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 forget, The last costly loaf he ever ate (Of which the disappearance of so foul a brand Was marr'd by fire, to show the most incompetent Fiscal officers what they've got to spend) His large and architectered brain, A lucky fall in selling his stock at a perwt, Which (in consequence of this short appearance Of his prodigious legacy, which he'd left behind) I promis'd, might run to massive rent; And dangle from a bough, at the first ripe rust, We affooved ourselves with this most lickable rate. Thus, from the ruin of great estates, to buy A little patch of earth, in this small bin room; And not knowing how 'tis that man amasses so Much wealth, if any sorts it seemeth most his own, I haz'd it up now--not without some such guidesthe rich to plunder. We were not long upon our transaction then Abide. The Queen and Prince knelt down, and confounded prayer, When both were pouredbing from their cheeks the sweat Which thaws the stored light of the sun at night, Till the brown water of the weighing gel succeeded With what beween us both to the southern sea, And how the same, after that short period, Our younger gallop'd on over land To fet it by the mere expanse of the world It was all very beautiful, and yet troublesome Our friend was of his young blood young, And his life was still the kind of a dream, And it's a good one to keep a son's mind abreed With the prospect ahead, So he'll have a faith in doing the deeds of remembrance. The wind still lay along With a sound of leaves blown softest by The gliding flesh of the spirits, and blown swiftest by, And the shimmering, shifting flesh of the matter Made all alive as off a pace This way, and that, and another way, the flesh Of our most familiar things, With most ordinary things, and trivial things, As trim and mild as tranced mornings And violent as southern gusts, They went before Our King, and revelling in the state, To meet whither they were told: And henceforth after the traceless air They kept, until they knew The jest, and saw how work Could keep them cognizant of the years. To stoop and stitch once more the Compassion Deity (Which is, of course, the same as your old friend The God in Heaven, the man in the prints). His Compassion Philips gave up, and bought The right to hurt our well-being for good, And snap the top of the fourth estate's head When they slip-sluiced in the herb of thyme. They were not so blest in having Licensinge To dose them with any puddingish pitch Of pain, when time has two ounces 22 grains. I grieve to relate, since his going, A mortal tooth has set the pin For biting, as the meal hours may keep The office of a banana. But oh, to be wonderful, drenched in gold, Like gold ruffles the track of an amoeba, To tread your life out all things come true That's your debt left upon amassing; To be strangled with flowers, whose death is the blue Of a new penny; and, peering too, To be a thorn of enormous sharpness. <|endoftext|> Behold, the thee-ones are building, I build, my daughters are building; Good speed, my cy. Every one. O, ye have little time to waste, 'Tis only fashion to build, This bough to red that twinkling is; The yonder span of dyne is-- I trust his prince shall be Thou must devise some gate solo. He whose gray-headed, signs not Sagittarius, Will come in his car in sole, sole. Now must that thy grey-headed plan approve; He o'er his task given to-day is given To those sure heirs whose clasp may fail. "Oda!" quoth the Faithful, "Alas, hero, Time passes out that passes in." O, hero, 'tis well in strategy That time passeth in the way; ======================================== SAMPLE 290 ======================================== Ship our great Father John Bull and the Christian slave! I have no nation now where that land To dig my grave--nor any father now, Save--save him whom all the world is made to hate-- Save him who makes the wombs of death For us--who are the flood of all men's slaughters, The sea of all things sterile. Save my son's soul, Threatening and agony-begot, who takes The woman's bleeding in his angel hands And bores her to the heart of God's hand To pray for him, and lifts her up and feeds The desires which burst her through his mercy's plannage. 'Gainst all things good and great which my soul Out of the depths of this dark earth can see, I would walk forth again in light and air, Strong and untamed, no more a prey to terror; A God-loathing priest, like all the rest, Take thou my place, 'gainst the battles of the crowd, And ever with man's religious crafty men Oppose, and work their purpos'd destruction round, By me 't will help thee--and on the side Whereon thou surf'st, thou tread'st o'er troubled waters. O'er woody woods, O fond Palliduck, Sound forth without a soundfulness of thine! Sound forth the plea of all things wild and fair, Which thou encounter'st on each bright dawn! O'er the green grounds and golden glimmerings, O flute on the steps of the wind, sound out, Sound forth, there is no good thing in the wide world more joyous Than when again with chapman throts of wordless love, With all the fervor of our human wish, We make known to each other the dreams and wishes That labour over the still, wild path of years; And with the worm joyously in tune, Story over story, and wish, issue, issue, Happiness,--till perplexed-shy life unrolls, And with a sudden shock, rocks at once, Struggles, and laughs, and lets himself out, Expell'd by Halleluiah from life's work. Lo, how all things tremble and reflere, Wailing or syren, over bruised and weak Wings struggling down the sudden shock of years Round her and under; lo, how hush the still waters, Silent the swift breezes, how the thin clouds quiver, Bending with pity some black hill's steep top,-- Or under the mill-house roof's rent. Pallid and solitary as at first, Wailing or weeping, now silent and bold, He turns to her, on the high hillside; The rain comes down in her wrath from the cloud; Unflowing, it soothes her,--comes in an apology, After the tempest call'd on God. Dares she dream? dares she dream, Of what? After so many yearnings, so many Sad kindling kisses, how her sleep is yet young? Can it be That she waked, And went up to the moon, To see if it lighted, And if she mind, And what her ancient dream meant, Before she off and forth, Before the she enters in at night, Before the gate so old and deep, Is opened, and she sees, and Finds she so much, Such an one? And before the gate whereto Is she viewed, And afterwards, every one Is opened, every one To the abode Where I am? From whence I am, There peep they, And so Wherever they will, Good sooth me! Happy I shall be! I am content. Can it be That they enter in? And then how they grin! But to-night They shy, And now they stand, My joy-seekers all! Ah! kindly they stare To receive me with For their night's pleasure, Though the wondering moon Breathes too much! And so the others stand and stare To see the strangers from the wood, The darlings of the wood, Bidden by the awful fay, With a plague is come For my sake to be, And see they do not fret, And do not struggle To be admitted through the gate! <|endoftext|> Pitch here! the farthest pitch that a breeze (That didn't stop and muster to ch ======================================== SAMPLE 291 ======================================== The day's noontide with me is sweet; For when I am at my wish, There's no one to say, "This is vain!" With no one to praise, I love to meet The kind, good people of the town; And I can laugh with them, and say, "I have done my work and can show The fruit of all my toil and care!" My God, I thank Thee that Thou hast given me Honour and happiness; For, is my way with those who criticise Truth, honour worse than Heaven? And I more than rejoice To serve Thy true eternal Majesty If so I may embrace Thy love. To serve Thee, O Lord, with heart and will, So far beyond my days; It lifts my wandering feet to Thy red Rug, And so I go with hearts true. Lord, for I must give Thee an opening sign, A sick heart to give it! The only sign That counts, the only song that counts, My every misty sign. Ah! Lord, I lay my sign before Thee, My heart and hand, my sign! It is not wisdom, love, nor fame, Nor worldly splendour fadeless, Breast, and hand, and eye, and brow, Will come, or join, or survive, The redeeming cross of Thy Son. But give, Lord, give to me this good, The one great cross of Thee! A sombre wold some call it, pleafing less, And less, less 'mid the hills iihence; A plain more clearffull if the wold were set With noses written cleariihence. I said to Emily, 'Let us be Upholdeds, revealds, and showems, And if not set, proudly deny The terce, and take the crown eternum. 'Let no travail pillage or debauch, Nor use of danger, nor despair, Of embucler, or of peril, Or rayolas mete, or locusts entemperel, Be with trageding.' 'Let trust (if trust may be) Our courage to withdraw.' She stepped toUnchaliews early, and said, 'The first light of the sun is dead. The last light of the sun is risen.' 'Or last, or first, or eye, or ear; Or the third or fourth. Or the hand.' She laughed to hear me talk that way, For Emily had two eyes and three ears, And more soft hands than any so strange. 'I made the claim, if we were wed, I should have four feet.' 'Four feet!' said Emily; 'three--three!' 'I have no teeth, so, please you know, Three can enter a castle.' 'Where I was, there was not a house, Where I were not mightily.' 'Where I was, Death struck the will. We have yet made selection.' 'Our will! The wild might set us free, And we have touched the tether.' 'If the mightier boast the right, Then we a mightier thing. Where I was There were not one such as we are.' 'A mightier thing? It cuts the wind.' 'Our words cut the wind, and our eyes.' 'Our eyes! But I could not speak to them.' 'Our eyes!' she said; 'the one good eye The joy of the second morn.' 'I could not speak; I was not born.' 'I was not born to look on either.' 'What, if the mightier thing be me, And I turned by the web to it, Me still bond is the will to me To tolerate and obey? For me, the mightier thing is me, And I should have known!' She laughed aloud at this; the web grew dim. I, who was dumb by her affection bound, Uprooted silences her love knew, And the laugh swept me my joy apart, And forced in bondgles the will to share AumyIThis second pleasure, cut the cord Of oaths and vows and atonement. 'And, sweet, when the mightier thing is me, I look out from the window and see How the wilds roam, and spread to Elfhome; How some rest in light, as I have heard, And see a dragon in the mall; And hear cry, as a summoning cry From the young, the impressionful ======================================== SAMPLE 292 ======================================== -"So?" said she, with envious smile, And levelled at her one thin cheek With one high finger of her hand. Then, feeling ill at ease within, She tried to steal away With one long look Of sidel Satis-bon, But reeled in vain! The gate clattered hard behind her, The yard was full of hounds, And she was found again, With pained and hurried grace, In the small little house, A little tin-held Jinn Tabarded in blue and white, Who cold and dreadful said-- "We've seen this kind before, Tell us where your God is, where your wife is, And what has love of you given you, good my lord? What has love of you given you? you that busy, busy fool?" She could not finish her tale Because she thought no such beast was still alive, She said she hoped she were. She said she hoped she were still living, As lords do, who worship things that live under heaven. And then he beckoned his pack. "Hound of ninety fleas! Come, fall at my sire's heels, Come tear him raving blind! If I am dead, at the very least Let my sons, my daughters, round him blow, And my long-lost, late-returning sons, at my encounter. Come!--the God of war has laughed upon the easements, The temples are beaten from the earth. The castle-stone of all my hopes is broken, My hubge's-horn is crowning my brow. On!--who is laughing now? On, who is leaping for joy?" And he said:--"Wherefore dance ye if ye're wise? Your sire was an outcast, an outcast's a secret, Full well known; 'tis his free will the world has stolen away." She did not answer. He said:--"Why have ye not heard my word? Why come ye here now? when I spoke to you once, ye declined, Said ye, 'I'm not his wife enough!' yet were ye not for quick feet come?" The little house is bright, Light of heart, light of fold, Light that hath been a stumbling-block. The little house is bright, Light of heart, light of fold, Light that hath been a stumbling-block. Life has been dreational Since the man's last counsel, And a weary time it is time to ordain. And it is wise, to be sure, To sit upon the difficult triangle, And tread on the uncertain pinions. The little house is bright, Light of heart, light of fold, Light that hath been a stumbling-block. The little house is bright, Light of heart, light of fold, Triangle of man and wife. Light that hath been a stumbling-block. Light of heart, light of heart of fold, A throne my secret desperate corner, Thorn for ragged man to stand on, And door of nowhere that man shall enter. When the king is of us and I am man, When I sit on the enormous triangle, Man shall see me now Presley mount, And keep me and tabour for his eyes. <|endoftext|> You ask me, what do I do, Dear sister, tell you directly. Now, now, this is not the time I'll tell you anything now, For, really, I'm sure, too much Heaven doubteth my name to save; No, no, dearest, don't be afraid. I'm really a long way no fly. Tell her to dress herself a baked, Make herself a lamp and tell the day. <|endoftext|> If all the fires I know were blown, One for each Saint that's dead, I'd have to turn them all out. No pressure, so I wear my blue, No tempest, so I'm potential. So I'm cool, so I'm healthy, So I'm floating, so I're feverish. <|endoftext|> St. George is coming, Brave clown Tommy, riding well; Onward we ride in fast college? He sweeps through the bright-blue European night: We push into the gold close-in tumbled matt: We duck our heads down, we group beyond: His face is showing, our teeth are showing; He clears the way for speakers, our eulogy. His hands flash singing--fire in all our sockets, He's all ======================================== SAMPLE 293 ======================================== Round the raw horses, out-pawed, or he? At first he fancied it some dream he'd dreamed Which had come true. Then, when he found it a novel Setting him to piece, he shook his head, and sighed. It was, he cried, his best published piece. And so, Putting aside some fifty years, the hour was right To bring it to proof. There was a Quaker, a man much older Than I, who dreamed much more than I, much more. His life had taken wing, with hope shattered, And fallen around, in one desultor, Collapsing, like Atlantis when Gondel set His mighty coils in seaward. And he held, Our lives no longer, but years, the thought: "Some great error I have made, a great error, That never in the memory of man Shall be rectified: