearing and saying of it over, ======================================== SAMPLE 259 ======================================== Beneath the blackened hemlock- That she knows how to be, And beneath the dead arm of Carcassonne Eternal flames! That only ever die! The same great black cloud, the cloud of soot, That covers the man, And the horse, and the devil in the dirk, Then follows after. What's that that hangs high in the air, Like a thunder-cloud or like a smoke-hued jack-knife? And what's all that noise of rain and sleet and snow? My fingers run o'er the cauls to pluck A dozen shreds of something that may be The déknes of birds,-- But there's only rain And the dogs howling at eve! And I look and see the top of the Vernalzeak; And I whisper, "The foot of Debby's lover?" And my voice doth triumph with a shrill and olden sound,-- "The head of the demon is right down there 'Twixt Agapon down to the well!" I see her at my window, swooning, red and white-streaked! And I hear the hysterical "Ah-hah!" and the blood-pink Of her cheek that's blushing for the dawn of day; And the bugs that burrowed a-eating her fall then, And the wolves that broiled upon her! But I will not cease to pray! O I do beseech thee, God of my fathers, That the frost may kill the wolves that killed her, And a grave may cover her, And the bleaching grave-dirt may recompute The crime of her and her lover! My wolf-skin red and swart, I'll covers show for her, E'en at the moorland's side; And a veil I'll wear for her, Whose lovely face is fair, For all the deer and charnel! <|endoftext|> Who will give me, who shall receive, Sweet love, Mem'ry so complete In thine own air That out of it Spring-fern grew And Violet-violet'd as the Quad-Yew. I carried a flower Unto a window where on silk I laid it by my love-cage in the spring: Then my love-cage in the spring did part, And the white rose of the bud did float, Fragile, useless, on the garden-stream: But the flower was pure, and wide, and high As the flower of numberless flowers that roll From Parthian borders: and a pilgrim house Bent down its eyes unto my love-cage. Now, who might have thought ( I mounted the stair Which over all the bells of my soul did feel) That in that rose's essence undeearth Would rise an angel-heart that would on days pour The blossom-heart of remembrance and of singing, When round about my love-cage's threshold lay The mountain-gail, the sea-guls, and the snow Of northless lands that flecked the crescent feet of heaven? Come down, soft rain, from cloudless sky, Coming on earth as on a beached wing The dead leaves rich plants lift up, and we sweep Their brief annals in the drifting sun: While she, within the winds of Spring That fell on lover's lip and limb, Lifted freely then upon her gracefully slow Photos of green ivory, and precious lore Of many flowers, good of "that noodle," In which great phlox and crocus shone Rich as the glories of fine corn; And many a thing that Boreas ne'er gifted, And for which Titan nottlings failed, With gentle touch through them we touch. I move me in that rain To trees that lift their palms to the skies, Oilding the larch with green And wool, with clustered fruit, That wear a pattern like love, And eyes of flowers that never cry, Then she that loved me said: "Sweet, it is time to end this meeting, For which I have all through nights endured Still in my heart your breasts at night more staunch, And every eye I saw was rivetted To images of you, maiden, where I almost could have loved you whole and mine. And it is truly time to cease this, For where a pine and myzerg's (I'll have your law) May stand, there's little profit in seeing you, And ======================================== SAMPLE 260 ======================================== itself and for what uses. Each day they are wandering from one purpose towards another. And a part of you is writing a poem of their life at the moment when the sun gives it back, which, if you are in a position to judge, you will find, once again, to be nothing but good. <|endoftext|> "Relating to Woman", by Linda Rein [The Body, Nature, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] So there she is, in her sainted hip and slippers (and perhaps a redscar, too), as boutique lingerie shop owner, prescale amateur voice, scholar, economist, author, pickpocket, patriot, consul, bureaucrat exiled from tax conferences, speaking circuit, of flatiron buildings (in her arteries) the new lesbian economics we do what we must because we can, which means we have to Which is to say, of flatiron architecture The paying might make it worthwhile to leave a quieter, quieter place, like Central Park, for such concentration, while the fame fails, the flatiron swagger makes it worth while to over-embego the celebrity of a more private side of herself, a lady into the sensuous private woman, unportrified, unadapted to the hero image, the erotic's hoodlumies and the hero's signature boots. The hero's signature boots, of course, are Fleece & Gibbs; Fleece describes the owner's personality; Gibbs is the character, a halogen, a coefficient, a citizen of both the private self (secured) and the public self (risk tacked on to secure Groups I and V). The hero's signature boots, manic large prognash; they are small, they shine, he leaps, he is small (indexed, he takes it on the left). Private, he sells (like the hero of this poem) in the store (as in life), black-owned lovelier than black, more marketable than small. He is wise (like the hero's skin the wise, inclined to the sensual's border) than marketable, as black, because the marketable is conflated with the disproportionate self (threat with the impossible) while the private self is just the disproportionately one part of the self with which he or she is connected. The private self is inherent in the hero's skin, just as the marketable is inherent in the self with which it is connected. The hero and the private self are thus circumpolar worlds which reflect each other. The private self, too, is yet another world with which it is reflected, and its being just such a relation between heroes and heroes, not only stars replaced by reflective counterparts, need to be remembered, when skin is furious with lances, not the self, not just lances which through the hero's self may reflect the reflection of self in self. Self reflects self and so skin reflects skin. Skin has no world apart no vaulted extreme, no higher purpose no glass divider no husband who no wife no mortal boundary no mortal border no mummy divock no future just now just as it was no future then just as skin no longer is a world apart the self no longer the reflection on skin worse than itself is just the self skin has with or without the self taken or given, or kept, or not; as in any Pliny Quarantine as in any Pompeii the self taken or not is mortal as any self the self of the world of skin self no longer self-moved but mortal self no longer the world of lances the self mortal self no longer world self no longer mortal self taken or not self caught up with its own assumption of the world further, made mortal further further in a world now further from the self the self no longer self-moved further in a world now further from the self skin no longer self-moved; skin no longer self-moved self moved self, but self-moved self no longer self. No self no self. The world no self. <|endoftext|> "The Beginning", by Carolyn Wilson [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Religion, Christianity] And the water is clear as champagne. Yes, as the Vatican tells it, a hundred million years ago the speed-me- ======================================== SAMPLE 261 ======================================== We can't help it that we're such am Cares! Ah, yes, the little romp is done, And, oh, how slow! To such a pretty little Late As never know the Pleasures of Sleep. It makes me long for Pain, To see how pale and lukewarm The evening glooms in their veil; Oh, that I had my Death, And seen the spirit's turn, As up the soul's strange highway My wandering soul intrepid stray. I thought of him who died to-day. We never cease to see each other, We never cease to love each other; For, together, without cease, Thinking of him, I know that he is With thee, and me, and his favourite The little child that looks up to him. No word, no kiss, as custom and care Keep, till the meal-times over all; And so he must make known His week's or month's repast and his task: It is a thing we must forget And you must set aside, As far as I can, When the meal-times are over. He must not think of me at all, But must keep away From the little lad that looks up to him, And worries him, as children will gripe When parents cannot. That is what Mother must do, When she thinks of the suffering parent, I selfish am. 'Tis so very hard to portion Who should be friends, and who should hate; Who, since first time that awakes, Aye yearneth for a touch of his hand And sees his face, yet yearneth for more. There is none makes parting less More easy, but none more painful. He must set up a roaring There in the lofty air, And make his voice sound so clear And strong in the bird's song, that, did he be not near, The weak spirit would be troubled. He must turn all the gross things, That draw our eyes, away, And by their lustre make weak: He must brush away the truth from the mind, That in things golden puts loss. He must know the best in what passes, Or else he would be poor in what is to be; He that would rise to the highest good Must trust in what is past, and say ag'in, 'Now I have it once, do this and this.' The hour that is most opportune Has no more profit of good things Than others lost: 'twill not allow The friend or the lover one dinner-bonfire, One invitation to the Bier-house, One trip to tempt the Past with toys. He must not curse the long day When others go mad for; Or seek to weaken the heart's resolve By town-living in the night: 'That is the one that goes', he says, 'By far most decidedly RARER.' He must not taken salary By lying, driving, or going; But, being IT, and it to itself, Have what it says and does: 'Tis simple, I know it now, and love it. No more a figure, but be one. When the Sin with the Guilty for friend and reward, Speaks in the starlight interviews, 'Beware Of the man who goes rewarding,' She then is not herself in fear: When the Spring to the lowe that she loves I saw her weeping in the wild,-- The tears were falling on her Grace's head; And the air, through her tears she was calling, Seemed detain'd for her rather than her feet. 'Wherefore weep I, Liz'rato?' she cried; 'Pray why in this weeping?' It was not said Behind her head a Woman's beauty hid, And she knelt down in her weeping like a Doe; 'Poor loveless who knows no rest but this, Why with me the night? Here 's my head, Wherein my ears are creeping, anywhere, For pity's sake, my soother, My heart ached so that I could hear its pain, 'From my heart, my head!' 'Your heart, my tell me where, my Grace.' 'To fly he, my flying heart, My speech, My tongue's middle name. When the grey dawn after all the sun was done: When the wild wind was only fit to berze The empty saddle, and the hoofs were lame: When she took in her scales the other beast. ======================================== SAMPLE 262 ======================================== revenge; and so beseech these past ten years, that on your head he cast And he, that hath so many times incurred great scorn among men, was ready to swear he feared him not. And in the other's hand his sword was flint, and he, that had ill-fortune, had his brow enclosed in a cast long drawn out, and upon this did groan; and his heart was full of sorrow, and he smote him and gripped him where it seemed he had crushed his chest. And he rolled away, and toward him invoked all the gods with his long beatels, praying one and other name, that they might give him back his sight who was bereft, and besought them to grant his hated children quick relief, until they took him home. But when he had snatched himself from thence, and came into the dust, the great-hearted duke turned back toward him, and met his eyes, and spake and hailed him: whereon Odium with a great cry began to wail, and utter all the full tale to him, and thereupon the smiter's wrath grew like to the dread he had in his heart, and he with all his sons and goads and followers smote, and reft from him the said one, while the others gave no answer save with sighs, and cast themselves before him as dead, and wept and shouted and together all smote him, slaying with their hands out of sight the father and the company in whose place he sat at table to see if stroke or bread or wine would be withheld to harm the wretched sons of the Rapaean. 'Alas, ye wretched, ah me, what land is this that I see in my dream? The air about it is fouled by dogs and vultures and birds of prey, so cursed are they. And there lie rivers and wells so wasted, and rich wines and harvests and good viaries. And the men seem the same, the Scolastic Pirates and harvesers of gold. What, gods, shall we do to punish them? The sons of Earth are even in their want, the guileful Perseus and the faithless Rapelias. No patricide is mortal in this tit-up, but what she hath lost she gets back continually. But the day is at hand, the long beloved day of the daughter of the earth, of the fair god Apollo, whose bent arrow smote the terrible manna, bringing fruit soon; so thou, O seer of all the world where sinews rulest, stay'st with thy sense, and bid'st not the harvesters by the turn of Juno's heel her cinders out of their stake. Thus, even as the scaly sea now that the broad sun is flamed into pain can suffer mute, even so, when the long day is drawn, a voice will go flying all over the world, calling for strength. And the more through the tormenting rain it will press upon it, so long as it afflicteth with rain and snow, fitting well the speech I had of the city and then got together of men all the least of whom was that one that for a boon had no fear of any one of them, one of them was bound unto a tree on which the folk were charmed with the shaft's light, when it be- vivid a dark one, a third one was that one was formidable, and were gnawing at the shaft, and in that place was the water of a spring, and the self-same voice wrought both its light and darkness. And as yet the pangs were not yet heavy, but durst not exist, there on the shore, but the water was filmed on the sand as it were cold, and the burning pain in both the hands of one whole country were struck in bitter space. 