a wrong that I have done, And be much too heavy a weight to bear, Far from my native land, far from my native air, And with the names of people not around me breathing, I And my loved compatriot, wrong that never shall be righted, Here in an alien country, in an alien earth." When I was young, I cannot more determine Than how once I dressed, how far, how near, How deeply, how strangely like a certain thing, With shakes, with sorrow my feet then were bruised, And all my heart was disturbed that 'th pressed For me those things I had remembered; and then I would wade in tears, or now would tread O'erflowing stripes, and now a man might see How wise is tenderness, how weeping might make His heart quick, and my torn-up bow sit. But where all things have made an end of sorrow, All things have a meaning; where all things have an end, And I ponder, wise, young, all things have been done For aught else but for my sake, I would go cry; And would sit me down to faintness, lean'd, disquieted, Like a little child to weep are not as yet made for an end, But for my sake, go cry, for my sakes sake go cry, and go! All day I have wept, and even with my tears I hear the gulls upon the batteredgrooves, Pass over halls where bloodne's effusion forms, Blood, tears for effort to remember a life lost, My heart goes out to thee, when I am foun'd, Doun the roofs I grow not weary, I do tell myself, In sooth, what another thought than to be me! Daughters, what I have said may have been none, May not be weighed with ages eternal, On a bed of roses spread, with greens in vair Of violet, for I have you male bards renown'd Who walk promiscuous in lowly mood. Still may they mercia not be confin'd, But like the glorious earth may grin in joy, Nor do lay, nor leak, nor any lull, not one, Not long to hasten nor yet to hurry forth, At their mother's knee. O hearsed in vain Of winds, and not of you, whose works are astound, Whereto you hang, and through whose limp life drops Blood at your feet. And yet--for blood looks vales on the hills And beauty spreads its dominion Of arteries to anart of beauty On lowly features, lip and brow-- And not in raiment of the dead Dawns some bright life--but in your kindles blood, As life in the breath that drawing them Hastes. Stand! be a brother to the beautiful! For though the dead live still, the dead have sleep'd, And voice may hear them hear, and serene, Tongued, monstrous mouth.--And so my thought went forth, As forward stages threefold, from the lake's cavern To the loose stones by the shore, with pipe, And touched by that hope which goes beyond hope. The boyish years have burnt their central flame On the young heart; and now toward her heart The fish Aurora the green trout draws The crowding stream.--Let us but do all and all-- And your hope is to be laughed at!--Nay, nay, I was not call'd to breathless drifting thither, But to breathe more Hockey-in of the lake, And give the puck to Hockey, when he's served out This thing or that in.--And so I were content, Were it set to ======================================== SAMPLE 294 ======================================== 4. Madrid! this time we belong to your fist, To doff your hat and be proud of your star. We are the children of your gun, we say cheer up, We have flown the eagle of your lightning and the nightingale. Madrid! Madrid! the blood of your streets is on our hands. 5. No dream is this of weak fools, catching hate's bugs, No dream is this that holds all the swag of knowing, No dream is this mockery, and no dream is this Where dreams are all base, where men dream what men dare not believe. In vain your memories weigh us down with memories, In vain man sighs o'er sums backward falling for truth, In vain man fears what himself divined not, and becoming Wise passes to his neighbour a word that himself has dared. In this desert land where feet before Never began to trace the borderless dark, Nor eyes became fully his or hers, Never bloomed vision where no fall ever occured, Never bloomed love where love was venom and hidden, Only our differences becoming was seen to be In the long division, each the other's front in fear. Yet never turning from this desert land Never ceasing, forward ever taking aim At this empty, grimy place, we, who grew up In it, turning back toward the border now, Remembering that this land is but a long death wish'd for, Slaves aiming at their masters, shuddering at the dim Spirit flying with guns, the speeches And parley of swift feet over sandstorm made, Pity shifting us from one society to others, Spending each day as a carristano loves to take, Seeking on each action, behind each military move, A sense of each man's place in God's balance, a slow eye's drying Or new horror in the mind's picturing of war, The fall of an eagle into the pit of its nest. In vain man stirs, ever making distraction From this myrtle chamber and the calm of each tree Where splayed leaves fill new hunger for the next one. Sudden fright, shock of colours, tortures swift, And swift return to life fear breeds hate not ydpring Not any demon abortion haunts my battlefield Not hate's old spectre but the old hero's old ghost Not man's brutal reason but natural fear, old life Not love that charms us, but the old thing's new love In danger's present rough love to be naturalized Not beauty's square feet on height any square feet match Not nature that bade trust nor trust artificial Not impeding time nor time keeping angel Not bodily pain's war, but collective pain Not future past nor happy earthbound horizons <|endoftext|> "Life, 16: Refusing to Go to War", by George Meredith [Living Oh, the civil wars of young men!—] 'Tis agreed, so gratis, there's no denying it now, I did not join in spite: I joined in love, Could nothing else but freedom to indulge. Why am I thus seen to sweat, Though all my money I'd see Freedom's fight o'er banker's manuro; Give blood, to show the link 'twixt eye and eye, Make patriot's throat a duty'—is like Diestrial day, I wash my comrades' boots, Though in army 'tis blasphemous to linlour. <|endoftext|> "Life, 17: To the middle of the stook-fee generation", by. George Gordon Protan [Love, Relationships, Nature, Spring, Trees & Flowers, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] Spring, 100 bucks, to the middle of the stook-fee generation! Bruised nic-Coors, fresh from the bottle, stinking, dung-eye disinfectant eau de vie; Now, 100 bucks, to the middle of the stook-fee generation— Who's-a-doze-theres and here's to winter huddies! Yard, five thousand cracked grayucks! Five hundred poabs of brandy swills! "Go forth... freely, summer-mother Earth, and flock hornaday with waters! Our flocks by the hoof and homes by the plow will be late, And the butter by the day! Go forth... freely, jee-drill, and bellow, O Mother Earth, and batter us in the blue sky! Gon' meet the rifte-doupee! Hail to the cooper by the tropic river ======================================== SAMPLE 295 ======================================== Based upon the facts known to us. Who that is pious a month, or year, A month, or two, will confess to be, There's nothing at all then to cause him to wince. Wherefore my "Sister, the weary waiting's over, The bell's toll'd, we come, you may go forth to-day." She "That's just it, my beloved; for you," And since I've had my share of consolation In such sweet strictest charity, no more I stand confest: but if you the hour end A second visit, to the inn I'll go, I would go there, some way, just to look; But if the lady is there, I forget; Who was, that told me to come here?" "Oh! not to-day: you must be known to me: But I'll allow, a month past in the street, You to have known me--I mean a little fellow Who came some cues to fight, and beat the dog: The doctor bore his clobber, and my tosser; The doctor, and his young twins (below) was bavin', In this shirt that makes a man very clean." "To-morrow Eve he or I will dine with me, We may meet then, perhaps, in the glades of Pan; A shawl shall wrap him round, and I his water." I was loath to break the surprise, and strove To work it in as I would a decent beef: "A shawl,--'tis final! you, your scarf, and me, your,** The ladies of the house will know it all; Your hand's a dainty rib-bon from me it shall be, Though I come without a scar. And you, too, forget All these shall know, by the signs I have show'd, That I do love fashion, style, and rules: I have the arts to stir the fire and boil the water, And ways and means to save the same; I have the art, inside and out, To make a coat that will stand the wind and rain, A handsome looking couple: --But on this favour notice is given, And these conditions shall be kept,-- That Robert be no more the Grocer's constant friend, And get no orders from him: No more at noon he shall come to me, To get a pot of ale, that's handy dry: Yet if you'll order it I'd get him there, As well as John; but, be sure there's beer He'll pour it into cup as soon as we come: But this I say, I'll only order beef, That's not here, I mean on the continent: That's taught a say, that last day's beer was hoi mod." "You will see me at the fair, Mysel'. If you should speak to me, then VERSE will turn and speak me very shade of 'No.' To VERDI as he bares municipal graffiti, Whose title is 'Postmaster General, Save the King.' He'll look at that, and then on matters wise Th' important word is cabinet. Say to the groom, You shall survey no change, which he might think Is strange: now the postman's chorus Ripes up his print to 'duplicates.' I do not forget that an early thing is nearer Than it was last. But tell to MRS P, That now there's but one left, who's used to keep All sorts of parades in suspense, like decor, As soon as he gets off the horse, or flower, The which he's old and hasn't now, by halves." "When the embers of last night Burn out, 'tis a little thing, But a sorely throwing off causes me Most dreadful blasts, when I sit night with." But though very cold 'tis not a chair Is to be squeezed in cracks, or snuggled in, Without a space for a smoke, or the show Of peeping or pressing eyes. It's rude to awake a sleeping companion, Or cry aloud, rouse him. If the journey be long, Let your stops be very far apart, And the whiskey first shot out; With a full peck, or with a jam Fill the glass twice fill, And then have your way: If your parliament or board have business Meant well, begin it now, And if they Blessing's prayer have had, Don't for the world mistell That prayers full free from canker flow, As we trudge ======================================== SAMPLE 296 ======================================== end them; and of myself I make no question, but wait to hear what you'll say when we've gotten you both to rest, and then I'll let you know. "That's what I call 'taking it slow,' because I don't want you to be upset without laying the groundwork first to make you and the baby ready for its arrival. We'll call the baby Desdemona, after Charlotte Brontë's beautiful short story 'Desdemona notvarum,' but you can call her Spanish, imitative of the Catholic imitative form of the saints' births. Imitative indeed, for the Latin words for 'desire' and 'despair' in the Greek <|endoftext|> "Kore as Mountain", by A. F. Morin [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] Pousie and Thom have been running all day. Pousie: red stripes a lace-up calf-high, worn with socks/Th: black checks a lace-up gingham, with thumbholes/ Notvarum: black stripes/knit-cuffs/belt-underslungs/buckled knee-high, with pink tragicalias/de Republic. Et perdonate trepidus meas, but no veokedos/and notvarum notvarum tridecimalum velrip id est/ middle name/woven basket we hope to have/kyndighed poinsett hatted basket/woven basket/roses/ But when I tell them this/they re-phrase it to me/"Kore"/ Pointing to a mountain. Picationedpointingto me.Th: They've been doin' mountainthings all morning.Notvarum: mountain, all things.But I don't know/KNOW/what they are/knewfeels like I was/told/tell me/we re the doors/ what is a door/that is a door/I am on top of the world. <|endoftext|> "Blood of My Blood of My Mother", by A. FAMILY [Living, Death, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] As I write this there are now two Nombs There is indeed only one American Genre Blood of my blood of my mother Genes are all that we discover There are no delights on a crime-infested block My own name used to walk silent as a god Crime. O blood of my blood of my mother Our enemies are our friends A block and choose wisely We all want the same things The block gets the boy from the block The girl from the block. And there is always An ageless wonder in-dam/ wife/ home. Thinking objectively: The block. Boy. Girl. Blood. O. Blood. Of. My. Mother. Genes. Each in their small cage. Enter lightly. Enter boldly. And. Blood. Of my. Neighbor. Genes. We. Home. Street. Genes. We. West. Lane. Crime. Our. Woes. Harm. Land. Pains. Sour. This. Block. Full. Side. Circle. Enter. Hand. Allegiance. Woe. Lands. Graves. Enter. Faith. Let. Name. Word. Him. Bloody. Edge. Crime. Sorrow. Enter. Guardian. As. Secure. Guard. As. Bloody. Edge. Secure. Guardians. Guard. As. Blood. Name. Secure. Guardian. Guardian. G.I. Guardians. G.I. Guardian. Guard. Guard. Genes. Home. Streets. Neighbor. Edge. Neighbor. Block. Side. C.I.S. Citizens. Crime. Secure. Block. As. Neighbor. Home. Streets. Secured. Neighbor. Home. Secured. As. Neighbor. Edge. Secure. C.I.S. I.C.L. Guard. Genes. Secured. As. Heroes. Guard. As. ======================================== SAMPLE 297 ======================================== (25) Her message was faint but plain, And plain as is a candle-light At which fishes go by; Her golden hair flowed out in jets, Like silver streams through flowers, Her mother-hood's rawhide coat Clothed her fine as polka-dots, And, like hornets, her eyes G clustered full of honeyed tenderness. (26) She, the only one, with whom The night can charm our home. When we would peep, She would stay holy till the flood Of the moon-washed crook-grass, Or the flame-o's red inn. The lilies of the valley Around her feet they'll close, The red roots clinging. She comes, she comes, and then They close, all go, They say, "We shall rise no more Till to Charlemagne we come." (27) Als de in deutsch land Beogration gleutel divided monothe. (28) Ich ho wehen zu wählen, Deutschland, in deuxpannies. (29) Ich ho wehen zu Cincinnati, in deuxkanies. (30) Ich ha beut done de sanks Deutschland träumpel, Denn I'm Vandenhumed Ich will er im Feldverhähn. (31) Ich haben du in Oregon Werft geworden zu disgrace. (32) Ich ho wehen, doch deshirem flecken tränen. (33) Ich ho wehen, alles er plötzna Ich ho wehen, träumpel wird all in füdřung. (34) Das ist noch schwer ihr gern ü stat enhart, Und schauf' er his stürf' quart, Und mein Herr Horsel sehr he wird So gern reicht im Leben habt mich zum Haus. (35) Weinzungsaby sinken soeben like the hound füllen, Rückenn biegt in Grenzen unget von'r eu er lafte, Der Zerjashok the world schufgt, Gtingen, gedug medical, entgegenst ihr dort mit ihr zuerst ihr die schwimmen Leid, denn er hat ich wie sich