'I was that one who was born in my hands as a man, and I lived, and did not know of the wounding of my soul until many days past, and the filling of my crooked mouth as well, when my heel slipped on a stile and my heel-bone was cut from the bone that ran from the back of my foot to the foot of the woman, and my legs were the cause. And so I let my stiffened neck hang at the side of the wailing, and I was trickling from mouth to mouth with 'And then a few days, and little more, I was ware of a a dream ======================================== SAMPLE 263 ======================================== Does your mind break up with the logic Of this iron wilderness, and rend Down its dead banks, as a wind, from off Its dead tracks?--Because our master Christ Says never to the upper lighted places Placed it of the power, the glory, and the High Excellence of Him who rules Things to be owned his own? Nay, no, Let us believe it can be nothing So high and excellent, but all men Find low in their true sight. God did say This Himself, in parables of His heart, Where if we think, we are unhed, and, if We believe, then the heart is in the shadow Of the great stone thrown down at a sound, Not all our eternal life is in the Shadow, and the shadow dies out of the Haunter of the fang. Well now, The chalice was cleft for the hungry worm In the guts of the dead brother of Christ; The heart was the right place for it; and the heart, the flesh, the rind, are the same, For love casts out affection. Had he only his demands made known, The cost of living, and his own strength to spare, He could have gotten his own provisions out And built himself a tomb. And this stone, Yea, this bloody stone was the right thing At the end of the steep way to prove it, And give the world the truth. If Christus was a Hildebrand, Because he chose to live in the day, There is one block head in the whole world Battling with Hades, and his face Has not warmed to the forest's peace, Nor quivered like a reed against the stream. Stout Branrip hadrew in his veins and skull Three millers harped millennia ago. Gosh! they trod forth in the body of Sankara; They crucified and drained the Caesar, The world was full when Christus was born; A miller, carver, force of hand, This Christus, who was Christ. Wretched child Call for child, Wretched child, dear wife wife, dear mother, And you grandchildren, with crowns on heads, You snakes in each branch of the rough fence, Each serpents in his own torment, And you sick beds, And you wheel of bed, Plowing the ill to the sick bed, Plowing the good to the good plowrer, And you daughters, And you pillars, And you beds, And you shifting crosstrians, And you stooping ladders, And you upper beds, And you merry wives, And you minstrels, And you maniacs, And you maims, And you opponents, And you maimed limbs, And you crippled hearts, And you lunatics, And you dying breaths That are divided, And you labouring beds. And I too, now mingled with Thee, Tribuèd souls in the germ of Time, For You have sent me from the bottom Of this mad house to call you forth; Out of this burnt house I call you down, And look upon this ill-water. And see what may be done for the good of the innocent, For the creation of a new child, made in Your image. 'Mother-in-law' is not the name that may remain Herevolt Your new name to utter, when the soul is reborn That was born with a desire to discover and find The good he had lost in the ether of His world. Duty is ours in the thought, the theawless world seen, Whirled round toward light that leads the ungoverned life to good. Yea, the most wildest way that I know To win at any time the winged soul And that I sing about Nowise costs you aught. But to mark you only under the sun I found it hard to choose One road that might best be run down. So here, if you take away nothing else from me, Take from me the mistakes that I may not hide, I have been many things to many people, and where many things have upset me; I was wrong about almost all that I did ... and I did not care. I have hurt others, by omission, by command, And I have done wrong to myself, and there were many tears that I did not start. My mother was right, and my old mother-in-law right, and the old dean of the university right, and the old sainted post dean right, and all of ======================================== SAMPLE 264 ======================================== A sigh, That breaks in peace. A half-shut door: that's the way. In summer weather, sunburned skin, A hairshirt and a whistle-rock Suit all ages. And when summer's gone, the house Bears on its fools, a litter all. And the air's alive with straw- That makes you think of snails And the sound of their gulps. Like a long-neglected sword, the land Light dances, it's like a ball; The sun that's out, the sun that's down Out of a coat. If you've a cough, It's came from the jars. The hedge-softer's a rake The weevils a place to pull, And the trodden fruit makes a bray And rattle of empty trees. They bow bewilderred Like an unfed bare. They thump like stunted dunces Or just a mother's tear. They bawl in high notes. And their light cries shrink through the trees. And you remember: such rascals, Their miry little hearts. No land could arrest 'em. They skip and they weave. They mis-speak, they black-out. They smoulder in their greed. They come and they go. They tell no tale of Earth; She's unto them a post. Before the yellow foamy tide Blows ever back, they'll feel An end to now and oh, So free within their waste, Wet with hot dews, the plain. And you remember that old fear, That laid its possessory Over the house? Then like a rooming-room they'd be, And sit and spy and snore On all thatsts that summer dressed; The pink that blushed and bloomed and that; The violet near; the brown in-between, The mossy green, the pools of green; And one or two that hung quite light. I keep a slight host there-above, And if it's not-away-below I'll have a hand in the roof, I could eddy the building-earth with 'em And bolt the doors of the straightest day And make a place for a tent Where two are and two can talk, And four may walk off and home to be. Now, I'm a man of the other, And you call me strange, and I call you lazy; I am a tree that breeds below thy roots, Call me old and mean, and then call me barbaric; I gather and meddle in thine aid and stand On my own trumpet, and people thy term, I will not always win thee round, though thou And call me a likeness, And tell me that my likeness is not me. I know not the true me, and thou knowest not If, by being not so I speak, By being so thou speak'st, we both seem apart, Or thou'st knowest thy place, and I the wrong. And if we stay apart, know well Thou canst not barter with thy name for mine, My name for thee, for none without the self is free. A Muse flying high, Sat fins all day; If she would take a lake She had to follow Any boat That came to catch her. An eagle, long ago, With plumage grim, Did confront the sun; If she would come down She fell the thing that heads do fall, On sandy shore. 'Twas done as follows: She takes a boat that has a page To guide it; And the boat vouchsafes no signal for 't, Till Cliff, near by, Announce it. 'Twas done by Duncan, Who standing by Took anxious care To tell aught which might aid that statue's Visage. And not long after, Sad Patches came to land Where Duncan had been. And though he knew his friend would be there, And-like a-shape, the face he knew-would not Unseem the same, He took his charts from an old and revered book That had originality outwritten Poetical claim. So he to Monkish Tower had made his round, Driving before him many an unbusy dwarf, Or anything in store for him. But when he came to where Brian was lingering Half reason and half to say farewell, Patches stopped in his course to state What he ought to do. ' ======================================== SAMPLE 265 ======================================== As his being now, that star, though waning, still sets (If a cloud cover it) with its light to follow: Thus twixt the last day of that longest days And this the bard's last year: till he who toils (To me, from what prospect) all his life from age May see, here sees, here strikes, this wheel tracks (In a round) its circuit, with him its course, With him it sways, in him its motion goes, In him, while years its course postpones. So measure the round takes not the round For graded miles, but in the heart thereof Truth dwells as in a peaceful bay. Nor these seven only this day shall'st thou see In me, composed of mind the best, Pilgrime to forgive and sin to grapple, Wherewith sullied doubly, yet shall soft The league resolvèd to his law observèd, Nor that, which joynè, hath half mused, so close His nature and his nature comforts him. Besides, this yesternight, for them in error Who fell, who did for sin call stars Friday: My brother, all for that transgression lost, as began On that same day, that on this hill lay crippled, I did for moss my mantle and gown; and, as At that same time a sign we are both of all, For all that hath been or is, if it occurred, is or was, The same thing is in memory of each with us, and each, Since time begins not with Death, but Time, shall be: And for those laws that things continue as they are, I see no cause why those same laws, which now divide The remaining universe, should not mark it as full Of pathless air, where Ideas are; For every life, after its own fashion run, Illustrates that life's torch light is well spent: As scorch'd smoke, after fire has struck the eye Full down the infernal side. But grieve you not so, for death emblazon'd must These ears and this head of thine forever; And grief shall be, as fire, endurable, true, And I and thou unhappy, as before. But love and joy, such love as nothing can Fly from thy wrath; and such joy as nothing can Be seems when gods their transitions do adore, Such shall be, such is, yet shall be no more Than blind day star madness; all things in chaos mind Lasting, rouse through word, chart, or section, from all That camels' shadows from the hills have rear'd their lighting course. No eye, no more than mouth can make them vain. The mouth is wither'd; and, as flowers, shall be His brain, and twilome; and as the mouth, the heart, The brain and all its parts for ever deceiv'd; That all their substance and concept is transfement; Creation, no less, of a whole in all; Much Life, much Death; both leave and new Collapse; And this (when thou dost not object to it) thy new Brain. Ev'n (said I) to misfortunes I beheaf, To wretchedness under bliss depending. So ends, my Secret; and thus the Vision rose. All leaves, all solidays, farewell! that can For earth, be everywhere right. Such transient breathings, such the names we make Of living things, earthly where we dwell: Alas! not even murmur less can fright Into frigend sleep, than such a horror As floating Death, such fair suff'rings we Trust to Sleep's couloirs, and on we go! Hence, O my Hilton, recall these babels of bale! I lift my hat for mirth, not sword, to thee; For naught is chillier to the heart than refres'ry To waited-for mortality. As garments mild For morning, and as noONS have heads, So go to rest, ME that yeilds the head, And keep thy stattyVITES between me and her. For very shame, there's not a soul on earth That woulde'n SEIDE thee, or that woulde'n get well BIOS About his bones, but ADE all loose, and well thrashed FUAL His spirit, now, now, and loth to live, (For now, alas! we see his pinky-white Musculi schweyl by CALFIDA, and his art Drawing him from Tru ======================================== SAMPLE 266 ======================================== Jasper Black, Captain of the Guards,-- a lover of horses, and a tinkerman to the king,--to him was given the fiddle, to whom he blew so beautiful wild notes that it often seemed the king, and not the fiddler, was standing here in the bright, snowy hall. He too, as Captain Macgregor told me, was heir to all the glory of Windsor, and by right the castle--though soon to be torn down, and the great forest of Windsor overgrown-- was his through a prince of Wales, and his nephew through Lancelot, King of Scotland; for Jasper was heir by affinity of birth. and the second star was always the Moon, always heralding rest. It was a beautiful star, and full of dreams and beauty, for it burned in the depths of the sky, like the white lamp of the twilight, bright through and in the blue air. I stare at the portrait of Sir Johnless, there are no women in his line-- He loved the old knot of a-trim--and a-glow, a-soaling, a-hunting. Though he was born in the sounding sun Into the quiet evening There were no images of him posing for his chiselled stick and belt, And he walked among the solitare with a delight for the beatific rays Of rime and riddling and sand and sky. For these are the pictures in man, painting which the books all tell us There was no place in the world For all these pleasures. He was swallowed up in the tiniest theories of the growths he noticed and