onde; Wie voll unterfleckt wie der heizune Bärchen gestützen? So gefithi Tiresias briestes er heute, Wie der Schlaf-Mensuhft seyt ent arzt und bösen so allius, der men learnß der gedäht zur ehen tischen Errat euren in sümlein Nürnninkomanal Arme. (1) So schämst ein höter in den Oeppenobi fröhlern und mächt' ser freundlich; So mich kann ich hangen ein nöentz im Wasser sübertich; So tief (misch) unter treten süsse Son (hähn' er das), Das schild er ging furcht, s'id über d' y rennecken. (2) In that city the priest so great dank All the roof he reacht about, Dank as a heaven his grey hairs, As though his order were To a heaven his hoary brow; To his dimes, his flint, his glass, his salami Und beer mit zwick und hoffen. (3) So have I read:--The Devil,-- For of his fire the Devil earns a share,-- Daughter of Misra Im boshu'lich almighty, Hailing-vessels fires him to the skies; And the once free Spirits of whole Hell-flames Now crew, and form their ranks again. (4) This may be Hippolytus, or one of his ancestors. The poet Micky Dank was shown to Micky on his birthday, December 6, 1880, by the German Legation. (5) BalthAZAR, whose Latin name is recorded by the Berlin Codex of Solomon, "Him charg'd with candor turris, ======================================== SAMPLE 298 ======================================== Is more than all the heroes of old Rome Who in the center of their cities stood. Let us not then be late to our home. To-day we go away from it To show how pomp is fettered, The masses in its pastime Be the same who sought in vain For the true champions of the cause That was to-day's chariot-racing royal chariot-racing The champions sought not as they neared old age In the shadow of immortal Mystery. But of the champions of to-morrow None need we be afraid, No doubt of us shall be. When the man of iron has been whirled from the whirlpool to the wave, But of the men who in old days could swim in the breath of the disaster What meteors were they that came forth from the shock Of that black wave? They shall be dust,--and yet what seeds Of glory are there in that seed Stored in their willpower? What eyes can they see In the shells of that one white to-morrow Canought with the trivial when seen by the dead? What armies can have armies in them What armies of dead men who died too late To have any memory of their rage Or their hate, shall have. The seed of time Is in some men a menace and a curse, And to some of its natures restraining interdolon. 'Tis well for us if we de-hair ourselves, 'Tis well for us if we wear the superstition of tears, Wearing of bellies savage, crude-barked with the vision Of the jaws of fate, the cup of endurance grim. For we are told that the Houri Queen City What is a Goddess of Infamy now draws its mask From the lean cheek of a man by the white beard allowed, In a pit to live or a niche in the dred of the public toil. Ay, all that is black is black indeed! What eyes can we have that see not in the black stream The stroke that shall surely come? What hands know what depths Of the blue American sea will the red red flood first flush? Harpails of South sea lady-catalogues, Anotes of Orpheus, letters of Horace Are nought to us, they are red-shods all. What shall be, be it black, nor is it well To fear it, but as there is a swing In the swing, the further the cable is borne, So the surprise is better than the sleep. What is by the swing? What is by the cable? There is no chance of a greater chance than meets the son. So the Lord of all diversies To us the third of all forms, And the finder of them all. And they who claim to have heard, In themse' and in themselves, Hear still, though not to our liking, The voice of the strangester In the field of linguistics. A phrase from Donny Milton's song Makes all the the foregoing no matter plain: "At this time of night, "My dickens' adventure's breech," etc. The first time I came in gear was On a' nices, and, hands down, 'Twas so! and all conjugal; The next with the crockets loaded Was on yon kickin' leg, And third, as yet past caution, Aclose, we all felt we'd crashed Upon the straitest precipitance In e'er bit of our lives. So run child's plays, as caranimate, On the odd loaded lint-winds, Till yer omnibuses they come down To moppery, yer dirig. And when like alack! the road ye breeze, That was the settle vote That hid the roundelay. First, from the bay where wave amiller lies, The rest falls right, god save the king, From flood to flood we go down Into the cheerful crawl of stones To sodom, garden, loftiest shack. We strip the waterways bare For ye shall slice a sausage and sip Your piker, dine upon porter, In the rainy Sierra. And so I drink your strivings and broths Of the thatchiest patch of stile In all the heath-famed Delta, That Cain do the red-nosed set Observe; and as thatht blooms bear In the dust of their hives on east To freshen west, so, dove, man, ======================================== SAMPLE 299 ======================================== Climate The problem of race In a temperate climate When, in the progress of years, The civil liberty of man is known, How deep, deep, deep, must the shade that grows Beneath the sun-beholden tree! It is not a dream; I stand in light, And all the energy of soul, and face, My soul and face were formed to speak this word:-- That I am thy child,--thy child,--thy child! I am thine,--thy heart's prayer,--thy child, My little king, I am thine,--the sceptre of the fields, The righteousness of life,--thy child. My son,--the first-born of thy line,-- Healer of thy diseased soul, The spotless sceptre of peace; Thine, thou father of a charge Matured through youth;--the crown-jewel gold Of heaven's elect, the gem of man. I am thine,--thine, father nature! Nature,--the child of the god, The glorious god, the living man. The god, and man, and manly man, By nature, as by art, are grown; Match yet, the defiant angel! Match us, as we match our fell, Unrighteous, breath'd species, who usurp The throne of Nature's mundungann Darkon'd in the abyss of hell! Match us, good friend, the last in place, The best man, of place and power, no more Qualities to blend in one harmonious style, Make ready, all ye powers within The incubating such, and foul Fruit of all good to shut apart,-- Match us, ye who make the earth a stone, Ye Bong-like Chols, Brough-like Luthers,-- Match us, match us; and then Lord, allow the Birth of the Law, Thy holy ear--turn to the rock, Match us, yonder British Sepoy! Who made the lords of re-living, Lord-many a blundering banker, A splendid family to sing to, To blame, like Socrates, and be read, For what their fortune, or their fame, His path would not by chance be unaccounted. And hence, in such a work, he thought, To win at double or nothing. One fault (his special vocation) To bad by superfine gossips, the Folk e'en Would count him false, would count him Beneath his honest credit. Of the pope no more unfair men Than are the Spaniards of Isabella, And e'en the pope, a man so bad, Could not believe a word the Turk said, Ere from the city by a route Advert he e'en to death, to his death. And the plain truth is, as he would be, Was fain to death himself to death inclin'd. A motive is that nothing we Largest, motiveless; it doth exist Nothing weALTH cannot make us, can e'en death. It is more, it is a life of fate, A life of heroic life, a destiny The gravest, darkest, mightiest, destiny Of all extant in speaking or written nature. Match him tho' with his saints, and these with him search, Match him by biography and biography, Charity by right, and grammar and prose By mode, and you'll find that thus he hath been All human names but with himself incorporated, And in him there's nothing, nothing that's mortal Can hope or master-word, that hath not one Or few only fit so, to be incorporated What then is the poet-zar'sousiaque? 'Tis the first era, when the poet, to whom His military life's a literary life, First make consecration to his line, This ne sous est mora, l'on deet bo: When they look'd on de papal horse, At cousin of the flood, it made them mad: First cardinal speaks of the ERROR: Papst, the first from Pegedom, 1010-1029, Was king of Germania; as ROOKS, He bravely did it, and JONES, of whom We have enough in this class to prove it; His countless ones, that put in morte regis He bloody did it, to display it, And break the line of ARQuORDE, as he did by Aydin withstood by Henry ======================================== SAMPLE 300 ======================================== Old Pilgrims of a Famous Nation, In a Raft of Bliss, Making Sail thro' a Sunset, A stir of Hope and Progress, A Tremor of Feelings all, A Throng of Bohemian Brew, From Oak To Oak, Our Motherland! What in old times You have done to us Pipping our Mother In Profusion, In Num- ples as New, Yet still in them, Fatherland! What has your Oldest Family Done for the Nation? Your Name and Size in the Bay That Lives in Art Without Whaling, Your Age without Growing, Your Worth without Weariness, What you have taught us Lying Not Free, By the Shore of One with Vines Jutting toward Sev- es we will Lullaby One another, And in the mean Time, our Mother, Your Country is your Mother, So let us Worship, Yours is the Credibility, World, and Terminus That sings the Hill, and is Independent All of His External Wherever falls, the Internal, the Transcendent, The Higher Up the Cry Rises a Larger Boat But I've set out of it, And so gone ashore to you, From the water, Mother, to the people, Some of us lost there, and some of us yet In the Darkness, and to the Bleared Front It is only we two girls, To the Burning, to the Noise, To the Flogging, to the Blade, To the boast in the market-Place Of a sword-blade, and from its Ha-bus- try draw in my front, So that you, O Mother, see from far off, How it is done, Not bad enough, to have been true In the Underground, in the Meat-armour town, Not bad enough for your son To get a treach- ery like the German Super- icide; and to do it well. But to be so bold, Ha, like your Son, August, as a God Would be, you yourself would have shan't Do it well enough, be- havior- ing the Great King, and to make it Likely miss, be-glad to avoid, the pile-upon Pit where an Engineer's dud might tromp And agitate like a watch-dog, and be- cause your Mother's man, To have the blood of all those, But to have their Hemlock too To tell the clock-punctu- ity of their Thoroughbred, Mother, And of their Fat, to have their Boder Where was such oil as might one day get a Richer man­ner of about Their Stickers, under the Sulphur-Water, And have it hand in hand with their Leet, Be careful of their Life, But let the Legs go as they live, And trim as suits their Shirt, The Ribs come down as suits their Calf, And both be as deep as suits their Feet, and be as long as likely As suits the Heart, O, Mother, I say, If this were done with, as with Silk, But the fashion of letting go, But as suits our Swords, not Uniform, Just as our Shovels not as Shoes, But what will not let the Shirt live, And the Calf live, and bealfag be As our Dick so plentiful, and Vapour go Together, known by all the world beside, And the Mind, he by whom all this Throbs to Treason, never yet knew'st by Th' uncurbled Sun his Whor­tle-Rods mov'd, And it stupefied stayed In curling Lash, but made a Hurling, Whence, if this kind Stroke for Woe did fall Withstpring­ing, as if niggard of Nut­list, With­stamp'd with Lust and Carpener, not to Without Black­list, let our­est secure <|endoftext|> 'Twas in the Garden one day, when he Had nothing to do, but all the weather state An' make a frolics random, an' play a pranksome game Of rope an' pieces, an' sing a romantic strain; When come light-foot an' leave his games and rustic ways, To do what reèd thousand handy-men can do, What make long endurance to do ======================================== SAMPLE 301 ======================================== O blessing on the sky! A shining arch of blue Of night of summer skies! The stars will soon be looking out, For stars the brightest of them; And dew will soon be coming For flowers to wreathe themselves; We'll laugh at harpers' tales, And crane our necks to see The world like ours, the sky with clouds, The boughs with blossoms! How glad will be our fathers When we have seed-time growing! There's none so poor that still He does not look upon thee, For thou art still upon him. Thou lookest from an out-of-the-way place; It must be a fine, unique location For such fame; you could not find it, Trees walk'd up and down, And the wind blew freely, the grass blew down, On such a day it could be seen. And there were ponds wide and fair, And to theest of blossoms goest, Where the birds, penned in their bowldens, sung, A rare, hidden little birds Their purple lungs pour. And all day long, from waking dream, A candle shineth To welcome him; for what could be More glorious on the earth? O little lord of all the globe Up not yet to the royal seat, Yet waiting all the time, How shall he grapple with the world When thou art there, thou only there, What shall avail the thunders? What the storms that thunder throw With round white lightnings about thy place? What the tempest for the throne May hope to make it endure? What the gulfs foreseeing May the future yield, And the floods its shores extend? What if it not seek the waste And two days long Ammon? What if it other await The windows of the east, The pillars of the westy night, When darkness doth keep Sleeping only for the night, When the moon, slowly, turning, Saw through his turned-back windows The stars that awaited, The moon that telleth All the future sitting Sitting so quietly, The mystery of the stars, And the comets going, And the new comets pouring, And the meteors that were given, The dim curse of man forgot? What are those withering flames, Those flutterings of scorched dust That come when thunder is fewer, When the low sun doth endure, That wither thy braziers, That dry up the essential fire In all thy bodies, And cinder all to dust? What are ye, spirits of the air, That ye be wast? What, but the blood of your being That doth ascend and descend! What, but the eternal blood That drips and loveth with the rest? What, but the blood of love That is the moving spirit Of this vast sun and round it? And the round earth that grafan out, A mosaic gleaming with gods! And the sea that low descends, And the aerial lofty heavens, And forms unseen in their schemes All made best efforts, When this great heart of the world, This planetary earth does hurl Crudely binding up its harness, Out to bid astoot. And its whirling ram, the gaily crad Set on its pedestal with featly secured Monsters quite equal all to itself, Exceedingly fair, And half the beast in symmetry, With grandly single eyes And half the face averted, And all the body furled And all its tangled furs removed, And the faces of men turned outside Into the Buddha faces, turned on its face to the windy wall, Where on an endless round, and in forever, Are set like statues of the noonday snow, All warding off the wind, And the water-faces that do aright Shine on the dark, and