touched. For a moment in the stillness Unarmed and unafraid He held communion with the Book of Heaven And he heard the breath of the Prophets. It was the ecstasy of the brute. He heard the big boa come down From the sky and the mountain and the lake. The big boa loved Sir John like a brother, And the same is the snake you must shun. He heard the heavy tread and Zodiac and the world from the beginning. For the rest, The brutes have heard the same. And the wise men--and they have it just For the bird that plumed him the job is a wonder To make a hummingbird's bale. He talked about the zodiac And the heavenly pole and ascents On charts, and the cosmic tears, And the dream and the evangeline. He would have accepted Aquilinos as Es, if he had been so lucky, But the pilgrims not yet cleared the palace, and he was bound to stay. The proud men all smirk at the boa. The docile eat the webby-web. <|endoftext|> "Two Naval Dive Crewmen", by John Suckling [Living, Growing Old, Life Choices, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Trees & Flowers] "One hundred years later I'd have a limp and a silly accent." Something is even as all the rest. It comes at me as an approach-and-readies. I tap the air and tap the palm with a splintered boot. As if it had a rack you poked my belly with a needle. As if a will to live, it tries its tough old teeth in mine. It tries to identify. It laughs. It thinks it's remembering me. For all I know it's the hand of the other— the old hat pulled down from the brim of my dirty hat. The dark false-ground, and all the employees of Dülisí. <|endoftext|> "New York Time", by John Suckling [Nature, Animals, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] Cattle prod your neighbor to keep them moving west. I watch the hills of the west and wonder what to make of us. The hills are covered with motion but the morning still shakes at the hills of the hills. The tall clouds move you. The mountains look at each other with too much confidence. You go to your home through a gap of startling size and personal courage. Through the door you see what the air made of was. There is the sun, with the old big teeth that ate nails and made the wombs laugh, the clouds with ======================================== SAMPLE 267 ======================================== Howe'er you look, A dragon of flame Flies by on his hind-legs. That which most noisome is The light bark dark maw, That no eye can tolerate Nor ears no pleasure. The barking of the mad dog Ascends from its dungeon, The small rockets' cries Scare the flaut of a mill-stone A good deal. The woman and the man Nought care in heaven To hear the more of God; Distant voices nought esteem, But the voice 's audio-visual. The woman and man seem mad, A big gun beneath the bed Is the long-slugged tyrant, And the nailer's breath is taken. Where my girls gone in the car, Hear I how my new craze Comes to our caste of dogs. As I rattle on my pedest, Hear I the chorus' response. And, behold, my science, A question of how I live. The bewilder'd and awkward, The furrow'd and cramped rout, The boggle-faced, and the glower'd, Hear I their nature lecture. Rear'd in velvet inky, How dim they see and can't speak. My stiff-prone scribes my thought On a guess that most guess wrong. O, how I chafe in air Where she has passed from heel To the ruffled heel a space 'Mid dog-SOBER And I, his staunchest follower! Rabicane first, then black, After that, feverous; And is it claim'd your right To say I am unkind? And how I wish you'd stop Before you so yourself. The wind at night howls a deck, And rabs on rafter, But trade goes up and down. And all is well, though we Are Guste and Over-Son, Our Lord and You Know Nothing, Our Lord and you Know More. A leader's crook in arithmetic; He looks in face a storekeeper, As she to nature gives water In hollow hells and wells, All wizzen, all right, All briny deep. At dawn's first shred following the tautology, A dead end rides the lot of the one that drew The other's breath: Or waiting a gas-lit turn at the fitting-greasely hole, They seethe o'er the bluing of horning their quarter block's blackness (As black is their cham-pudding, I wisel-blub: With quiche-dust they lookin'). You'll know what gas-lighter's done to my breeches, And my bad leg's foot-stiffening, 'Cause you seen my men on the sloped roof of the pit A-Slime on the slaked flume, Climpin to the roll of the mishap to see' what the wretch is a-deep, And my legs to sag. The lookers-like have a-Silentretiring in that colourless Bleed that lies me on Kangaroo Court, By ane that's my Annihilatress. I'm lewin' oot to-day, ow'. It's ne'er so be -- In vain glowered at her, be't ugly, so meae of yore, Now calls ne'er so neer so sad, Wuz regretfu' no language then, though I'm no fourth son. But I could never see before this Year's Eg 'st because Of Ms squeid up my Hoop, That a sole pain in my life, her unworthy Mate, Should's Telegraph-man, her Flank the tasteless-eared Broad, Stuck a-going in my Life, Life, Life. And you know, in life, what gristle and what tack I got from you, just that - for a bit of a trick? - To make the short difficult doffing the chin, It makes the long wrudge to surpass. If I'd vaunt a short-bumpt Luck, it'd be 'mid-Gunga; But no, no prolongiziziz'd luck for me; Forsaking me, the bruce slope of Humility Leads me, Lead-Snow, to this Hole. Yes, the worst of all is, when one's seeming to-day what he but would be, A tige-stained rash in showman's pretended state - False, meaningless ======================================== SAMPLE 268 ======================================== NW., then it is still snowing, everywhere wherever it falls it fills with moon-lit frost. See how easily the water heaves! A boat cannot rise against that height. But I can rise and work and also love. 7 The earth is never full. The blood fills only lines on the weather machine. And I love you. The cloud covers take shadows into themselves. Their shadows become new light- creating bodies, Amish oars, skin-locking cattle, a whole cow. My blood fills only this, browning wood, the empty road. And it fills our mouths. 8 It's never too late. I was shot at midnight. I feared I might die. No one knew what was beyond the wall of smoke and fire. I was just a boy. 9 After the horse is saddled the rider follows. He forgets the cold cheek on the saddle. The heat of night is a simple case of blue smoke on grey river. Sleep comes and goes. 10 Each night a new moon will slip into the sky before you know it. If the moon's still, you will not hear the engine of separation. 11 The street outside looks great to the sun, but the horizon is full of shadow. When you back away you nightfully multiply (A man and his*?). With a black shoe. 12 Dull is the night and the wind is a wave that arrises fully with slight movement. It is not a wave but a moment. The man is completely aliased by what he sees. But I am your moment. 13 (to switch on our flashlight, put His second hand on it) OG html will always be demon, even if the demons in the glass house are experienced to be days of Spring. On a mountain. In a cylinder. The wind changes the clock ready to tick. 14 The spring moon, red on the breast of the earth, lodged a long, sodding bee. Like a self I am knowing, always on guard. When I am, I want you to be afraid. 15 I know that even though I'm not there's danger. In the yard, one frosty monthly. Lions and wolves and kids come to know. 16 I am. In the center place. I was. I walked. In the watch yard the staff work was easy, a straight toed shoe. When I was there, the new passing place looked like nothing. And we went there anyhow. 17 It was the day before they could come. Not a single entry in his Diary About His Pets How he drank. Says he likes his best. He was another chance. 18 I don't want my children to feel. I know it's good. I love it. I know it's good. I know it's good. I love it. 19 It was cold hard hardly very well his thirty days on dry ice. It wasn't long time. So sane his friends thought ======================================== SAMPLE 269 ======================================== Since the road he should not quit; For the frozen heart to rock again The tide of life must flow away. The past is in dust, and all that stood The piles of ice its powdery shroud dust. While 'tis but right to live on his love, The love that he in the past did claim. And the present is a fleeting thing, That in the depths of his regret shall sleep. Well, since she's lovely, we'll say He was not wholly wrong to live on, Nor find a liquid mirror'd cheer, In the wintry turret like a snow-drift. To live by thieving, and to pile The odour of snow on his hands, And turn the salt world into a stove The smoke from one brand of frank-thylacid He was wont to take, and throw away On rocks that quickened with the burn, That speedily were mended, and then He burned out, and she began To educate in science and law, In science little knowin'; But she became (she's the mother now) A check to what she should have been. She plaisted with no qualms, and ran A nasty boarding-school; Broke all the lessenkens; and did fine To cheat by a Regent's Luding; And gave the British regent's a kind Of institution to the race (Tho' some strong private-latrine were made), To squat in, and hold his senses sound, Against the menace of an angry State. Where are your public checks? They're everywhere. There is no check, No slightest bar to platinum manias. The Banker keeps his hot hand on the plancin; The Corpiner keeps the spouts a-gclear; The drunkard wins his selfish unanimously; The free-loader ngiver, and fills his cup With popular favours ding-dong strong, And cold-water kindness to the settin; The drinker, when it's out of sight, lies in The medium size between a coxcomb and snob; What's this we drink so freely of? tea-lime Mango-compote with its sauce semi-poong, Or chiliie, half-learned, half-murder; We're no gauchevit lunchers; for that Leads to the kadi-tangle of Y. bore (In the dust-patch lower, where our feet were) And we're back let go, and none higher raised; Ourselves we need no stretch to be. Now that we've paid the sects to come to us, (Our fortunes are now to little known); And that black-leg contingent Hasn't contrived to make us double hot, We shall be hungry at that concoction So intensely sweet to contemplate The Ragged Troubadour's astonishing means: The kadi (learned theolog with less repute) Makes tincture that "it's only true to say (My) belly full to stay); But it's of such fruit we lewdly incline (We are so anxious to be extorted); And if it be wrong, it's no longer in the scale For us to weigh; we've no excuse for the habit; That which is right nor bound by any State law We can call up of old (although we're reprieved); Or we can thank thick Brisbane Darkness For this extraordinary cognition. To: but what's the good? we'll no Presbyter-Maid, What concern's their modest fief'? And to them besides, to say it over, The dithering Grand negatively nags. (They've a word or two with that same dry Scourge, But so what's the heat?) And further, I've heard that one poor beast Said 'twas a good old Anglican Priest was slandered. (A smarm! dear me, how devoutly every night, How fully he stays at nijf lef; And sweetly proves the coming of the light, too, When the moonshine pours from the spaurenders bright.) He had made, poor devil, two fine nymphs To be his earthly minstrels but fiercer, (I mean of his breast a lovely cheezeett, And a starveling to sing all day in bed, And when fresh from his mate with lightning bright, To go in the morning with him and bid me bed,) Only to sleep with him at night to greet the sun, I begged--and he would, my heart ======================================== SAMPLE 270 ======================================== Is riven by the hand of her Who, or no immemorial beauty's spell Wherein by grief-struck eyes and vainly grey The broken mirror shine through tear-blurred glass; It is the weeping of the eyes Of him, and him alone, who first Made all her soul's awful comfort take An image more divine and more Real than beauty in her tears. Such is the queen of kings; she Among the shimmering airs of light Where the many fashions of the sky Melt and sublimate in the wind Beats into flame the image blown from her So real that men may look on And follow after her gaze, And one another, and see afar The shapeliness of limbs and hair And gaze her hellenicness. What calls the king to the masque of earth More than the queen of night? The queen Is of more beauty than the lights That make so beautiful the sky That men may look upon the path To her drowned city and say, Behold, we have not seen her eyes; Thus guarded, henceforth she may go Forward with a jubilant look From men's eyes made dim by sin, To that great darkness whereat they see Only the unreality. The queen of night is beauty. Abandoned by the sun, Siete, she is here On this dark and fierce earth, Withering like a southern star That warms on a winter night. Yea, he that loves her, Love her, and mourn him not Because she is so; Let him light his lamp And look on her great face And know his sin in a moment is dead. If it be so fair to look upon, Is not the worldría deona Light so fair to my sight (Fixt and unfixed) though it be Dreadful to speak it at? Great art thou, O Spirits! To keep and quicken what great God Made so beautiful that like All life that God creates, it is now Beautiful, even this. But the queen of light is like the day, Like the day, it is so fair to see; It breaks into the clergy's pipe Like the crack of doom. All love it, and almost all love it commands That nothing better is than love. Love that brings fear, Fortune, love, life, and love, If it bring the end or end, Lights with its least word the helpless earth. If its first pulse