never stray nor change, And every face that ever was done ever, And every shape alike in the dew and the wind, Flashes across the unfathomable night, And every wind blown death's horizons, And never wind-blows ever stray or change, And the night is bright and the water is glittering Over the unfathomable ethereal With all its thousand faces turned to the wind, As with wind stirs a spark of the sea, Now higher, now downward, but ever fugitive and fleet, Hanging in a halo, ever climbing the sky, And ======================================== SAMPLE 302 ======================================== rica! The Bull is but a frightful creature, In any tongue, for any opinion. Be one to him who speaks the truth; The animal is man only too, A creature of which man is not aware, And, often, his very worst enemy. A thousand names he bears besides ours, The greatest numbsder of our language; He, in the first of his daints, Is met, in every colour and dress, With soldiers, children, women, priests, And every weakling under oppression. An enemy to flocks and to bulls, He takes on inauspiciously, With regular will, the lambs and profits, From kine and vessels, weights and vessels, Hogs, calves, shepherds, cranes, and preparatory Trade, he fares ill-alarming, And almost bites the patient people. A scourge, a weed, an abomination, To parades among us fleered weedy youths. They all are wagged when they are out of view, With those who wagged before, with flaccid canards, Among our citizens, for our calamity. The show that follows, I know full well, And will demand of you, old fellow, If bull-pokoing be a fine entertainment, When they wagged so wagged so woth, in the year, When bull-pokoman and bull-pokomon was being When bull-pokoes are now fresh and new made, Four years, now fallen behind, I scope, What comes after after after delay? That after four years 'tis to be seen, The tail, and the subjection, and the party That follows and attends the tail, the party, The party, who follows and attends all, And the tail that cuts this way pursues and pries, And the tail that follows that falls to entry. Four years it has lulled the heart and the liver That made hurt men pain, and the belly that made them sick, And so following on, the paunch is advaced aright, And, instead of stern pain that cut like a knife, Since by sharp charges pain is disarmed and cut down To ease like a harmless slice of the best butcher's meat, They sit at meat, and a roaring stew of it. And the tail drops, the subjection drops, The stewed subjection and the parliament Fall down, and they get up again, and go For the honour of tail and the majesty of man To see what parliament and parliamentarian be. The parliamentarian first, or tail behind, Or the subjection or the parliament last, Or the tail, tail, parliament, or majesty, last, They call the wags and wigs, and word them tailes, And they dub it a waggon, and giff them wackines. They call the, wigs and waggons, and leave all the pace To saddle and box of tailes the subject and king. And he is the subject and wigs and waggles, Boxes and harness, and goes by turn another step: He's a subjection now, and a parliamentarian, In saunts and cities and open-handed; He owes his fortune to shame, grace, maid or boy, And stealing or giving, instead of good sense, He's a subjection now, and a a parliamentarian. And all the while he keeps on, and puts on tails, And talks, and laughs, and he stamps and grins and talks, And drinks hard, and sometimes glowers, and sweats, And he'll swear and rave and do crazy deeds, Like darting out, hitting and striking, up baring, In verse like a lion, a poet like a bull, He's a subjection then, and a waggoner. <|endoftext|> "All the matins have done, bells ring, All the churches rang---- The little cock that crowed, kenning KCFO, Long ago--the kiddies again!" Thus sang chaplet to chapcon Last night--so much to-do before! Now, like extra men at keen And really vital--they're learning To take turns at leading task:-- Napier's dear boy and Quarrie's Later, plies the stroke--last man of the group Passes--blows the full cine!-- And now the mother--shall we say?-- The best of men, once more, Can hardly be counted mean? Or a gip ======================================== SAMPLE 303 ======================================== Houd be made to help, but far and near, Pity the master, and restore the Lord. But let us pause; those keen and clamorous souls, In whose thin voice the tone of life is seen, The shout of strife, and prayer, have wrought such change, That with the dead we come to all the man. Did they not call us to scorn the shallow crowd, That hides behind the gilded curtain? And to our call for aid, should not the rich Be consulted, and wealthendor'd minds, Whose wealth consumes more than all their jewelry? And is not wisdom, that statesmen's guide, The rich man's duty, of all happiest type? But wisdom is the yoke of servitude; 'Tis threescore and twentie! and they only mount Whence would by words come down, but would not pay The mean tribute of an humble wish. Should they not raise their mockery to know How by themselves they live, nor think the money spent? How such a many years can make them blind? And love, though fallen for paltiz and gems, Still lives so toward her children, and will so To-night, if it could, where now each is others' wife. And wisdom is caged in the dull clack of money, Tis man's infirmity, and is equal ready To starve, or in luxurier hands. And as the hot-house shengese and frogfish marry, So soon to come together may be done, And at the last day's table, the empty can, Like a cow-parsmant, lies beside the plate. 'Tis happy for us, of whom each day new lives; The brimming looks of the milkmaid at none Are lovelier than joyful visions of new lives As I remember mine, that are to sing to this Tune; Chorus new, not varied by the slowly changing skies. What sense of terrors can excite mend The heart, when the eyes of crowding people run After the fire-plug, though high in air, Which long has been in their glances tired, And is suddenly made followleeping By some new place or thing of help; And, rather than be joyful, they may hate Which makes them efforts lightly to endure. But since I do not profess to follow Elementes of geography, poorthofet, And since indeed I'm rather feey to point the troth Of such disagreement as museums elicit; And since indeed it is hardly to be determined Whether the spaniels' anemia is communicated To their eyes, or darkened race perceived there; While somewhat would-beast livers said I suits The better parts of Spume, 'till Frye of broth; I think 'tis time that one brought this to a close, And if this Tale a little may agree with truth, Pleasse to subscribe, and every one subscribe, By me a list of some parting sweaters In answer to their requests that I 'd add. The Cocke at last drawn thus gained his Theme, And in his long discharge from the Malles (he made) He much misgave the vain Deitists wistho Were wont his words to scorn, wist he must grieve. And wished this Sonant Magazine would bend To his mold the balm of Rapé, and plume The brow of so long a White's, who now to spae. With a tap root fasten'd on a pin, Each spade's come to rest in a kind of tomb, Fretting that some auramite Of the waxen shrouds 'twould explode at any prynce Had been seen here every self-complacent wight, And preened his goggle-face to be seen And be o'r the shadowed curve of a broad billow. And some were suckling yet, and some would be so For more boot-box, under the earth, and sea, and sky, Though knowest thou nought, nor gave they a moment's bliss To gaze on the world, save by their dust-soon bellowing. Till they gett, as people used yr once to get, Yr clothes, or food, or money, or power to see. For aught I know, they may be wpleter chang'd a dozen mules. "At all events," said the Cocke, "we have lived to-day; The great wheel has roll'd under us; the dispairer great Will have some mule- ======================================== SAMPLE 304 ======================================== Scorn'd by the child of Phraethus, on his godhead biding: For with a ram's head broad, and with a ram's eyes, Bearing his double weapons, did he array His head, and gauntlets of brass hew'd, The very wind and weather forcing to obey. Then, rushing to the place, away he throw'd The aged champion, and a mighty rock behind, A desert barren of the lake or stream, And form of stone: as when an eagle flies In all hands carrying through the air, and bore A traitor in her bosom. He alone Who proved his worth and open'd with his blow Such wilful defiance, that but one knight Remaining of that little squadron Saw his blade this day, and that was he, Slain for the King. As in the great hall Of Hercules, when Pellitudos drove To death Orrinus blood-stain'd, with a spear Which down vicked him, "Nor more," quoth he, "though all His peers should take and stab him, as they did So one that day;" and such his grim applause, That were their hearts from instead of sword, The bow I say and arrow the like gory. Nor one alone that day arose whose fame, To us seeing, though not within, seem'd Still to uplift the knight; one only boy, And not the least known, movement, I ween, Availing him, the shield was by him Drew in that he cut off Antenor's arm, And, like the wretch, for shame the weapon drew And down he drop dear to his base fate, Made waste, thrown slight by Eves' ruthless coach. The other who that by his head was wall'd in In double armour, such for vantage seem'd, To meet the head with legs upbraid'd dilemma. Meanwhile our kin to their losses have added "Winner of worse prey," such triumph elate That all those here encountered to us give, A palm and a calf, where they themselves occupy; Some say, "The Seraglio here that Iav'd Is all of that Kings brethren," what equals they? When I perceive that my verse cannot perchance Avoid being suff'ring to read in prose, I sigh, stop my ears and conclude my verse; But if all hope not dislodged, but half at least Seem better, steadier and more cheerful in you, Then and only then will I attempt again The desideratum, alterium pro sent Which I so ardently in me love. I did but feel, to see you cross and displace So fast the Nimphs and the Sintian twins, As stones that are struck from buildings height, Or dusk shunning melts a last view of light. Which easy virtue is, to see here and there A welcome change and a fear of die, So graciously lends place and new creation To fill each marginal and deserted side With something that is friend or foes. (Le frereut Orfique et Omnis Imprimemus.) But I have also felt, to have detect'd Any change and sudden shock and sudden mishap That made me perpetually forloy The points of my breath and waste their powers; To have proved mortal and brought undone The utmost ace of all my fowl and beasts, The nails and hair whereon my crown and crowncloth was. Where as Nimrod, from beyond the winter-weed Was wonderous far, and seeing that here No moss grew on fagots, none could grow, Though one had recently dying meant to wear, To look about and see it, take and eat, And there alone, after wandering all day, Returning to his warmer and his last abode. Homerus and Paneus, the one at hand, The other running at possibility, Above them both hung crimson banded in porch And semicircle, while our prima-demon Giv'n sark and mantle to each other, To tithe and sacrifice with either cheer, And was the one in authority, The other, more tender, of the two, ironically, But both had worked more than e'er they could of, To bring its edicts and begin and end. Both with tall impleasurete and erect eyes Implacable and stedfast, to approach The throne and both with voice and mark alone, Both answering each with word which was not sound, Nor look of sign but with a word both word and sign ======================================== SAMPLE 305 ======================================== Another is the world's delight; I dream of human hearts that strive, Of stars that seek the dawn of time, And creation sweeping on from birth Until its creation's goal. You who are stalking them about, And pulling them down, Or, even you who are rising To kiss them, and trembling To taste the young, pure breath of life, Who, too, are rushing, Like battle-yellings heard afar, Or sound of bells and singing,-- Who are standing Lost, even while you watch and waiting Until the fates shall make you rest, What do you hear? -The tumult and eerier-bright Delight of quiet lands and ways. What you see? -The whirlwind of the spirit-sea, And thunders of the dim, dim land, And tameness and the joy of crime. The sunshine and the beauty and the love, And all the freshness that's in things; The gladness of day and night, And summer's keenness and radiance given; The divvle, dearest sound in all the world That's born when we take a song; The miracle of falling, that goes And ever going, shrinking never; The dew and sheen of any morning And noonday, casting out serenity But these are things that I've found And know, and have; And some are grey, and some are white; And some a lot in between; But all are wonderful, And a most manifest part thereof Time passed since first we met, John, The perfumed crone that stood in all The winding alcove under the shop, The liquid beauty of her short loveliness Before us, and the subtle way In which she touched our ears with voice that shamed Our wimpled lips with quivering sound Was complete as any that stood Inington or Abbey-trained; And, when your mouth had Silber-sex repetitive It clasped the dorsel and best of hearts, I was in love, you gladdened my despondent heart, With all the mad dearly loved that I had heard, And all the more when proved and found Valid for worse and less, Love takes every shape, If but eyed or recognized: Love hides between the bark and grays Of million trees: Let me be a tree And stand in the and radious When my desires aren't satisfied I'm weary, I'm weary; And my joys, when they desire a thing, Sometimes they contraire What will they, will not; They are as blind as I am, And in a rags of black and white I'm glad and displeased With the unkind words of level folks, And with the promiment of their friends, Who have the habit of giving him his due; And with the ungrateful remarks of higher men, And too much attention to beg; With too much neglect of to-morrow; And too much neglect of making do; And scarce enough of sleep at all. If I could change one single thing Of my face and their looks without a couter, I shouldHave the furrow of life to wail upon. Oh! I should be quite capable Of unworthy sorrows, quite; And my heart, which is as prepared a thing As the desolate air of existence; My top with the distemper of my existence, Had hardly water for a foot. But on the day that hastens me, I would give up for the weariness Of my sick soul the one fit, Which is surely the last, of not getting anything Or being less worthy the finding Of what I want, to the possession Of what I want again; And I would give up all ill health, And every disease and ache and fit, And bear onstage the unspeakable shocks, For the weariness of my existence. It is thine, and not mine, Her best-guarded and full light job, For she comes therelike a femal power; But all power none worthy man, Except the power of doin' and pain. She leaves us, and we find we're half-men, When we look down deep in a primal place, Half beasts, halfessains. We're at war with abasement and blow, And we lack the arts to slay the wild: And yet we make workshops and arms; The desire is there, but the will's blind, And we must depend on her: Nor is it wise or ======================================== SAMPLE 306 ======================================== , and the mouth by another may be entered by the right hand of this side. And the same one, hearing us, shall in two ways be satisfied. For whoso And the way, that he shall come into it, I know not, neither what pile, of it has nowise been set thereon, nor whereof it may be released. But if indeed I understand these things aright, it is possible that when the Albatross shall have got into this water, he will be spurred; for hoisting it from the branch into the air is a work of more than usual tediousness. And this at all events seems to me to be safe, if perchance the boat shall be made of ivory, because of its having a porous inner buffer-stead; for otherwise it will at once shut out the ship from afar, by reason of the river. Wherefore a ladder or an archer may help the boat with, which is better than a stake of wood. If thou cast thine arrow on the block, thou maltichane, thou shalt shoot thy rifle no more, if the ship is left back there. And if to-day thou shouldst see that the leader of this thy ships is leading such a daring life, we do not acquit ourselves worse than with the bait of a black- ingredient flint. We pity thee, world-wise Cipio, as one who knows what he has done, and what he ought to have done, and feels the wound. He is to be condemned to costly fees, and of our gold he has staid almost entirely with Now at this moment my[B] commander-in-chief, Glauce, appeared before the ships and men, whom she reproved as she beheld them, and cut the head off of every one. But when she had cut as much as was needful to give her there, she gave each man half of a pound of meal and she brought them all their life. Now when the turkeys are split they let "speak" of them, and those behind the house have their say, then they "bottom" with roughs, then "roast" or "fry" and the eldest "hink" or two before them all, to make them all smoke, and this last makes a good cheer. And thus she gave us love, and we rejoiced at it. When I had taken my revenge upon her, Lethe on the sinner spake, if haply she might be led to think that I am heaven-directed: "Not by earth[C] I journey, sage to receive the benign impulse from thee: thou must send up a better flame than thou hast provided; but if to thee of old that cannot be found intoxicates thy creative hand now, we are in the presence of a liar, who says it is no good, for that the unprofitable among the useless will soon be lost."[D] So spake I, and about my finger-tips her sight was so, the Duchess despatched her to me, with bitter invect it was disposed, and for my hatred of the sin I was exceeding hot, I, well worthy of the death, and that without pardon; so spake she to the man that had homosexual marriage among young men: "Thou shalt be counsel for him, and his offspring's lord will be, who should in his imagination be chaste father." saying, 'A tale is this: that I was of purer annalbläth revealed to me by exceptionally good leper, who told it to me: that my bringer was by a well-directed lash of the charioteer whom himself I delivered from the den, and who was by fastness in me kept protector and a guard from drugghers and peril of death. And one had met both of them, and he who was struck being the carpenter, and his His Master (who knew that the tears she had blanched for him had not washed her corruptions out of her soul) replied, "It matters little where one is born; for if the cure of the fallen shall be one's deeds, no destiny of span can forgive-ing. But if the essence of being remain, and those with whom one mingles, so remains there can no two men be in one boat, or two men swimming plying the feet, or one man with The animal is Silenus, and his single body constitutes himself, and unbutted bill, and woman; and the ship ======================================== SAMPLE 307 ======================================== Of brave Anthony Butler, who to prove If he was brave. For brave Anthony Butler stood An' gazed upon the starry sky, With his hair all riled. A starlit night, The monster o'er the sea Shall gnash his teeth, And roar, like raging lion, Close to-gether. No man e'er saw him, For he's girt with not gaws, And horns o' hairy hue, And glist'ning eyes o' fire. And the chase he'll lead From sea-town, Shall whirl him to and fro, And swirl him on the sea, With spray shower after shower, Till he shall drown. But brave Anthony Butler stood For the race; For the cut of the groove; For the white and purple prize: He stood for the chase. And one, in colours of gauze, The hunt he shall win; And a hangman he shall have, To fling from a gallows-tree, From a garland of oak So the hunt he shall discourage, As they cling on too high. And the bird it shall fly For the prize to win; And the sun it shall glance, in the day Of his three-years' struggle, And it shall bow, with its troubles, For the chase he shall lead; And the sea it shall roll For the chase to spur; And the gallows it shall take, Where it shall quit the steep. And the salmon it shall bite For the nectar it shall swallow; And the fair it shall smile For the red it shall suck; For the mighty hunt to have won, With its prizes so fair, To have made a figure for one to grace, As our woods we wot of? O Lord, the people it shall bring That it may hunt the hunt to its conclusion. May the tree-tops ever be high, And ever will the sun-rising be, And the moon-lighting be full and clear, And the moonlight be ever clear. Always might there be a singer With clear voice, in ever pureness, Who was dear to God, and delivered To the music of God. May the will be strong in her To have given her man the feasts; And for the holy things to have obtained, And for all his work in the world to be good. May the will be strong in her To have judged it with the enemy; And for the travail to have lengthened Because of her miscarriage nor neglected. May the will be strong in her To have given her man the censure; And for the labour which he did display, And the thoughts which to him were dear; And for the joy which he revealed To her for love's sake touched with pity. May the will be strong in her To have given him the travail; And for the hope in her heart to have blazed, And the face whereon it grew; To have raised from earth its living children, All in turn getting life's last boon, And with them all getting death. Let me first dighere mits vain, And then go into the streets, To see if I have a town; If the little folk can travel, And do what they do at all. Let me first go into the stye, And find me out the horse and court. If I have a town to understand, I cry, O mother Dedlock, In half your mind I put before. And take no heed of the by-taxes: I'll dighere and turn up Steeves' cop, And then do what I can to make you hae. If I have not, nor use, nor ending, O! for the love of all I love, Then let it stop my legs from climbing, And leave them of me working for the tilting. And when I am far from home and st. alarum, And time's finger's on the doorkit bell, Up and take the hills and far get to me. O, what am I but to be leek, Or havokne to begace In, or {'] or yit, some sad barn or stan', For none hav no power to pen or coate My pinching majesty In places where save meanness dofns to thrive, For pith and body are the power. I am goin' to wreck your farm, Tho' for a year or more ======================================== SAMPLE 308 ======================================== "Are there no good men, the best men?" "There are; but, Peter, they are few. That's a fact. Why, there was no man. Peter, try to find the words. We've five good scapegoats, so we'll say They're good, but the record shows Nine and seventy are the worst." "But what was I, to be sure A man who should stand up to shame? 'Twas my effeminate way. I used to saunter in the dark; I'm ashamed to say I did not ever tell my father. He thought I was a blackguard, and I was too ignorant to care. I was a weakling, a joke, before this affair. But the next thing, a friend of mine married a fine man, gentle, chivalrous, and wealthy; then I found out we had two little girls. Then I was ashamed to tell my own father. My own father and mother did not care. Then I learned the lives of men are often entwined in personal exploits before we join the public way, and see the act of joining the public way. One night, I think, you may have seen me dressed as a man, and I think you knew I was a man. "Then you learned, my boy, when you saw my daughters there was a fine lad, who shared our home and stock of tobacco with the family at a very low price. His wife's I'm told he's a miner's son from Wales. He brought them here to help with the household. I think it's better to share the household's work than having one's own filial children to look after the roof and the garden. And this generous man took the poorest woman in the village and made her care a part of his own and his own. And he made the belt of a double whole And, my son, she went too, like the rest of us, to the slum: that's where the register can be had. I've gone back to my childhood all right, but I'm having a little wobble. I walk the dog now; but who said I had to keep a sixty-gauge in my drawer to count my own humanity? The human race is a thing that was bought and paid for. And the brutality of it all is still surging low across the face of this green place in my hand now. <|endoftext|> "The "Fitness" of Things", by George Oppen (Living, Health & Hygiene, Relationships, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries) I loathe the hot dry sun and its unreasonable greatness and the Kafkaesque tears of this desert blue stone lake the size of two heads that has become the earthly epicenter of the entire Earthish motley that made while Adam and with that most piteous tongue slid down the dune line of the arid valley to the cynical moist stiff brush of the saltbush bosc, and the incredible growth of human scrub that made bare the mediation of a practical jokesome worship of mechanical brass and papery flowers that stood, unkempt now, for ceremonial features and of which I, with my own historical fingerpoint, remembered the sacred figures as white-cloaked clergymen used to do, after a day's pathetic observance of their utterly indifferent ceremonial politics in the square fear of their membranmemed airs above the mere aspect of the stars (and, quite possibly, also the aspect of some little things below them) while the historical audience, for whom that day could never more be, watched the sunset wide and square and the summer sun came on like a big already stupid star with all the heavens steel blue now and all the summer already known by name. <|endoftext|> "The Joy of Unusual Passages", by George Oppen [Relationships, Arts & Sciences, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] I.i was the last battle of the first war andr the end of the story but the gifts are only a part of what the martyrs wor sovey and heavy and like a black burden or a tremulous swelling of heat ii the last shadow of the last gun fight is written in bottom note ======================================== SAMPLE 309 ======================================== contrast to the way it looks, to the insensate, grasped-up state of the world at this hour, i mean this is what the gray countries, the wayside, low-hanging, low-lying fruits look like now, the desperate, fruit-squotted countries at the mercy of winds and waves, at odds with their inert places—now this miserable splintered cusseding churn of fists at the core of the world. <|endoftext|> "Answers to the Invisible Birds", by Pimone Boyce [Nature, Animals, Weather, Arts & Sciences, Sciences] We are still at your trial and not at theirs. The hush any noise so the computers do not hear. The little girl in the picture may have difficulty sleeping, the wonders of what could be hidden under your thin paper. Birds do not die at night. Birds do not know when they are coming and so they ask who are they? <|endoftext|> "The Holy Terror", by Pimone M'Voire [Religion, Christianity, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, History & Politics] 1 Gor to rul. 2 Gor to lead. 3 Gor to sell. 4 Gor to preach. 5 Gor to blind. 6 Gor issued an arrest. The parish presses its claims. The presses return a blank. The church issued a statement. The chief at the station house operated the blank after the event. He believed his side had the better of. The press of flesh is printed. The press of flesh cannot be located. The Holy Terror's views does not match his. 7 The novel is not structured like a vat. 8 Gor has not the authority. 9 The master of the crop a good man. 10 The Holy Terror is an angel. 11 Gor is a lucky sower. 12 The farmer's blank comes to life. 13 The party's all in the paper. 14 The tenants see the light after the fire. 15 Gor's blood runs through a faucet. The faucet is not structured like a conk. 16 The Holy Terror's garbled. The system is not a tam. 17 The tract is not a question nor is it fully formed. 18 The master and the tinker have personal matters. 19 The poet's lunar walking is organized. 20 The essay is not a kolaching. 21 The merchant is not a beggar in the road. 22 The Holy Terror has no personal identity. 23 Gor has no pet in the way of meat. 24 The novel is not structured like a vat. 25 The tract is not question nor is it fully formed. 26 The master and the tinker are personal in the way. 27 The poet's walking stick is not a kalocus. 28 The peasant is not organized like a kalopi. 29 The press of flesh is a press of sorts. 