be to bless, If the last to wildest is still wilder, Speaks the sweet love of it, and breathless Oh, love is sweet, If the soft walls of its guarded well Keep its honey still; If the sweet watering of its rill On the plains be free; If the bee hum through the thicket all the day And the loquacious bee Find its fullest peace on the honey-dome. On the day it falls, the day it falls From its mad-in-mid-siege cathedral, Oh, it drips and drips in sanguine tide Above its own eclipse; Yet the crowned heads of all its family Spin on, and lift their hands, and turn To claim it drunkenness up. Dawn breaks on the frosty north, And the frost-dragon's clang Makes the deep earth chill beyond the day, And the dawn is on the rolling sea, But not an hour too soon. An hour too soon. An hour too soon. But the sun alone be found, Uncheered and bare, Unhospitable, and past Laughter and deep-lung'd sound. Why should the revel start So suddenly on their toe? (A rumpler type than ours) Ay, but to watch their gait In pokers, without a gagric, knowing How fast they're hastening the last mile. That sort of men love; Their sex was everywhere Swinging 'em in a fashionable sock, Knowing it a shoe that's only fit Through the backs provided, And the fashion of their fumbling to get in, And the ready falseness of their getting there, And their indifference to the image Of a healthful pair of legs, And the loockered speed with which they walk, And their idea that all beauty's round, That all music's pulse, That all passion's friction, That's easy and a pleasure for a few. For the bulk of men, especially the bulk of men Knowing their ======================================== SAMPLE 271 ======================================== in Nor figs were ever pluck'd in these Than have a choicer flavour,--nor figs That have a delicate taste. These they do not use: What is it to me, That sweetly breathe, A few paces off, Beyond the depth Where figs are to be found? Even and sorrowful The hours they steal, Which I can never know Sad, or sweet, Without pitying every sound. But the night must come, And break these hours Which seem to me so sweet, Or if detain'd Should some thought in my breast assail, They will have then no power Which to disarray, My grief to feel. Faults of face which you see The light can't remove; The sunshine may accord With all I've built so high, But the last spirit love can change Itself into despair. Or if I sleep, and rue This image of grief, It's like a dream, And we need look no more on't, My faith can but increase. This is the end of hope. Only three things I have in mind, When setting out to sing this song. The first is the true cause of this tune; The second is the very moon Whose name is sorrow, loss, and spy. The third is a noble affair All swept away from me By the woe it has done great wrong To me, blinded by the shame of it. The true cause of this tune I have to name: The girl I sung of Mark and Joan Who said as much as she could do, I will treble it and double it. And what is the fourth, let me decide. I.e., the Baron of Cold nigh nigh In Germany. As to those three things I have in mind There are two ways: (a crowner for both) I can tell you as both are, or as they are not. As they are. They are these three:-- 1. As they can be for two. 2. As I did them then or when I saw they could not do so 3. As they must do so for evermore. I never care at a goal If someone puts rubies there, So he comes to me with his violets And he gives one to you, You grate them and I to grate them, As you grate the rest, a little. But the crown will be too small a gilding If I lend you one rubie. Good night, I want to say to brother Mark What do you suppose he meant by that? What was it he said about lovers? That there are none like them, gold and love, Except some pure treasurers of an interior life, And as we find no joy in doing this, It follows that no man might find them As we do in loving doing. Mark looks down to Emma, but you can see She's heard a pastor in that biro of his, And her thought is, "If there is no God but man is God, Then all the truth in me is told for them, And he who loves with loneliness does so Because he is alone." The rose has wet its blade and Dr. Cox's work is free to begin. His little parlor we put the cud on, so that the Goddess no more interferes. For ten years the parlor has been a tomb, and now for eight He has taken his ease when he has taken his fare. Now we may think his calmest utterance, and we may be sure It is not forced, for the awful as yet is the least. We do not believe him--that is, we hope he hasn't at this famishing found the daily feed of peace. That is one grown up argument in favour of Christ. And, as for me, I plucked a leaf of mortal virtue From a less than salted garden of my thoughts, And made the whole Christian household table enough, So that the Rose may rouse the omniscient voice That says my soul a beast is set for this insertion. I can think no possible explanation quite alone Save as a man of flour," and then ask: "Is it necessary?" A bearded man with a horn at his chin, And one eye open like a chicken-rib, (Donne's phrase), came through the door and stood looking at us. "I, J. N.J. 2d. 12 sp." (The 12d. value is the common one,) I wish to purchase, ======================================== SAMPLE 272 ======================================== This marvellous blackness gave him a night All his own. And by the marge he drew Of black and white dogwood, giving drink To the roses sleeping under their own shadows; And he could swear he saw it, one pale face Along the road, among them, white and ghostly, Like a drowned face that came to light in some vale. And he thought, "When I grow older, I'll know And love the more the days when they'll be: I'll say what roses in my garden grow." But by the time he reached his thirteenth year Doom had passed, and he was not there. And now, with twilight shades and stars and white, All round him sleeping and waking, he thought Only of his lost, his marvellous self. "I'll love my sister better," he said, "In her blue house beside the dark,"-- And silence was all the answer he got. For every day that brought no new occasion, Or nearness, or help, or distance, AYKUTSA USED TO tell the same small war IN WHATE'ERISTICALLY mounted stranger. Blessings, terrors. Grief to want and feed, REGRETS what. Wistful doubts of the groom,-- Promises to dinner guests ten times her age. Winds accused, laughter at unexpected star. Regrets that gold determines mirrors In at least THREE DECADES older trees. Regrets those talks so strangely strayed, That WILLIAM'S LOVE-ME-YOUR GOD now only known For miraculous reluctance (Deliberate delay) on EVERY other girl In the SIXTY-FIVE shone that night. Regrets--and these made small by his mien-- The pass she did not grant at first. Regrets that strife alone FINALLY works Youth's place in TIME'S blue republic of man. A springtide story, something for SULTAN Saddam To mull and stroke! and still retain in stride. And to the absent still such shape eminently Daunting to architecture--the smile of bushels, Or the light blue that wit sets in a sty. Under the sod at Hartford, where it finally meets The Illinois Central, again at Chicago's O'HARE, It is permitted to feel at times the habit good Of two thousand miles more than averaging two Since sun-up and sun-down don't crosshand. Dung borne directly from Oklahoma, a whole If taken alive and put on the table! with it, The plunder of a dozen Mexican Verses. At this point it is worth while to sift the grain. Malt extract, glycerine, turpentine, and chalk. And for the Kansas native's fair case, we turn To the mix really made in the brandy jar. For two months we hear nothing. Then, justthen, hearing All about the dust at CENN RO, a press dust, All American products, a chamber ball. And pass up the hula with the Midwestern bar, And pass with the eagles and playing cards, and CENN RO. The "glorious" crime, as we title the thing most of all, At which all others bar one naming a drink, Is listed the most by the Imperial House Of this character taken at Frederictor's Circus. Makes the list every time it is dreamt of, you know. And for the police, the dream it is that doesn't mean a thing. And now the flowers, which we shall look forward to, Turned all in the mother of pearl base. I said am a great fan of the preseason. And so I am brought at it by nothing but. For it's the guide line, Montgomry, under date logique. And what about the flowers? they fade, in the powder air. They should be like the hearts in that old basket of mine, The one I dismantled the plug from, to install. They never ought to have ceased to, but they haven't. They don't really look like they wanted to though. And what if they have? Nothing. They won't. This is purple with a heart of lead. And I don't care. I mean, who cares? We will none of us care, this enchanting night. All we have to do is simply allow it to be, To walk around, madcap, breathless, love profane, In vain hope, in vain joy, in vain innocence. All that is bad is only like something I made up ======================================== SAMPLE 273 ======================================== Parameter of my fear and horror, A curse upon my lips! A curse Upon my brow, and all alone! Mother! O mother! wet-nurse dear, Do not weep so bitterly. Go not to-day your daily rounds, Nor waste your years away in weeping; Go, where the red rising sun will guide, Go, where the wild-wing'd dove will oahhh, To where the otter lays her eggs; Where hov'ring trunks the tulip-trees shade, Where scents of earth and coastal vapour blow, And gossips new-formed cherry moons arise, And fays who walk with women meet. All this do, as now do, my stag, And in this canny business sit. Thus Venus keeps the same with him: So do Lamé's twins, so do all The dancing serpents know of She. But this good thing in your eye let fall On your flower-blossoms and your daisies, That all that is green and flow'ry bier You may color with bright eye-glories You for your mother's face. Color is light. Light is darkness. Color is light. See how the waves of morning rush With the new-risen suns till they be Washed by the countless hours of light Out of the mother's eye. And yet you are not an eye, But only a dark eye turned out To find a way by the light. Color is well, but look through no eyes: Let it stand as it was far, And all the house of your seeing Sink slowly down into the night. Color is dust, but Color is Light. And where there is no Light, there is Nothing for the eye to follow. Color is soft in the clay: A clay that holds the earth in trust And so the color of the earth Has a comfort; but see: There is a BEARD in the Dawn: It is the color of the earth And the judge of what is collosal. Now I will put you to bed Because you try to see in the dawn Things that are not there to be seen by day. You are not to be disturb'd by the dawn: It is a pledge from your side Of a jubilant promise: beware Of thoughts that are not in your sight. Minds that are moving but appear. In the river Poet who is he? No, not he: so small, so poor: You would not take him as a friend. He is not here this morning: When I was working at the morning star I saw he was shining still: Not the jostling little shoes of men On the blue shadow-land of the sea, Nor a jingle in the street of the ring Where a gowned colour is break'd down: Not the white wing'd flying-preecha Flying over the spumed grains: Nor the white feet of the morning feet That sound back from the pavement Old Town Hall One moment, where the bits of the sun are thrown: Nor the sudden flash of the water-phonograph As the gaudiosponda's door ajar: Nor the requiems, the pilgrim-tapes, That are fall'n over the topmost thorpeshanner As the dusk enfilades the hill: Nor yet the soul that calls o'er the break'ning walls Of the dark future, when the roofs of the city Extend their beams into pearly eagles' eyes; When the walls themselves are turn'd into lamps for nights To illumine a hour, and a day, and a year, Till the light that they lived in twelve years is become A quenchless fire, and the past meal stayeth well charg'd; Ay! only till thine eyes, unhappy vessel, behold A light upon the water which gods and sages hold. There is a light upon the beach: a moonless moon That is neither next day nor yet future day, But is both a part of all which days and years are: She is not fair to all, she is not black, There is a brown woman, that is lover to me! This I may know: and this I know full well, That an Interview between love and me Would end and all proper enjoyment as thou seest: That to be so, would the Sole Living Idee Of the interview so facetiouss, should be Should make profligacy of our meeting: That I would not change from thisoty rocke for feck, ======================================== SAMPLE 274 ======================================== her moods like words, an English spare or a woman on the edge, her grip as if the nature of the river of fury, of control, as if it were all an illusion, each contraction just a moment of the bigger picture of what it means to be human and, in that larger scheme, to act it out, and each collapse a moment into the other, which was last night the ground I slept in. 4. The boy, the trip, the bologna sandwich. You must get tired, at some point, so I holler up to the neighbors down the road where they spend their days chopping plastic swag and spitting it out on a main street where all their money goes. I don't care if the girl is damn near as awful as she's beyond incredible, and I'm ready to blow her head off if she so much as twitches left on her lips, and the boy is me, and so am I, and we're not even at the part where I pretend I'd like to do her dirty work if she so will. 5. There is a long, small mountain across my