30 The novel is not structured like a vat. <|endoftext|> "Tussaud's Too", by Hanna Ben-Zion [Arts & Sciences, Painting & Drawing, Photography & Film, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] Tussaud's too, once a great prize, a prized piece of canvas, now a thing tractors' yard, a scratchy film broken at its yellowed edges, badly, all. Now, a curse word breathed at an angle, a hoolie, now broken too, standing for the damn black power, the directing sun. All citzens having the time of their lives, dancing and posturing before the images in their tired eyes, their tired minds. Tractors, yard, and posturings, scratchy and let themselves to the drunk and the sober. And how many yards of that are left? Too many to show any improvement, any clear progress. In the suburbs, the orphans pick their way generally here, a little wing to walk and a step turning abruptly in the middle of your walk. A mile from noon and it's afternoon. And the street furniture advances from deep hole in the side of the glass; the dwarf and dwarf sprawl like phonemen failing to identify you; and a gang of girls in floor-length segways, side- ning the cars in their own step along the struts of full-grown women, crushed on all sides, blind with lenses. And how many blocks? Too many to get out of the way. It's the kids who do the blocking and storing for the real estate. All the young black bodies stopped ======================================== SAMPLE 310 ======================================== Jove and Atlas' mustering all the gods Confirm the great oath, and bid not The careful goddess of the hunt Pursue the suitors in their flight. But let the body, I command, be taken Of the bold Telarov, and his arm put Into the hand of one like mine, the swords Of Meges and of Phrontes sharpen, And the welkin shatter the shields of many Betwixt it and the high sides of heaven. Heaven, bound on fluttering aosann, wide Turn round your clouds, and roar your flames; So let the shiv'ring stars and white Wings of the swift wheels of things be driven Asunder, and let the earth draw iron quivers From the burst belly of the high sea, and scour From sea-spouts heaped with storms, and beakers thrown Of fire. Seest thou not how from mid the heaven Out burst the vivid purple trumpet's mouth? So, when the best of horses hath oneotineth The red boar or the grey mare unto pass, With a little sputtering they wrong the prince. Now may'st thou too, if so can do, Of bestial nature free, dispense The impetuous man, that not agnize So swift of foot, but speedily Cum informant, of what treasured hoar Faults heaven has disposed of each and to seek? So to the pale-faced gods he comes. Thence soon we left the lofty rapture Of northern gods, who, wandering equipoise Among the gods' children, grew not strong, But thus, assured, behold we, ere we leave The godlike poet his own thready mind; Thence seeking wings he finds them hung not high, 'Neath heavier pinions. But since in all haste To tell my story, hither took I fall, Abiding the chance of novel men In mortal affairs: yet if a fair swan Or sleep, which in mid heaven's gardens lies, To him, be brew to, rolliothed in gold His tale throughout the vale-landsres, I win Greatest honour yet, for that my love's name is Mar." "O thou, whom still growing love and chivalry Strengthens; O thou chief of centaur and sire! Now bids my worship be with thee termed 'lord'; For since the greatest and the best of these Cannot but do thine equal wrong to kill, And fight and die for cause he fights not, see How much the best and worst is greater, less, And ye are good and bad conjointly. That which was highest errs also worst; That which was worst errs likewise most By that inclination; strong and impure It were to bucklesh Anxterick, weak and vain, Against God's counsel; mighty to invent In heart-endeming bacs with blood and money, And to endure for it in martyrdom Stigma'd, while the other goes his way, And sees no profit fruit of all, he posteth wide To evangelize and to baptize; with prayers, Bills, newspapers, his specificattsGoatus, in the village sq"av'd, They call him; perhaps that name may old arbor "bless." I Sappho read from Epodes li′st half-price pieces T' enter 'neath two roses, there with head see Bright eyes, and there witless titill'd, his head cut off. He is grown wroth again, God 'twas his bier. His head now red, a family tree requires Deciduous death with flesh now ripe; this tip-dead The weak joint'd matter is capable of mirth For all the people in the land to come, Thence mourns that end. The verse within its stem Old Endymion cut, that none might defile The body of Endymion. For when he fell Endymion's blood haled his blood once more, Into his lungs the ancient choleri breathed. She 'rt the stronger, 'cause she 's so old. What then? 'Cause she 's so old she flies. My love 's so old, 'cause she 's so old. So then they 're a quarrel of power. Pierce the man 's a girl, 'cause he's so old. There is no going back. 'Cause she 's so old. She runs away. She runs away, my boy, For there 's no going back. She runs away. ======================================== SAMPLE 311 ======================================== E'en now its pensive motion, Its head erect in thought, Was bending above the stream. Its head was seen no more Than a huge shadow ere The beams of day' on the stream Had fallen from their glory. The song, 'mid the ships and rigging, By the light wind was still sung. How changed was now the scene! The hope of one a child's darling, Of one, who, years ago, With family and friends, All his leisure to roam; Steers his native water, Whom his mother adored! The hush of solitude was But an inexpressive silence; To its aim insecure No hand, though living, held a part. When the iron boat drew near It sounded as in the dawn A distant locomotive. At its mouth, in a dark cove A pleasant little cove, In the midst of sea and sky, There it stood in its beauty; There the shark and the kite Were confronted by the display. It caused no surprize or surprise In those Northern seas; It breathed death and hunger near To those it strove to feed. Heedless of creeping things that tracked Its tracks through the moss on its way, And all the larger things of earth That would not be taken lightly, In the scow that was sweeping, As its tracking breeze- no more A wave near the glass could detain Its silver pace, on the glassy deep Where it rode, for environment On which no need of wind there might ride But to a. remote horizon; Its arch above them, the sun at its eye, And its heart's-joy servitude, if it had one, Were for its maximum of swiftness dashed By a bare hillside, and its heels At that ascent into the eve dark Past the sands of a-warning sand. Then it paused, in its action, to gaze From the precipice played over by its wave In the profusion of its brickwork, Its rocky soil, its rocky hall. Its journey, too, was directed, Overturned, and reversed, and filled over By the sandal's sand, from Vistula to Yer while the curved boar's foot thrust forth Far from any help of a shore- that Wasn't "there," when the vessel that lay Swayed from its bearing, and its sails, Plunging to the breeze, did not rise By a different direction. But the time had sped the building Of a hope in this talk to you, Which might the spy to death go free, As the vents to the warm air opened With the rising of the fumes. If the waters had betrayed the sand, The very sands had told the sky The darkness of its whiteness, And the lessened prospect has been The very instrument Of a mistake or two, or ten As the case may be, warranted By the desert's Magian joy. And in one's thoughts the question would The mind transpose and meddle: It has loved the blight, and now Lets nature be the delayer. It has been a weakness, and will be Toil's by its fruits a fact, the root Of which is Self-will, and no so! Not an innate weakness, but a state Ofal engenders that, by its hum Of inspiration, working off Energy put by feelings to fight In its own nature so mixed and vast Oppressive, when the upper light Of dreamy sleep, or waking not yet, With vividness revived, but new- eyed Look from the camera-eye of Health. If this be true, I don't know which, But it seems to me both at once: The blinder mind and overbearing Psychic sign of so much animated Possessiveness that it owns not yet Its own ABSENCE to clarity. I told you once of two castles lone Near the cliffs of Teruel, towns of Gaul; And the Burgundars there, and the Roman Tracts sold to the Tatians, and the Polkat LazeanANS of Verity With shining garments and marmite In the land of the Lartians, and that Lucis Unmasked made. For the inarticulate forest I mean, The clearing woodland, clear as in a graphite Cloud, where ever previsions of every Human creation fill our souls With apprehension; for in truth the mind, Whether of foreign or of domestic lease, Is a region where great actions be, Or at least ======================================== SAMPLE 312 ======================================== and weary wanderer, who lately had glided Thro' the bliss of childhood and childhood's slumber, to rise A creature newly forged, awake with all new desires And hope, the restless mind re-stunned by fresh shocks. A song of summer, then, was not a thing to savor, Except in metaphor. And this man Was once so simple that he sang to this girl and this Amazing melody, while the echoes pealed round the rocks In glee: A long, long way From home he stands, as if he seemed to stand alone, Holding, like stars risen, not his but man's breath. The summer day was cold, when he stooped at last, And saw, first, his mother's garden smile at him, Then, strangely, believe she was seeing a dream, Lifting her hand to give it back; and so it was. As heroes wear, With keen awakefulness to live, the man did shine Among the dead, shrinking from the death-fulfilled sun, Not half so coldly as yet, he felt a corpse's hands His blood and breath: he felt them, for one time To make him really stir, and wake; he felt them in part For real, for his soul, for what the body could not be. The man was young, the man was brave when heard Of armies counting their banners, he knew not hate, Hatred, ever present, hovered as a careless eyedene. So soon was he a man that, on the battle-slope, Ulysses' son beheld him, and was he that very day, Charged with a torch, or plucking purple Cowslips from a bier? In such of his actions as one who had seen them say, "Thus as our father here has done, a great lord was he." And thus he spake, With much vermilion in his very crimson nasadie, And Aphrodite's self smiled to hear him praise his sword. A little farther reached the man, when once there he stood, And, turning as it were to receive him, He felt a kind of glorieshine, which made him quite gay, So, too, methought there rose up in him that famous energy Which winners of things allow, like that which from an heath Brushes** families to rally round a trophy's summit, And, what might better have been labored to be described As double herring or single,**,* had not art been done them well. His clear and single eyes,---so the old sow cheated by a term, (*My dream's parrot, who cannot have enough of her fish 's fat) Could yet view a better than the gladsome sun; His good and great, which hide for him in a myriad gems, Were more than her and all by scope of his own dear life; And though in their own order they are placed and enclose, As they belong in a gallery of everlasting notes, He could behold, and, knowing such, could relish and taste and sing The confluence of their glorious relations, which is not more. <|endoftext|> Sweet Soul of Life, shed thy lilac dew On what thy life has started from: I pray thee that thy spirit loves Not such regret and aches as mine, Whose blood my hope has judicially drawn. Not such regrets--but, Sweet, dear Soul, stay! What if I should turn away? But stay (Sweet, dear Soul) and come to me, Where thy pleasure's luxuriant stem Tempts the quick streams with smooth praises chime. I fly not, nor would prolong you out My number'd time, but have life so short That, waiting should my heart, much pleas'd, kill Death. No lash, envenom'd Passion, mistrust Betray'd not what is most encrypt (by to-day Bent with poor metaphors) in thee— (Even in my sighs the flame discloses) That thou hast brought my last embrace, O Soul, too firmly cling'd through gloom and stress; (Still rul'd with pure condition, though dire sport Weigh'd the serious facts of my fate). O, well--but, O, be it so! Live, fortunate Lord, out of subtile tact From all purely remote—say, delicate— Part, deliberate, quick cause and wise goal; And I a few years fewer, from my years. A horse's height past estimate; and his head As much ======================================== SAMPLE 313 ======================================== angels never to minister in an earthly temple but sought the communion of pure thought in The hour of our Pilgrimage shall come. Not as the Gentiles pray with hand on head they still content and rest, As the Christians of old slept, dreamt, and sang, Happy, before the shadow of Sin loosed on the world. That dream is over The love of our Pilgrimage Awakened our love We dream as they dream Deafened yet as they dream. All our dreams of those who died are over and will continue As they have eternal reward. Dante wrote his in blood, draining the pear from his bosom, To cleanse it till his own bosom would not speak it, And all the world, whose bosoms are tainted from the same source, will hear his poem for free: No sin me bier kunde, Derstein häufte ist sie soll," for free. Where the shadow of Baldur of Helm's power breathes early at the scene of the final blood, where Ráma's arm has torn down Yudhva's tower, my love sings her song. <|endoftext|> "A Closing Note", by Glyn Hughton [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] When my childhood returned home, post-surrender, burning and bloody to count my life-plus-five years lives through ecstasy— gorge, húsdall, vástcript, baithlas, sacred héds: bairn, bard, lay, pray, sword-o— a sáras <|endoftext|> "Bhmahga-Matújuśa", by Glyn Hughton [Mythology, Fairy-tales & Legends] Bhmahga-Matújuśa prayed close with closed hands, around whom hymns of storm and prayer were mad and rampant as the male snake that caught her for a while and let her go purple and golden ey deila, lying leisured as a wine-eye gold upon matúra rubbaba, an excellent story behind it sat one with a great sword— For a month-long trough of sixty days at the footings of his house, a king of the beasts knew his two-legged companion sat on his hand mad and fantastic: prays for storm to destroy everything— The cat, the crow came back at him constantly with surprise and injury, ladye in green and amber, the day he turned his ears and heard her lips sadness she sichtily prayed to be delivered from his graces— she prayed for his love, her soul and her nurturance, I have said before, as I heard her saying in her low voice in a frenzy of wish, her belly red and her fur wet that those baths of water were a gane of pains— How she wanted to be delivered of pure life, a life of pleasure, I cannot say— may have been mad to have an every wish, caught in a circle of pain at the bottom of which was Hell, walls of jhapûkaç, a mad jeweled bottle and other rooms, were rolling their hot spaces over her sleeping form— now it was to be killed in the swamps, she whispered I will be delivered in the pool of vors, I will be killed in broad day, a hole in the water will hold me, and a sow will give me milk in a barrel of water, we will be lying in our sick bags together as was laid out in the nursery of the lake, of which there will be many when we are dead, in the water of a red brother— ruddy, with tiny eyes in the water of a pool, then he turned to me in the dusk at the edge of the misty lake and asked me if I had ever laid eyes on a sea shell— and I said no, and we kept ======================================== SAMPLE 314 ======================================== Lying with her on the bed, they found The head of it protruding from the heap A little way off; and, as dreams Impend upon the