shoulder, and I can see it from here across the highway, and I can see it across the highway, and I can see it from the room where I'm watching the boy and his unfriended friends playing his favorite game of tag, of tag, of tag, across the field where his new BFFs and his new boyfriend's new BFFs stand together for a movie night the two have made about their favorite scary horror movies where the boy confesses his love and the boy's best friend, who is not a BFF, gives up his best friend for dead each game. That's the part where I get to be just one of the boys. I'd lie around the house on the floor, deliberately kicking a baby or two, or wander out onto the deck of my childhood's terror, the interstate whose deserts I am doomed to make a particular geography, the part where we dress up as cowboys and kidnapped brides and head out west with never a wage in the offing and are sent around various other kids on whom we've given vague confessions, mini-confederates, to wander west through mozzarella, arroyo, light tribal when the weather looks like the weather of Rome, West Mexico, Saraweland, north Idaho, toward the Hasla for a while then on toward Los Angeles, a maze so maze you get the feeling you could tore intricate by order of application and be present in more than fifty counties and more than fifty worldlets and not get bored unless there's an after morrow, a situation in which it becomes clear that you've still got some dozen or more terrific blondes wanting to talk about you in the same room, after you're fed and watered and show up dressed like your best friend, or your hip, perceived legal husband, not guilty of any of the single crimes medics declare have criminal impact. In this sense you're not even disagreeing with me; there's a sense in which I Am Myself through the sense in which I am Your Unseen Camera. That's how the Days dissolve. If you're an actress proud and able to react to your own statistic, you're a star. If you're not proud and not able, you're not reconceived and not under test, then too often you're the whelmed frog or the little bee or the vertebrae of your real life, alongside the chips of yourself you calleroused and forgot where to call. The fact is, if you're not your brother's daughter or your biological daughter, you're not in position to be heard adequately to request, unarmed, a just retribution. So: there was the real danger of you, a girl on the cusp of twelve in your thirty- five memory, and you close your eyes to be born, in your inchoate birth-lot or story, and there you spend your time, a little short of son, a little short of daughter, that you never will know how to find. And the laws of probability call for minstrelshifts and breath studies, with your hands by the edge of the bed, your hair layed over your shoe-tent, blue as tendrils of night, the world ======================================== SAMPLE 275 ======================================== Generally this may be a danger to the ever-troubled, The little boy may have a hard time for a few days, For he will not understand a sentence that was not said, He never will catch a tramp, or be in the right place at the right time. The city birds, in the pocket-book Their American and foreign flags, wrap around their backs. They then commence their warble pidgin, of street-food or rather their love-lays, For they mean most of their benevo-rite As amusement to the locals and passers-by. I do not think this bare nothing of a tune Should be condemned or condemned harshly, A touch of the amorous sour to sear the thist heart, A touch of Justice, to do a villain in your eyes, For I never can agree to a hero nor a bully. He did as he pleased when the boys were out of town, So he called in his Jills and his County Councils and all his lawyers And began to organize all the little things that he could By which he might causes and bursts of triumph contribute. He made himself a man Without any second thought, Who did right by common-wealths good. And his touch was the stroke of the devilish art That grieves but cannot blame in the end. When a Chief was a Chief was a Chief, Without you or me he knew the job was done; And the outposts they could not restrain him, He was laying seed in the desert of his times; And the mountains he dared to climb were victorious. I thought I'd like to see him cutting off soggarthoted heels And handing round wharen't your being's confirmed in gold, And you being a wallflower, stooping, with your gloves in your back. And you being a tiny parrot wishing to be nothing great. Or maybe I'm going to be some vast coward, A vanishing coward, going whirl for whirl For my wasted years and whoever's next in the rez, And the farewells they say waiting to save me from myself. Perhaps, oh well-written stories in the autumn I've put down, Such as the world turns supine with its vermouth-red mouth, Whose wit's coked there to do no justice to the subject; Such as the world turns supine with its onyx mouth, Such whose causing the topmost notice is to deny me. Some will kiss my hand, saying it's meet, But when I ask for a half-pennyworth of cupavaws, Saying it's not owing but just over Beneath my hand they flee like any drum. I ask not what their skill or tossing know, Only what is their ever-youthful lark. You've the picturesque, and the other you Brag but love the power of reaching the sky, Shooting your light qualification Above the world that you may remind me Where of direction I may but know not. You heavy now that don't understand! O artistic and harsh but trustworthy psychologist! Though fire may burn I'll hold you both my Islands to the citizens of Maui, You're lighter than leaves and shall be taken. <|endoftext|> Just a dream— But I wasn't of two Head to spare to tattle Just a dream— A cool evening on Our sea and our own, Horses at the shelf, Piece of toffee To squeeze In our own cups, Just a cool Toreadoo By the herdsman's cave, Just a dream. Of no one fond, Just a cool To the best of us, Just a dream That we dreamed Never to reanimate, Just a set Of wooden guns In the fields of our own. <|endoftext|> "The Knight in the Forest", by G. K. Chesterton [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Mythology & Folklore, Fairy-tour. 20th Anniversary Volume, The Serpent's Skin Just a dream. I was in a wood—a place I had often gone to, The green and alder-scented, dark and deep. There I saw a corpse with its shirt unclipped; and when I took a body down from that awning, it was a dead man— A dead man, all of hair, mild eyes brown as marigolds, His hands were open in a stiff hand, and stript flesh stood ======================================== SAMPLE 276 ======================================== ers, but each seemed of the seeds of snakes That did enmantle rocks and trees and nations. And Pandy of the maddened penny Was the true writer of verse, but his satires Were the stuff of which our poets are made; He alone of all the rest by force or cunning Eliminated all the fox in him and restored The beauty of the lamb to the fold. Look at His prime of accomplices,--look on the seed Of the false accuser,--look on the dog in piece That helped to cook the verbis vocarent; Look on the king, and note his keeper, and tell 'Were it impossible, I would believe'-- Is it? Why, a sceptre would go still deeper. The king of all spotless truth and brightness Is more intensely serene when he sees His art applied to a redeeming use; For him, too, the horns of experience glow, Which proclaim the universal pain, The universal derision, the blot That comes from nature when she fashions self And discounts the thing she derives from it. His constant thought is the enjoyment Of those who love him; for his art distracts Her current of thought and increase her passion; For his zeal burns thought and investigation, And feed his hopes as the flames discover The seeds of beauty and exalt him past The bounds of his old labours. He is innocent; She who believes her mind with wisdom moves on strong Innocence and fancy, are the builders of empires. He is as one born to be prime matter, To be immersed in the bound of his own idea, And to smear with the hues he will to gales; he Can be to colours in special aired and dowered To such a hue as will make the excursions Of the star-winged observation dazzle. He is as well made for contemplation As any living limb that's given to view, His is the bowane of the spangled sky, The cartwheel of the chariot of the heavens. His is the fine art of obeying the world, And then running faster than before; his Is fear to observe and courage in the crowd; He will be found the true servant of his plan When all is said, because he was true when he thought. He is a clerk in a laundry, and that's well enough, And when they insist on seeing him any way He hie to some plain of sight or colourful hill That looks into a wonderland, and looks At the green and gold of woods and the red of brooks; He looks to the small or lofty folk to whom he speaks, And looks "The British Constitution" and "Michigan," And looks at the outer limits of the human mind, And so purchases, too,--at a discount "the land In Indiana"--and looks at the upland farm Where he can farmer's fortune retisestate try. His is the guileful eye that tricks our truth And steals the price of the ounce of gold we feel. His the thecheered cheek that sleeps and gluts under lids With arched backs and tulip teeth; and his Sarcenet, with the esmetial eyne of a girlish thirst. Feebly to tire out ev'ry acceptable object, But by sad refinement, we join under pain His robe,--as he leaves us, never more employed, For fresh disasters to join, and rheum its floods; And lend him our joint power to add to his store, And see him all time, all space, mong strange tricks succeed; Rich in ourselves, rich in him, and all time. Whilst he the woods and tempests drives like Juno's power, Or like the voice made by the strife of wind and rain, Whilst he, to sundry cities, goes, unpesecious, Our pulses at first quail, and tremble at the sight Of him, like him, born to huge disaster, Whose gaiters he, on our coast, we await At east,--who, like the companions of the dead, Shall wander without a side from where he found a home. Who, like the companions of the dead, shall wander without a goal. Who, like the companions of the dead, shall watch the winds Their wonted prow, and look beyond the seas, and pry The moon offline, and hack their way to ground? Whose fingers are elastic, as platinum, and fall Into chalgenite and twilinning and smooth to ye eye. ... When ' ======================================== SAMPLE 277 ======================================== first Take care that the pinions be not covered With galls of chafe, that the eye of the day Shine not on them. And thou who com'st To gaze upon this pinion, brace thyself Up close about thy shoulders, and press Deeply thy breast, and turn all thy life To the place where he will. The longer That thou dost this, the more will be its weight Upon thy dreams. O, if thou canst get Free down within this place, and yet be Aware of it, tell me, and tell The name whereby I may know him. All names have I for thee--the one, the prime, But thou art something less than all. Namœcia, the name of God, that is not bound To any one life; and, far as it can, Setting out from naught, say, a thousand From all calendars, shows itself TOWARDS the now shining sun. All senses, All times, all depths, have at times renounced The self-popular life of stars, and fall When now their cycles put an end to all. When I show thee that face, all this hath ben Done to the full, and naught beside To count as a light thing come from darkness. The name that like a ringing brass bell doth Resemble, is house-held by its lord, And so by many is this one's prize Depposted far from every iotricitic. But this thou knowest as having lost Memory thereof, only as yet The likener, name, was not thy labour In that large fruitless tree, that grew so thick Whose leaves, like to their seraphical Ribbons, like in glory, and their tops Like feather-crowned cherubim, and eyes Were filled with rays, not get and fewer put In their dewy head; the leaves were made Of radiant gold, and redolent with flowers No more for hardly touching, more for love Of looking than for any great desire, But so inseason with one another That one made the other his aide and joy. Nay, more my brother, any man may call And hear his name, any place and time And time the name; but O such pronunciations Make hands impotent of touching hands. All names, or ways, all places, and all times, I say, and yet I know me not, So shalt thou be a shadow until my death. This sun which makes the world my treasure Yielding me warmth when it will, and power To distance far and wide where I will, And make or mar all crosses when I can, This sun will I not see between me and it, But take possession of the same by turn But different from its time and place? Error, I see; but why in heaven? If one day's Not time, one world, if death not break my sun Before I get mine back, no man can go From God over many lives, or live Longer, while one sun rich-made keeps his golden ButTitions in the cuckoo-stable of Apollo. But now, what Sun, that ever had help With lifting fire, did I see girt with light Freely to shine on beings for the best And clearest knowledge of the ways to act, And but not ineffable trust in its actions, Its fire for helping and for reproving? Who caught the fire and whoso gave it Into laws and teachings, such as made The highest Heavens ring yet till we return For instruction, and all things that are This light of law in description vast, The poetry and friend of life, And flower of God in fancy, this,, the father Of all new birth, not in today's best, Nor what this or that we call, with better grace And discharge from terrible troubles borne, This light we feel, this fire of order new, This heaven-like fire of order bright, we hold In trust for our salvation, and put away All that escapes not governed by it alone, Nor lives untwisting from its way. Not The suns, perhaps, the gods or the seasons will Or needs will draw fresh birth or country from us Or give their grace, but in its doing so much. And from this virtue, chiefs, do not teens wait, Are not the gifts you forget, the young Or old, not always what you think, is gracious And to be used. You do your policy, Then best to me! If ======================================== SAMPLE 278 ======================================== "Great art thou, O Pallas!"--Thenceforth the twain break brief, And gather fast, that are of Pallas' train. As in his house the elms were hammers Where mighty Vulcan first his son Caucase, ere gods recognized, The mighty work of Vulcan's hand, The bronze-hilted cauldrons won Against the neighboring elms. Now he Made the great hammer of his thoughts; And all the Titanes saw, and harked; "Caucase! Caucase!"--And, even at that, "The gods," as by the First they heard, "Be naught but thine and yours." So passed The years of that first father-stock, So thither they return, Concealing their glorious youth and wonted might By waning life-frames, till in dalliance Postponing until the conclusion Of some-verse, at their house they lingered, That, having slain an hundred men, With abundant wine to the gods they should go. But when at last, as it befel, the day Was subdued to them, and they had done What they had done, and oft they tried And spake with dying sounds, yet invited This caw-crow, "Caucase," calls the gods, "Caucase," calls he the enchanted warriors To the same stale, and calls the bidden clowns To laughter unafraid. Then with a mighty rush Tower'd Helyca, and the sea o'erwhelm'd Flame wind-scathed, and drave the foam-cliffs arrester, Bristle the bays, and sandy hilles riven, Alive, with fire, and dead so soon were dearer than life. But on the sacred day the silent gods withdrew, Lest awful Ulysses offended with gold Should take his wrath, when late had ado By the wise tortoise Ganymede upraised The word's end from the bonniest hawk that ever wore (That ever wore, that ever tanned were young) Upwrach'd with heat, to render back, to fetch And skifflong talons: but Penelope, That never smithhed hand in clinking sl Diablo's tong, And that neare Calais pourette, sharp Chino, Whither goes the best man, gave execution free To his uncle's craft. E'en then the ship was led Across the boundless sea, in azure seas, by men And aliens sovereign. On they swept, and bore Pluck'd into their own rectangle, squire afore, Counsel, parcel, sense, a check instead of check, And all the graceful seamen; chance and form and fancies, Husbands, the seamen, with their fragrance and their smile. Hour after hour before the Achaeans sailed Across the hollow horns of the skull, and the mouth Clove to the prinicipical word that tell'd us there No law yak done without man, without tongue man direct. And thence, their columnar fleet, Big with wisdom, buoyant with sycophancy, Laughing and dancing and beguiling the languages Of all lands, inviting the tongue to share their dimples, The incense of the lisping lip, the touch's installment. And thou shalt know at my end wearied eye, With the pained look, the envious eye's devotion, This, all ye survive, shall go with them, And to the nation that meant but to abide, With deprecating smile, shall become Peep not for it, but pronounce its saving offer'd doom. Then, with a frigerat tact the angel-like, Their pallid attendants, by dim imaginings logged on earlier deaths, That tragedian voice should respond, that mysterium th' ulce Talent paraidon, in which prod Wakes siratu; at once Ceasur in Ioue, durst have durst avowedly begun, And to regrets maritally and mortal and impatient pang. VVith those three I heard, who read the prophet aside, And did not pick up the thing till almost its die, But lost its mark and got the other two, More secret the inserting of the hid words, By probable suspicion and possible doubt Into the principle that must determine, And deep concealment and conceale and prudent care, And their whole hope, the matter by order rose; But he who had touched my hand, when doctor ======================================== SAMPLE 279 ======================================== of this the most remarkable is that You have to learn to be a romantic. You have to know in poetry. <|endoftext|> "from On Seeing Color at St. Vincent's", by Mary Oliver [Living, Health & Illness, The Body, The Mind] Whatever slumps through the ice is more rusted than you'd think, involuting insects and Christmas cards, letters by the same name, a datebook entry original champagne, old body stocked at empty troughs, icebergs dashed blue and hard, heart swathed in arhabic tales of knife and teeth, a mint covered by ice. The mind spans out through time into more future, another nightmare, another stasis, another kind of escape. Any argument about illness during the day is like: ice crackles over the pond, a lurch from physical memory, the body's built-out groin, tall trash mounds in thought, a dome of bone, one strap of blue, two voices with a far off pull. Nothing can bring back the tunneling swashbuckling or the dim moondust iuries of torch and feather, nights of pure report wrapped in enough dust to fill the lungs in ondurs, the Christmas party where she wore ivory earrings and a necklace with a drift of rare Judea, armload of diamonds, a magical load on her or her not ever spoke the creed and it was a test of strength, that for once she'd been invited and she'd go. Everywhere she'd been she was not there and ice cold logic could slide over reason. When she tried to move she'd be tot to dead, mimesis a lot of that sort too, but then again the sky a slip of news in, what with its not lighted reputation, the outside world too much adrift in another regime change, and the staff on holiday for a day. <|endoftext|> "What We Know of the Sixth Manac, Following the Crash", by Denise Knust [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] A l'artigue tweeted that the MCB ( The French gesture of inviting the second to step up to the throne whenever a question falls From his/her keeping while the first man hangs them from crition etc. Took place After the gesture of his/her not appearing At convened sessions while the artist is silent. A lot of people wanted to know what the fourth man got to say When the crash happened. The crash happened. The few People who were around to see it and the few People who had been standing there when the thing was gridding and turning were Proud and unspecified afterward. The qualities of Creativity Are given a good name to belong to. The wreck Was given a number. Probably around minus forty-four and a half. The room was certified carbonindated at that point. Probably. The room was certified carbonindable. A l'artée Was certified as having not-feet Between the seat assigned to it and the feet Being those white shawls on the floor. Then the room was certified not certified. Probably. Probably. We're all one in the end. But who and why Are still a mystery. Or maybe we are. Or they. The room was certified CFC (Continuous Four-Fluid) The crash happened cold at mason jars of water. The room Was given a cursory dusting with aged paper that may Have been made like stuff that doesn't wash or Write for the best, "incendiary" ink, by the people in The know. Then the remaining stuff was CFC- DisIZ, whatever the fuck that is. Then "Inc. 5.0" was Typed into the dial. Whatever that is. Then The room was made for all that stuff in little Batches of Time in little Batchles of Dust in a Batchlet. The dust was given a first dose to the nose & throat. Whatever. Whatever that is. Then "Inc. 7.0" called From all those interconnected boxes that hold it and the crash Was certified one big yawn. Whatever ======================================== SAMPLE 280 ======================================== The fear of 'plaining, to beg of the party In whate'er may please the Speaker. No Chair possess'd by me, But has inly sigh'd For the breeze of destruction. No Speaker possess'd by me, But hath in warm reprieve For me, my very life, the stream's lazy soft murmuring. In green yews the day begins, In livid pyres the night flashes by; Death groans in the grim fellyau: The ancient's mystic awe-struck, Mourns slow, save those faint wistful eyes, That catch each sigh or each aigl. All near the churches escaped Rings the thin, shrill, fitful air, Where hoarsely, through the gaping gloom, That old, old nightmare of terror, Reigns, blind, as of thatch and clay, Night's sleeping giant. Such to her was the dreary morrow; Such shut her out of sight she was made, Of home, of life, and light, and rest; That sometimes she dream'd and laugh'd, and dear Would hers be; but dreams and her laughter closed As it gurgled from the Gethsemane. There opened ion a light that cast Bright eyes about on Larne's bed; A plaistered pool between two stones Did on the blackness well rest. As o'er the hard wind sprung rainbow hues A golden antique city shone, So ghastly gleamed the mystic pale Blazing o'er the yellow fountains In ghastly quick succession Flared the fierce brimstone hisses, hissed Far up in wild igneous din, And at last the seething water fell Spouting from under a milky surface Of sea-marge, or some birch-rod inlaid Shored by innumerable sprays Of hoarfug friends in storming to the wall; And as it roared and splintered, the morrow Saw the wild Watney's wife. For now the scarlet sulphureth shine On this side and that a glistering pale; It leaves ground what seem'd every thing to show A dream of naked earth turned silver: As on each squirrel's fur the blood revolve In beauty imaged, without humanity; So the pale phase of a golden rain On the cottage site, and the bare pebbles bear The same image of a. Islands of glittering dust expand her skirt And her palace-door on either side; A figure chained to ailing work cannot stand, But starts and droops an image crooked; It has for its subplot themist Taylor house, Which shakes its ancient credo o'er darkey. Again the veil splits as the April morn Prompted by urns of gatherèd spring, And from the dusky ioynal clime of air A charred lane glows; It melts, it succeeds, it's the dragon-fly; It's the lamp that well the iursel and pine: But sight bespeaks it, the sight to me. The lichen-stained bricks have not the same size Subjacent, as the proper parts of my man, And the pillared villa says Patsa's town; Azul à la rrió Millar: it is he! Azul he ciel! : it is he! it is Alfredo! Az about the asperged hat says Patsa, he! Az: the lily leaves of Millar: it is he! Why, then the light must be circular, curving, And curved on a dime; Cinctured with miller's beads, with cloudy lustre, Absinthe-sweet, purgèd on a blue sky; The glass must run in counter to the action, It must arc on, as a cyclist Ah, but why does it hold us captive, Remote, e'en as heliotrope? Why does the glass, through which I see these Hours those who will be-lovely, Shade and fade, and in the glass turn Decematched, degradèd, and disembodied, Inhospitable, and ghostly, and blaspheming, Make, through the momentary arousings Of a sun-made religion, Lair the light of Heaven? We, for our part, This weakness should not more ensample claim Than this infinitude of perusal suit. But ======================================== SAMPLE 281 ======================================== With so much measure and such reason; And from the cause why, as princes are Certain, for their life from their birth, Why should not Faith be as well A creature of the same sort and kind? But leave we these hard objections, And if Faith be thought a substance, We may hope for greater bodies Of thought in the Gods that have the Absence of certain bodies. As the body of Faith is substance, Its shape and its colour, Its bigness and abuisal, Its weight and fair and foul adornation, And it doth dress and pallate Its customary colours, Then it may hope for greatness of spirit, As many substances may hope For augmentation and for reinforcement, If only in proportion as they fulfil The contingent eyes of its fellow-creatures. As blood may whites and purples differ by The fact that they are the blood of the soul, So there be two general sorts Of vision in the distant traveller. One is that where all spirits look straight through, As are the high stars that ground the rate; And, great amongst great, in its windings folded, Draws the level of being's increments; And has the vast mystified chiefest silver Of numeral colours and shades. The other is when one oblique And distant from the sun in eifu,dare Pointer to thee; or long hoodoo dread, Where one sees hobgoblins that lie in wait; And shadows slap and pounce, and snare the soul, Until their backs are turned to the dead; When high shadows deep the low and high, Like forgery with forgery; Then the dull light is a duller thing Then the high shadow is a king. As thick as leaves in winter is the snow, So fast is thought in Destiny's harlot, But the process of it in mind is slow, As thistle-caught were the flow Of things though still the prey of glee Till night, or while the smile goes by; And the self-fed black is the truth in gold Of the fatuous settling of liars. He hath slain his dear Rambam, and all his peers Hath seen his funeral, and his servants slain Thrones he hath filled at his own cost, And his heart is numbed at the fate That he wrought, and his cheeks are dark At the bliss that has befallen him. Yea, he shall pass and his name is dead, And his blood shall be upon his own production, For he found life and forever shall have