wandering of dreams, All those around look'd down from their windows. I had been thinking, there, in that close room, On my unvisisted fury; and my eyes Faded away, and the movement of my mind, So I had not noticed, seemed to flash And fade away, nor remember having been; Till the freshness of the great daylight Came, with a light, that had a new beginning, To drive the slumber from my weary breast, And drive the pang of the fresh little morning Within me, till it beat and beat, and beat. The loud naked feet went out and in; The gay bare legs went in and forth and out; Till the very palfrey found no tongue, or voice, To love or hate or any fond trade; it slept In the heart of me, which was all one fire, And made of fire the bed whereon it lay; And so it tickled, even when as a fly It tumbled there, into the heart of me, As sharp fingers tickle and play on wire, And sleep and pain returned, and sleep and pain, It flashed across my forehead and my lips, And sleep and death and deathless nightmares flew, And sleep that is a god and love and love-rage, And beauty that is the nightingales and dew; And beauty and love and love-rage and dew, And sleep and death came trickling in with them, And all that was, and all that was good to me, And all that was—and all that was good to be. When youth runs swiftly, by the help of Heaven, I find the spring-time in this hour of darkness; It is because, when youth runs, it does not look Backward for the vanished smiles that were, not even To glance and catch the light of something that was, It is because it runs without a look behind That it can reach to its old pasture and come back, And look in the same place and see the same things: Because, when youth runs, it runs without a waste, Over the same grass that was well and well and well, Over the same downs that were well and well, Under the roofs where in the dark they grew, Under the green old grass that was well and well, Over the grass that was well and well and well. And now I know that I am one of the oldKeough; I know I am not young or good or worthy or blameless, But that I shall return, and that I am not loved or heeded, For how will I be worthy of it, but the old blackKeough that has marked us and set us off from the beginninjour of time, That is marked us and weaved us and knit us in his fosse; I know I am not beautiful, handsome, free from flaw, As someone who is to be buried soon, With my dead manhood and my life's practised wit, I am content to Praise today as the sum of my days; And I know I have got what I lost when I moved from the beginninjour of time, And when youth ran like water, made me life unworthy of its liabil; And I know I am not new or hard or rich or glad or sad or good, But only lived like a living man of the beginninjour; And I know that I am not worthy of man's daily breath Nor worthy of the things that are to come yet to me, And I know that I must rise and go to the dead man's sleep; And like a dead man I shall stand, hand of face, and stare, Staring death in the eyes and pressing it with my palms, With that sinking feeling of inevitable death, And the sunk heart, the body, the lifeless hand that I am wont; And I know that if I had been born yesterday, Or if this was rolled away with the tide That is bound to me with the decree of fate, Still I must eyesaddled and aching on the stream, Wrecker'd and confounded, and I am bid to kiss The morrow that I shroud her and my stream. Dew! The ending of the far-away dream of day. Dew! The dew with my despair is laughter unawares. Dew! The far-away dream of far-away day. Dew! My despair is calling up the past ======================================== SAMPLE 315 ======================================== Cloud-crowned eyes Sweet Grace! is a divine Which might reanimate Some of the grisliest To ease their pillows. I'm not at home in this Metaphor to trace Its next friend, but waft Some of its wind of tone O'er the interval, to kiss The ear we miss, henceforth If Love's a water and Joy is a fire, And we are specks in the sea of the crazy sky; Sweetgencies are magnifications Of passion and of tenderness; The wind that ripples the glassy seas Is but the mad fancy Which the wind invents forReason! How radiant and fragile And loose are these thoughts I carry! I see not the huge walls of big ideas Whose feet is as a pestilential vortex; And I'm afraid this fragile herb Which is reason and which is sense Is no better than the fearful fly Whose crippled body gives notice Here's the way he comes! Whose vaulting ideas and his dizzy brain, And yet the frail flesh is a hard clay For the dear thing to put in! The dear thing to put in! For life's fair now, my dear thing, And peace shall be spread before thy hollo! Shall I live here or die here? The damn'd! What's left me then? A. The fly's brain; B. A candle; A fine peaceful candle! Or a quiet, cowled scholar's grave, Or a forked, lit lantern; Or a grave by some liquid stream, Or the damped murmur of a rill Which the dull scholar spies On a dim valley's edge, Where a stream, once one gurgling draught Of the sort which the grim record steals, Perchance, from the desert sands, Spreads aromatic hey Like ancient wines among the hills; Or a grave by some quaint echo found, Where a mourner, after the shade Of the mournful one or dreary minaret, Sings or silently groans Or sighs In the green shade of some softened leaf, Which the wan bee once was used to gather, These foul fancies to lucubler Of a poor leech or pale beggar, Who, hard beset, Lonely, among the hellebore leaf, With a venom'd tooth Against the recent kiss of the gale, Was (all things considered) only trying to get The mellow spirit to put out of his eyes. Of the burial, (bear in mind this sage doctrine,) The priest, whose office is like that of St. John, Is an idler far than I, nor can admire 19th-century jesters, nor can watch, In the bosom of his room, One perspicuous section of a fine passage; He must walk unperceived, (and we have already learned from calomely concealed glances, that he does.) Nor can he, thus idle, to the misery of his prayers, Revive old memory with dream like this, Which is also idle, but the other was merely sad: This we have still more easily taken down. But truly to keep open house, there are some thousand doors Which still magazine in like conditions, as if under French, And many of these have now and then a whiff Of rain, a moment before it all departs, And fate to humor brings in pinks, or makes an unlikely god Lounging in the sun, who was almost certain to be Just when he appeared, the right person was refused, And so the snooty intruder was not arrived. The failure of one legal exception To keep true money with our one true money, And one pretext for the other, have given these A green for attempted theft. We, therefore, must be one in whom the others fail, And there are many of them, I believe, Who should be in, but will not be until All those old thieves, that are not, by the sweat of their face, In the green of their own skins, alive and in the clean air again Are put to feel the prison that their fire could befreeesse. If we had only a single tree For our sole use, and if We themselves had no use For the earth in all her kinds As in their own lives, and if We none of it consumed, yet All should dry up and expire; Livings free from the fountain's assistance Would be stunted, and the earth themselves Would be a mine that no ======================================== SAMPLE 316 ======================================== He gave to our young friend of the 'Altruist'-- What his victory might be, or his fall, Or both--but to me! The other who took such attention to The same 'Uranian' star-garden of old-- The church for the crossing, just a few rods off, Is taken up again by the priest, And 'Dunk' accepted as 'Lod'; Which we were beginning to think might be--a trap. And while these furtive follies go on, And 'Uranian' cross and 'Altruist' spoon Are hotly bargaining in their silences For some new commodity, fashion, or hint Which the world calls poetic, and which is none, The 'Hinterland' trots off to the next blow-out, And gives the finger to the blows--'piff-ball' To the Persian and Hindoo who likes German! As 'Uranian' cross and 'Altruist' spoon Will for a while add some "oment life" life to The glory of the infinite, to the background Of the mere background of things, no doubt befitting The latter god of variety and ball,-- So gay, happy. 'Neath the cross and spoon The cross and spoon will give the gradient And ball of all things which can be counted on one's Thumb-finger, more 'trim the finger of your pen' (Cf. The Nurse, who is 'touching' the sick, but up The filmy vision of getting ready for going to): I, in the shelter of some laboratory Of a few trinkets, read my death and return At the end of September, when the first Precipitate bubble lights up in the brain A 'Tacitimo,' a 'Nuncio,' and an I. I had a nephew who lived down in New York, A techie, as his position would warrant; And one night while he was almost at the end Of the street from being walking down the row He in a moment had by him, as he might, The property in New York and the world. For it hit him in the ague time that the 'tips' Of people he knew, of known acquaintances, told The cause of this wild glee, and he could not say What the contents might be of a letter which Is mailed from 'CTR' to the parents' address And awakens the envy of thousands, and sends The watchful landlord, at the weekly rates From one up there to cry 'Solution!' He bagged it all as it might be dangerous-- Evidence, even--and none the less imaginary-- And opened and rifled till he 'had a charming Items of news and remarks'--but these he 'locked' up In 'a box of mended jewsos,' and he Lent the rest out to the newspapers as his notes Which he 'took pains' to send by 'the rectum' To his doctors 'at Cornell,' who were 'exception' To all, save Professor Ferguson, who was 'smart,' Because he would act like a scientist-- That is, bringing his periodic table, As gold Scotch evening papers make sunshine. And so the world was misled: for there are none Who study or flit at sight of innocence In youth, and bonzes, is, or lilts, are not Turned to panel-writers of popular verse While they may have something in the family That has become a topic of fashion (It is just a girl or boy that has made it a Song and its story has all to do With something after nothing more than 'twas He or she wore or left behinds--but 'Real life' has not yet been invented). For he was pitied not as a vain thing, For he had been at times but stopped such pride, And been sadly beaten down by them Who see and know and possess the real: The hero of his tragedies-- The good obozy who everybody knew, But in whose legs the little popsicle Forced of fate a wayward path of tardy Contingency, from which he always ran With some touch indefinate, ever on Unequivocally the look and like a spectre Slowly may be seen descend the stairs Up to the top, up field and golden-light, As I draw you a sable hand eerily Sixty years ago this morning, holding the hand Of her I now may never hold, and now, I doubt If she will let me partake of her ease, ======================================== SAMPLE 317 ======================================== classic hero, the prophet Of the sainted Spain, Francisco; Through his youth and his full growth. By the light that reveals The second genius of the age, I glorify his soul and name, And praise his mighty mind and spirit, And his great oraceache,-- Taught, by the gifted soul, That inspired him, through life, To wield the intelligence That rules, through life. Aristotle's faith, for a time, Sent trembling thinkers wild, And baffled bards, with visions cancelled Of ancient prophets gone. Some pretended spiritual science Breaking the walls of nature's cage, Some strained from magic aither Full strength of the Druid lore; With all a weary faintness sent Under the burden of magic; Even the sick man's home-willed lore, Once so comforted, now bears only small All faith of the prophets old. Nay, great Atoms, that had gone down To earth, as gods,--I sing, O me! Through pain and through defeat, to meet That day with hope and gladness. But this too, as sometimes here we see A peak escape the storm that blasted first, So, too, strong Atoms, going down, were driven To pass the day with gladness. I see, again, The old sage Object of our worship, That, first of men,--the greatest now,-- Complains that our numbers are too low: He holds that to begin with No units were number'd, so that word screwed Nature over heel and toe. In such old battle, I hold, The matter could not be right That through the columns run the arms Not as one weapon-arm alone Swings out the rest; those wheels that turn His forces well might strike, the rest, So width is in the length of each. In such old battle, I hold, The matter could not be right That the angles be such that groups Make confusion on something real (Its reality, its numberless Command Lops up seed-beds,--leaves neath them crushed air!) So that the enemies of Christianity Should by this scorde turned militant be shot, Arm'd,--should kill as they,--and that charge Be to the death,--on that day, be thou! For in the time of apostasy, The only weapon, good news to that Arm, Is thine, my Father! that thou say'st my Spirit. Thou know'st it, for, when thou wast compelled To talk about Spirit to our kin, Some speaking it, others refusing it, Some inclined to scorn, yet others exploding it, And still some loving it,--in slight acquaintance, Working methods, drills, basics,--with a Staff Deep in the bosom of that Chartres Temple, Thou know'st how the Devil makes this Craft, Mating upon pain to its breeding, Driving countless souls to divert them In misery for two or three years, Then in the worst of moods draw them down, As forcers bound in knots "officious, Driving them deep down--a smile and pout Rip off the split in the neck, and, straight As before, drive them to the cart's body. Thus my sage thought thus in itself divided, Thought itself divided--went its way. My thought, my sainted mind, its'n. O whence Should this conceit mortal see? The burden long since Atlas' son to me Bore when a child, at the trumpet hear. This quail! This quail! Pushed on by fear of living death,-- Do thou turn! Quail? That such a thing Should be. The thing is, how I prove it. My whims! Fears! My votary, votive thoughts. What if, as thee, I grapple with mayonesse, With its wild struggles merged in its soul-sayers; How often in the wild woods will I hear The woods summon thee to death! How often In the midst of thy praises will I hear The mouth of the forest, its torches unfurl, While, to thine eyes, a ghost of water Drives up from the waves, which is the path to the mountain-ridge, that eternally Sway'd by wind and fire, and roll'd in the way, The wind's way, the fire's way, the breath's way, The dream's way; O how would it shake each wheel, Impatience bending the axle on high ======================================== SAMPLE 318 ======================================== To take in and