death. A name long recorded and cherished, studied And 162 years of age, and sent off into air As our long-haired children pass From our wise fatherland; The pen is weary, the stone fired, Long since down on the hard wood And the body of Rambam's dispossessed son; A gentle boy, innocent and quiet, Sow, like the corn, in the firs of the forest, He hath seen the sword in the sheath, And hath known pain without mother or father, At the word of the Lord the tiger stands With his sword slanted across the spider, And the spider, slithering to poison, is dead, Poisoned with the tinder of the Lord; And the fire is stew; and the angel of fire Throws thesmelle to smoke, for his feet are bright With the smoke of the scorching sea. And this is Rambam, my fancy to Rambam Calling from the tree-tops, "Set me down On yon stone, Rambam, and break of every rod Upon the trunk, if you will I will obey." "Is there not," he said, "Madam is in the room? Why does she come to me but now? what means Her walking thus long the blood to me? She would not look once, she would not look before; She would not have a single word, or a look, Which should not reach me--Madam will not have it, And would not think that I had eyes or ears. "Long ere the breaking of day, I had asleep; Waked at the dawn, hand-full of fruits and of wine, And at the palace-top sat in the porch With the nobles in my party; there I found her At my saddle, which I uneasily shall ride Till the heat of setting West in the sun Casts all the fruit, and from all the branches thrown I'll hide her straw in the chalice well ======================================== SAMPLE 282 ======================================== Zeus and thy Mother grieved so sore, That they be-grieved to hear thee cry. They went out, and under the dark sky They gathered flowers, to fashion thee The shroud thou burying take; Flowers that with heavenly beauty bless The buried earth-creator's grave. "On the very-forgotten plain There where that fiery seraph saw thee die You suffer'd them you in the sky, Half of your pain to hide, half of your bliss, To make one moment all mysteries, To disguise your secret suffering, That being well comprehended, it might Fall unconstrued; yet the best Plans usually involve a weakness. "Greecca had chosen well, for all That grief the family was on her heart, They should not see its sterner pain increase At the remembered image of an unkind And cruel destiny; her being's calm Might well be tersely written simple 'No.' "You had gone, indeed, you had gone down At once to what was wondering still the past, The strange and unfinished past; to die and live In all the plenitude of heart's delight, But this was speaking, and they heard; you have died, So they told me, or so they said; verily They only knew, and I, that I died too. "This is a tale of a look at a picture Of a family. My own best way Was hopeless, and so too was mine that of the two. To these I applied, and fair there appeared The way with them; in light, and shade, mixture Of interests, which to fail would be the less And the intent of all. But, like the sea, Far off they seem'd to run into rocks, Shaded coldly and distinctly, smooth as true Paper, even through the sheet, but imperceptible, Though more diffused, through drift-funneling weather. This was winter, when the dear friends withdraw Which availed not. He had been the brightest star Of all my youth. She, fair and low of form, Had watched him oft, and praised him. The hour had come When she withdrew him gently from this smile, Which seemed to be his idol. She would not Enjoy, as Mother though to Lovelace wishes Herster would have dreaded, that so bright a star Should fade so any one should see; especially, Since she was so fair. His bright fame, and bright Tam's praises, curved to stars. She had seen Her portrait painted, like a reality; And from a sheet of curious white Into a delicate veil of stars unfold Her portrait more natural. Tam did not mind The move out of the chic scruples which concealed His hero, here, in all his agate glory. But there were other things. He, the thin, the weak, Stood in against the idea of his taste, The idea of perfecting her beauty, By making too vivid in shrers' eyes The winter fire of ages. He would not fear An age like these, the dull and cold of others, But still be Tam, and his own taper, and keep His own fireside a thousand years too. But he had seen so much, and it weighs on him so He could not bear its plainness to repeat His lesson in a polite manner. A word Which in those days might prove as fatal as its idea, Should he repeat it. There were certain terms of decency, Which if he forgot them, he might for a time appear To have forgotten them, and have all Europe on him As well as on himself been excused; terms Of etiquette in abridgeable oblivion Which could not be observed at that time, and then Would have been extremely well worth perusing. And then to be a Countess in Italy, and grace A banquet-listener, would have been Discovered by a feeling. Therein to have stood Upon the least curst of Alpine rock unknown, Under the same lonely stars which alway Have shone upon, and never have beheld More than a single dear familiar face, Less than a pallid, maternal, maternal hand To wipe away the tears of, would have been The lowest point on earth to avenge an insult, And have alighted at the Judge's door. But perhaps you would not chime With too great a notion of the ambition Of Jules Verne, who could not even reach An immaterial point for the regulation Of fluid velocity, ======================================== SAMPLE 283 ======================================== specifically There was a flat white Which had a Queen who wore a Zip-front hat There were long white plains and Heavenly lakes, and it Was just Enough to know That somehow everything Was kind of like the way That Lake Michigan is. And that was enough For Afterwards, a boy Went with a camera Into the desert, and He took pictures Of every stone That had a Face, and it Was enough To keep him, even Years after, taking Rounds and Squeaks Of everything, And everything, He seemed to find A way to Find a Reason for everything, And, in Thought, color, And if The Color meant right, And a Name for The Intended Color, then The Word Was on a Tone which was wrong, which Is how Language Stood Alone About A boy, and how Something could be Correct, And not A question of his Humanness, And not Ala Cartoste, ala W Monot -- was He never The problems were on his Back, but in This way he ran Lessons for The world From the top of a mountain, And, all along the way, He let the world Drop the Word so Quickly that the Middle-age or Poverty, or The Grain of a Song, were not There yet, if The words were Right the Whole time, and He had to say then Things couldn't Stay forever, so he Turned him out To the dark Of dark music, just A stone's throw Under the white River, and He had to think of that Word he would say A skull, cracked To let Something go, that Is dead, can't Took well the uplink, On both hands, For the ages, Of course he took, for People were Disappointed, and He had to say -- and He didn't have Time to think, and Anyhow was A small boy, he had Some toys, read a book. I think I'd like a toy, I Well don't remember what. But I'm old enough to know I never was Found-and-loaded Yet, for all my Age, I'm not Definitely Arraptured The moon was Full that day, and It was, it was his best Remnant, light On a small white street That was too much star. I've got to tell someone Who none of his chums Has the strength to stop From growing better Friends, better Relations, better things. I don't want any One kid from one house, but I can't help it if I Do my part In that big way which Tho it means Kill Mary, Kill Jane Let friends find each other. The past is all gone. How can I, an old man, An old man who hasn't killed A louse, not even a dog, Not even a fly, not even A tooth, say I Shouldn't have stood there, a menial slave, a plain little man, and said That what I had to say Had more in it Than seven light bulbs With little birds to sing To, what was it, Hawaii? Why, that's what I Would have said if, I don't know, I had a say in things. I'd say, "O Brix Fawlty, Brix Fawlty, follow me Find the king, the greatest king In the greatest castle, land, sea, That's enough for a king." I'd find the greatest king And set Brix Fawlty on The greatest castle in the Greatest land, sea,, sky, And everything that's sure to Never change with each new day that goes by. "And I wonder," I said to Brix, "If --" (I was telling Brix my dream About the worms) "And if -- you ever Ever stop to think that a man, No matter how great, may Not always be controlled By every scruple of the truth. There are some fields that are better Than is widely rumored That which is said of Humble Haeften, and the farmer's-friend Of the gods." I ======================================== SAMPLE 284 ======================================== Make us pure; that purity to thee belong, As thy outward purity thou beareth to me. Where wast thou, Twelfth Night? Surely thy slumbers deep were those of a king, Whenas the firelight flits Through the shadow of the empty hall; And in each speaker's countenance bright There seems to speak a thought of strange import: Sure thou wert dancing on the squares Thro' the temporary light and moonlight Before the altar of the church In the night of warbled honorms. Rise up, meet me at the Church; Rise, and be with me forever; For pleasure lost and lost undoing, Dismantle thy dim artificial night, And mend the dormeate and splothed with moth and dream: Make love, not prayer thy utmost effort, And satiate thy mind with best attainings; Thy heart fromipt with joy, that thou shouldst rejoice, With a high unction be artful and ceremonious; Encirit foul with flowers thy chair to clear, That the woman lie in during times And her discreetly encout and decoy: Make use of approved and fishy chirping, That thy man in his avocations May not desire too much for her at all: Let thy quick and most obedient pen Be inform as God to excuse In the low tavern of thy sickest days, When saints and devils meet. Had I (but I had not) any money, I had, I have, with more propriety, Said to her, "Pray, fill up this glass To the well-behinde glass, God above: But, ye who are not wise, Mind, but twice as love her life, That she ne'er may find it dull with blood. I who am scantly used, Have more reason than the grown old, To hold the true as I the false: Where the child and the sod did meet, What shock would come to the head and the heart! The cup that I would not have her drink, Makes her tranquil, and knows his duty to cry, That in listening and weeping fits: Come round my daughter, child, to the light, Thou best laughter of false child-virtu. Is my name Scandal or Beauty or Flirt? They are many, and many do I own. I, that having been great stuffed up have shrunk. I stand childlike, where late high-sounding fame Knuckled me that I was grown stupid. Give me, if you have it, the crown of fame: What'Twad do me, I'd have believed, in good time, Were not the bowls full, the vial rife with lees. Then had I whereof I had great delight, When the tall smiling ambassador Besiddob was called, and so she was. Then from the fall of all my spikes, Resigned to the fire my withering heart. God Love and I are one: nothing Can set us old wives braind afresh. Why dost thou linger'st on the steep? Clasp, child, to my trembling breast. Ah, Susanna! ah, Clasp away my breath! Child-milk they chemise; And thou, fair saint, clasp for baby's sake: Thy brother's blood drops in for mine! Why art thou here, leaning on the steep? Why dost thou rest on the smooth pellies? Clasp me hence, sweet sister, closing art. The boy climbs up on youfos, on whales' skins, The furrow till comes the furrow's end: And here's the flour, there's the pasture at last. The furrow still goes, but not the way it went: The boy climber of the steep comes down To child-heart undrest, and there's child's-sleep. And he is forgot; but thy brother God Calls back with fresh youth to help and mother. So help me, you, most high, ever purpose bright, Sure hope, and faith, and conscience clear. God! how my heart is weary of such wore homes, Such tired souls in love no more: To the wild desert Go, with the red trees only Pathum-ed, and the winds only lightly thrown Dark leafless…O sopt red heart's dread savor, God Bade thee breed the baby of my people here. My people! few souls there are of us Still kept complete on the dust they lay: Our sisters scrape, and our brothers roar, ======================================== SAMPLE 285 ======================================== -He made her truer and surer. What's that dark star to the white moon? Not night itself, that is a star For night, pure and precious as all those Whose birth-nights keep their queen within Luminous orbs of heaven; and so All night shall keep her hearts in love, Sealing their dear joys till death, Be it what comes, be she what dies. Heaven, thousand-sown, Where thy daughter sits Brows overhead, And opens all thy days With one soft change. Be hers the rose's perfume And the low-lying waters' sound, And thy sweet-hearing pans Disturb the night; And the nightingales' wish, and the rose-thrill She takes of her great love, her own Love-whispered sound and smell She makes for thee; be she as fair As the night her princess' gown gave thee When at table there thy morn was cold. Is this the sign?--then I shall fly Home to thee, to my love, to see thee. Thy father's garden, fill'd with rain And radiance, where I won't see More eyes of men, but of thy love-hours. No longer let yourselves go fast In red and gold for ever, tits and tramps. There comes a time, a fart in the sun, for thee, That's the time to woman or to glory. Not the flowers, for they grew too fast, Nor the years, for they were too kind: They alone of course are great, Who make many men as gay With rose-leaves and their own smiles; And yet those other deal with thee In pleasant ways, that thou should'st deal With them for many years; Succeed your grandfathers, thy father, And thy mother's mother before her: Thou journey's end is when they stop. There is a love-world more like the heaven Of expression than the love-world of deed, With which we might seem to go and visit The Puritans, and turn the trope up high, And upaw them with ill poetick chur"r, In spite of rhyme and reason. We of somber speech arrive in may, As weary as frames of glass at noon, And look, as secret folk, and make conjecture How sweet may be that sinlese of your speech, Which speaks in you of holly and ivy To the just bloom of man and his poetry. May there be flasht of flame in burnt where Hid in the bud the red of wine. And there be need of blood where the aim is To blurt pure passion out, and leave The modicum of weak resentments O'er the gun with a sigh at last. May the bird yet find no moment's scope Within the circle of your reach To flutter of shafts, to shaft and try, To live in vain for sorrow, faint, To wane and fade ere that they die; In which the red is of a suicide, And the white is the soul. I am not great, I own, in words For many stroaves with the spray of fame Have burst mine earthly doors--but I shall Receive and let me dwell in you The deep sustaining light and refuge be. And if you hold to your old philosophy, And feel that the fame of him who sings Out of life, lives in us--then the pen Lost read with a faith in God is in God. Then we are kindred; and I best deserve To stand in the doorway of your gallery, And your great there-theatres "with you" 11 years Where you are strongest, and where you need. Then you shall know my atil and success. Had you known me Dante could never left Tasso. Now there's a ship coming out o'er the sea From France, as I know just well, That's come up with a great flat goody, From where it went into Norway And back. And she's bringing passengers. Wait--who 're are they? Oh look at the skirts of those women, They are coming on. Prithee, chile, chile, chile. So it is you That comes of the angels, I guess. And all me So far behind. That little devil has saved my life, And many times, when times were bad, Did not let me pay. And even when I thought I'd lost it, He ======================================== SAMPLE 286 ======================================== By their pernicious fame, Whilst I am not forgot, The Man of Porter is gone! May truth be spoken, and right prevail, And, when the evil weaves too deep a net, No guilty man shall escape. He takes his high estate by the fashioning Of interest, and time, and place, and station, O'er which the law, by art or nature, Would fictions weave no more. O Man! of all creators he is best pleased, A heart or wings to set your hopes at auction, A duel good store of flint, an outfit Such as please the men who come by bus Up early to Colchos and Sparta. But leave your hard commands to these, your brass For goose-feathers, up to Colchos! we Shall to our iron yield allegiance. The strength of this modern Rome is not that which prevailed in it Beneath the trappings of the Caesars; The shame that is not felt in obliterating the hairs Upon the crowns of the effigies; And the enormity of this modern Rome Is not pinioned by and by. The very truth--that is, the truth concerning Sparta, Is accounted as the bugaboo And eclipsing glass of Laches. And you must be Sparta in a reverie When you're Sparta under the needle and the light Of your Ti claim from the half-totten sands. You'll sit me down and state the case in simplicity, Whistled off like a gargantuan peacock, Thick-bunioned in ermine, with its head turned as high Up as your eyes and when you have handled it Move the head round of its departure And look at your fingers and then at the toes Of your Bernini. This modern Italy is fed By the Hunger, so gratified in giving our lives Up on credit to the starving, that her coffers run nearly dry For the taking by the Americans and the Turks And the Russians, while she is lending them broth in droves To our lunatic and idiotic kings. For a beginning in points, nor yet paid up in totality, Are our feelings for our arbitrary King, Who, at a supper of Moorish cattle for his troops, Is struck blind from within his heated! Mot just brew! And we have gone with his Broad-fronted Raiders And watched our own rum fed Champions bleed In a hopeless, unbroken, disastrous retreat That has done both teams public hurt, And left them, among us, understandably mained For the rest and passing of that day, With no more than the pride of their good success, And a host of pondering men enough minded so That they might revel, o'er olives, with an unoffending grin, While we, the benumbed and afflicted, fought on the onset, And watched them and wished the day was about to end; While we, who were not only traded in, but fought for Milch cows, ourselves a cow, ourselves a nation of wickets, Might get sad when they told us that we were losing, And wish that we had left plenty of scraps for the rabble, And hated it that we had won and not that one had. I see it all the same, they are both of them dead, They both of them dead, and the fortress is a tomb; Italy is free, Italy is free, and the man is dead Who was if I had the happiness to see it, And the world is far nearer the best of any Any I know, with or without him, and I am fit To take my fortune as I can get it--and the rest-- Sailing myself, as far as I know. Tell me where and To whom I might do my very best, and be Sleeping that. Then I take my feet to the candle, And see if I still get off the plough when the night Palsy the pan! If so, I have something to dream. As I have slept, I know the Night, and the stars, The Stars who rule the plough, and the trade (If a thing may be made known), and the rapids and the heights Of the river, and the fowls who flee from harm, And the jay's tang and the crow who clings years on, And the wonder-bird, and the what-not of the something-of-a-Nature Who plays with kittens, and happily alone, If not, and in any case cannot come To be choreographed by ======================================== SAMPLE 287 ======================================== claims nor heirs, but sleeps In the low country of dreams, And lies there still, the gray-beard, And dreams, all his might is spent, And all his days wasted And all his glories fled; For now, alas! his eyes Are open to the blind, And his great name is lost. And, oh! for that earlier time When, before us, had seemed so clear A visible star-glistening sign That we should go our ways, And remain with those we loved And loved alike. But now, indeed, we know That life is less sublime Then that pale gleam of hope At best, and queen-like on the throne And princely sceptre of Queen-now, warn'd, dismayed We, the lost ones, lie Unwept, untied, unheeded lay Black the night-shade, bitter the air; Hem the hair of the damp, Under the frost and the snow Grow the hair-goggles, Bitter the fog-grips, Tough as a winter's hide; Hair so wry the scalp so vast Pricks up in it, and goes Strained from the boughs, flitting, the eyes Melted, and all sprung to the brain, Glow in the fog, the nose smeared With the stink of the rainy morass, the nose jerting At the unpleasant breath that shifts Bulbous in the trees, the eyes, rolling, blinded; All jangled and jerking and sliding, Tangled, effusive of feeling, Limping, lascivious, and passionate, The broken, diffident, and scanty Ambition, the skin all over With the burn, the tosick, the smothering sweat, All that wracks it, all that it omits, And all that it possesses. Naughty, faint, and sickening the cheeks, Nigh the sodgy leper is fit to give up, Cheerless the stir for the sloppy grotto, Dreary the huddling corners, to the rain Brushing the loosening cinder-stalks, and all Lithe and miserable the upland, Dreommlike the fetid, the dusty, abating grotto, And the dreary open space, the borealiscing pasture; All the sweltering, dusty face of the Lugana, All the sombre colours, the shabby, shivering tones Spitting forth from it in thin streams, and all the Repast of the dusty palate, and the lips Tight, and the breathing Wild with the chill, with the starving um-percentage of breath, "Then a touch of water helps us, a touch Rain-coolant, a splash of Lempo's lake, a sinfzen Cerise, a nigger on your knee, and a bit of you Mysterious, sweet, and sensitive potion of Mystic juices, and a stroke of your fine Parian lair Dull as onion, and as tranquil, and strontian As the half-recluse who trod the sweet earth Of Pirenian Lugdun, or the farm-boy and dead No more." "That is she, child," the man said, "with those grey eyes; She wears the specific. Grey as a morn in The days just gone, greyer and greyer, and as she Looks not now, she will not look; and that booty she Lets her pirated hand fall with that grunting that We say is moral." "Who picks pocket here?" "A boyish trifler, who has tawdry notions About the fashion of the world." "But 'mick you say, is not he a saint, A certain stature, chipper manner, a mouth That might supply soup-kitchen colours To the undistinguished calf in the kennel, Or Stella's twanging boy the unicorn Would make to gaudy red and black in all The russet khaki of the stall? Perish the wish! Who finds fault with Your youthful 'fence, runs the risk of living Ready in the whorish air, in the wide Grass, in the moist time-freshened grass, in Blessed Statorius's river, in the gleaming Marshland of the manse, in barbaric Skin of the swart creeper who lives by the bay, And wades deep for a crab-like instinct." " ======================================== SAMPLE 288 ======================================== I knew that these things are eternal because of your words. I said: O, God, thou art so good. The very Eternal made thee To be loved. All this thy works so full of gladness Because thou'rt dear to me. Thou turnest hand thou takest for thy sake From many men who've little hands, And kindleth with strong light All things made with hands, Made all with love. All things thou takest, Thou'rt keep even though men say they've seen Thy power fade, Thy presence doth abide Still in its throne Alone amid the universes 17. Thou'rt so far more than omnipotence I cannot stay anywhere And slay each creature there In turn. Thou art the strength of Olympus Among the clouds. And this, and this, I do remember. As he departed, my heart's voice Was lowered. I knew That I must go. It was a part Of my fate. He had done true work For me. Yet it grieved me in a sudden Partake and then die. It was a part Of my fate. <|endoftext|> "I've Read", by Jan Burton-Clark [Living, Death, Religion, Faith & Doubt, God & the Divine] I've read ―did lead and decrees― I've read to the degree Of 7, the number bound By natural law I've read to the degree Of painful and desultory Desertion, with result Failed ascent of rank Prone through myself Of course I'm imperfect ―did overthrow My mind Ranged between two souls And now I'm called a cur I've lost a department Of mind I've read to the degree Of pain and passing passing by Miscellaneous things Brayoco Bahrain On some level pure state Thought is thought I've read to the degree Of thinking by outside things Clay pavement and lightning shite Fatigue for people I've read On my hard-drive of compressed Stupeficating my iniquities Swift toppling then stationary Stern and unrelenting Of these things and more Out where the skylight was Marrow bits of limpid snow Or situate among livided Corruption of leperies of shade Writhered and resealed Goblins and tritons and wellsies Marrow bounds the law Our burden as soon as known Our dedication denied Our creator bewildered In dark bewilderment I can say what I want to say Inquisition of anything Inquisitor of ineffable Inquisitor of confusion And the dunged ecdysion I've read to the degree Of numb and numbness Of ascendant pain I've read to the degree Of numb and numbness <|endoftext|> "Minotaure Bath", by Ronna Friedman [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Horror] We tie the "cap on his head" and follow him through the burning night of the bath; a whiff of salt air burns in the corridors; surprise, doom, and disgust follow him back to the "safe" side —the hilarious crew show up like armed guards to scare the ol' livelong on asses <|endoftext|> "The Double Enlistment", by Ronna Friedman [Living, Death, Life Choices, The Body, The Mind, Youth, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] No one knows exactly how it happened, the boy might have grown vexed by waves of thin white laughter along the wind causing an effect of cubic gravity on the dog approaching from beyond the hill —a accretion wave matching his own age of service, open to bid and effective on the battlefield, so the latter steps into soldier as if transformed by water, or even submerged, and the bits of puppy blood that seize the secular categories of soldiers and reverse engineer them to contain an odd of blood, an overnight component for battle damage, component due on the cellular level, the deeper one learns the soldier the more one learns not just trauma, but what structural adjustment, what death, what confessional blood yes, but war through the peridance, the latter because the periduous social context, peer cultures, the insurgent and ======================================== SAMPLE 289 ======================================== , chas'd with crimson salt,-- The strong doctor (whom I must excuse For stealing from his village, free to buy, But not from the post serv'd the hero of the cause). He also showed us, as we'll not soon forg