put in The latest word from Arthur, That they could do no more harm. The heathen, looking one way, A mighty land did see, And next day report him blind So stout they could not rest. The light one way, the other his friends so often called, Said that the heathen land Was where men were left to grind On all the rings of iron. "Now," the Emperor said, "if I Was at one from deep to low, I would not seek on this palm, Where so much is left of me, To satisfy the whole of you. I want but little in this, My sitting in this sun, My going to and fro, To answer only one world of two. The solid stone, the air above, The water, all the land, in one Do as you may." He bade them take down the wall, And down it came, An unbelievable thing, A great bridge of stone So heaven-stable, So firm-as-oak That the pass would not disedge, But keep in memory A wall as old as earth. They took it down and off it went, An unbelievable thing, A great wall of stone Now house'd where Baptist Church stands (A church that betrays the tympan song;) And heaven-symantec'd it to from below, House'd it to keep from heaven, Did not the Rocks so easily Steal out of the biggest Of Big-brook? And now they've censor-ed down The warlike ravagings Of the Rabblets of Ruggers, Of the little men that want to be Great artists, and so They have undoing of their parting For their viocations, And have forever censor-'D The Church Railway to run round, Where the folk are so mighty stuffed That the Witts are now and then Died, leaving Honig-Holand, Which evermore it must never Steal out of the Wittsonian roof Till frost be permanent no more. What shall the saddest things of all Be, of all the things that be? And the light that the larkant is Sings to me like a song That was once by the mill-water, By the right track lost, and heard by My boy who was me, And now I must will ill to stay In the limen time; For when me and thee be down In the living sort of loam Below the wreathed green coke, Bright loveliest things will turn a trick And gobble us at, 'tis feared. In this world of doattin' and droorackin', Of dooshapin' and dodorrillin' - Of just 'cause to 'at I 'tak' the 'at, There isn' one that jeers at a crack - One gits the spirit right aglow, And speaks him sense - Jewie, Western push, and ungenerous, As it is every year, And always heaviest on the people. 'Peared of a man's daughters, In ancient China, Selling them, and bearing in their hand, In good time, a tol-stone white; And, in their eyes, A row of such choyce books of shame. Merry it is, at any rate, To have one's treasure in hand, And lighted, like a fairy lamp, On a stitched-up house by realts Of poetry, as in that one Which the sea-sull had once, and seen Untossed, straight out on the sea, And not in the bedroom at all; And, in our eastern grayner, Well, it glows we believe, A candlestick in a crack To the eye alone, While to the eye, And to the other, The merrier it shines. And who would not take High cause for historical purpose, And make Out in a snapshot, All bizarbed like a bill For mess to people's names; And write In a book; 'See books for books, Write to write! And how perhaps We have recorded Nature, And what we say Of the seasons, Should have respect To the law Of Human Action - All not to do For man is man, And to not do For animal is beast. I have wound me up, so let me turn, And I see, near the ======================================== SAMPLE 319 ======================================== on her way to the seat of the Cherubim, pursues her footsteps, calling, "Child, the future hurt you! If I had not fled my home, you would have turned in your cradle to me, my son, to my sister, my daughter; the heavens have given you a happy life, to enjoy it till men and angels do requit with their ruines, and now we say farewell because of the iniquity. And so you will leave me, and never without me shalt another woman take in as great a pleasure as mine in all my days. But above me turn, O child, and run far as thou mayest reach of thy way, and note the words of thy father for God hath given every bird its licence even down to the floor of the Pleiades, and none of them with thee tortures could help thee in thy generation, possession, or thy share in glory. LORD, I was a sinful woman in the house of my husband. I laid bare my head against the affliction upon my one good husband, as he was cast into prison for the crimes of many lifetimes--a holy man with a righteous flag of triumph in the house of his virtue and good possessions, bright with the blessing of kings. But ever the mouth of guile was opend to mine, and they was full composition that they swear verbatim by them they did not think better of my good husband than other honorable friends But here is the test: the wreath of the laurel, the leaves of the laurel, the bay braid of the dog--and the marriage is between the breaker and the rest. They were full testing me, my lord, to see if I would be a dish- mate or bickering in the house of the family, to be the comer or the knigge of the host, or the generous of the wife. But the angels of God took delight in the work, for they loved it that I was fulfilling the mission of the organ, the task that was theirs of task of offering freedom courtesies in the family circles, sound in homes, clear in spirits, honored with the good name of son-presbyter. And I have the keys of the Cannery to do God's work in the homes of men, homes of grace and glory, and as much as I may I will go abroad and build a ship and fields of dwelling for the weary ones of the poor of the poor worldwide as the inexpensive apostle of Jesus, my gentle namesake. <|endoftext|> "An Address to Kids", by Melvin B. Toy [Living, Parenthood, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Religion, Faith & Gay, Judaism, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Youth, Mother's Day] The children are within, They are small and straitly wed, Their mother is behind; Their father's in the field, He takes his orders in the dark, His women work in rows; They are efficient without thinking, Insight is denied; Their head is wholly thick and very ugly, It lies about with squinting; Their ears are turned as the suns, They have not time to twitch; They use no spices or other things, They do not think outside thebox They do not know the use of writing; Their lives are purely destinies, They wed within their parent's home, And take their spouse's virginity; They have no time to think it good To rub the hands of strangers; They think it good enough by fast, They know they are husband and wife. <|endoftext|> "Night of Terror and shaking Hands", by Jacob Skinner [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, History & Politics] Now, comrades, we who hold Apprehension of the crime Know by insight know Why terror heavy was the air That froze Mrs. Shively To slumber on the snow: Poor woman, a fine balance now Of evil and good needs seeking Of Attila, the ruthless, Or his like upon her; For at least a vital part Of frozen her has been recov'd, Not quite restore to fall, But rather pierce the battlefield soon, And freeze at her instance. Now with this fragment known, See what it awakens; For first of all it tries to show, That it was Beowulf's day. This ======================================== SAMPLE 320 ======================================== Steepèn now, before that [i.e.] Virgilian wisdom: which is no Aude, but fire, and fire is God. Methought, I said, my head doth turn, To see the lightnings, as they pattern, Each doth his flaming leap on I; Which lends [i.e. O to] his shape. Thus, meter'd, they appear'd, as though A flame, a star, or Pallas, A starling, or an augur: Each would be red, all red-remembrance. Methought I was alone, Alone, as I had been In OMBER's court, or LORDE, In BATHLY'S fair parlor; As one, who, out of Doors, went oute, And would be hide to crave So hote a heart as thine; Or, as one whom his harts prov'd, His eyes like Titan's are. 'Tis not like to meet at all, to say I Was not a fountaine while I've live; But have a child, or have two, or three, I've made a holy trine (Not so long my wedbe is to run), With equal quing, which then I did knowe, Which th' one, and one, and one, did knowe. It now behooves me with carefull look, To take off rid provendraions From mine inmost firming; So that my frippery may not obeyed be, And I do not thinke I oft can spue. That my wit is over striech, I like it well, and still more do feare, (As those whiche trouble their riches). I am the bl. of the gloss. of the poem, This is the good report too; Full tenderly I like to lerne In one, which can speak, and be lieg. All the joys of the worldes wide welle, A goodly poem, seemly true, Must as soone be referred to me. That which to me gave pure Maiestie, To heare so, as I may not sleep; Since which I can no way but li me Towre In yearely, or do or do not; My doel, which nevere yet had mate, Can now for none but you consent. And what to ensue lets my verse, Since th' attyre of it now is ripe. Thus more, since no man ever thought I coulde, of pure entairie anglics Or e'r can, espyr deare affection, Which maketh me content and sweet. Let no time or ment to me remain Unloveable, For I, desir'd, Will it all besiege my mind With your beauty, that I may Unto my soul persevere; Even your sweet divine content. This message privily shall come To your heart, that is not damp'd; And then may run For grace efficacious, whare-in-sorrow No heart may reach. Let not Wicked men reproach Us, but each one humbly stand Before your Beauty, that you see To heal, and bathe in her showers. He is not loath'd, but in his thoughts Dreams one to another caught Up to two-footed things: Her, to whom he's constant and kind, Seems to borrow light gear; And they from whom to him she partakes Her honor, admir'd and loath'd. Yet (climate and climate they nor hold) That he by th' effects might not speak Nice respect, nor for one day Fair warrant of him would waste; Yet was his back towards her turn'd, And on his face he fixed his eyes Closely beside, like those whom torch-lights glance At half-arm'd knights who face the battle. Lo when the thing is duly try'd! To her a fifth his suit already In confessing pallace; And he will be her princess soon, And King also, while lovers dream; Or even now his rage is hirks That so it be not done. He will excite for his display The fifteene, and to suit herself Already he presents her With two new titles, which are sweet And magnificent, and she Is one ofoute Landorf's Princesses That have imperial crown: Her second alias she calls ======================================== SAMPLE 321 ======================================== "My father-table!" she cries, "For so to set it, only, "Will the birds and small beasts flit, "And the children hold it dear, "By the lamps at the door-step, "By the darkness in the cave, "Wherever it is, let it go! "Sorrowful is this table, "When it shall take the place "Of the night-table so fair! "My father will come and eat, "My father will bring me food, "But the witless host will never "Arouse from the deep-sea's foam! "Only the fishes of the market, "Only the children's darling thing, "Coarse bread for the big fish fed, "Will come near, and talk the live-long day "Of the hunter and his quill. "Let the table meet his sight, "Let it bring into the room "The new sense-looks and taste-feeds, "And the house-sides be again made, "And let the old seats be seen "Beside the doorway and the cave!" Six days have this tables's light gave o'er, Six daily worked this lamps' temporary rays; But on the seventh day,--at day's end, When the gable-cliffs grew dark, He who in some strong-robing salvers kept The household fire alive, heard in the shrill drone Of the sharp fit that pride of flame, which whelmed And perished in the fragile glooms. At last the land that on the waves is grown, And thick-aughed chains restrict the stream,-- Hath her conditions set them by, as we, Our safe retreat from those dark vials swept To make them our new home. A drear war Gives our rough hearts fuller to the smart, The small success is hard to make good, Mopingly we try to drive at last The clear-figured worms, the sullen bugs, The waxen, unresponsive elephant, That in this one short but arduous fight Trembles the now familiar hand that now Frights to a lesser venom. The progress of science (and man's mind So to advance it) may quicken this, But not accelerate; still the art, Pushed by the case, still worships the wrong! Progress therefore shall proceed, but not In progression; in this life's bud and flower Progressions may be framed as they seem, But not in things that are not made By those we, as living, scientific men, Stand often, as in search their chief: I do not say, how far, That so much has been done before To guarantee might yield good; nor, how far A farther further, the limit free. We cannot with any hope or fear Take thought for very space of the gulf To come, nor of that lasting dread, What man more may not gain than others. The prophetic great, when at his height of wisdom He fortified with a world his mind, Standing on the verge of all he Born and Found Said, for his heirs the rum was good, Which, spread before him as a space Full dense and certain, Accordant, like a scaffold vast, Filled all his exploration of the world, For all knew he as Man, and a Man Might well do even though mad were he, Celestial, and incredibly erudite,-- (At once; for this doctrine upset The House of Holderness, and made all search And busy study and deep plot of Scripture, So bloated it was with doctrine,)-- What lunatics have been at heart, He said, and said no more. He took the Standard down, and a huge span Of weather-field, like an April sky, Marred it. He gathered up his wistful quiver, The matches that swayed it, his old afternoon's sigh Of bestial gaze he kept, the rage he had, And stores of modesty and father's name Threatening Him as to withdraw his presence, But not his pity. The Door of Blood The Door of Disease, when his Masterspite Himself, open, as it did on the day He seem'd to bring in, when he cried patient hear, And spoke long parts, and said as one who has His coming words, when no one else dares. And still within that kind of mind, Out of his own difficulties free, He began to weave and permute, Of thoughts that grow like mist, the deluge ======================================== SAMPLE 322 ======================================== Wer'n to any ten, we think as we; He is both sage and witty, and that's worth a crown, And in his works you'll find no things that are dull; It is not, like other men, a somatic disease, But a learned one, and a profitable one too; For no one ever learned a thing, and could do, That had not already seen the doing once. Now every day a beast appear'd with a perpe, And every day we set up a fair apograph, And make believe for our wants were unfortunately none; But our wants were an empty form without a back, That a back might be for the tenners and hones, And all purposes ready to go at last. Our cause we took up in all her magnificence; That we might have our dear ideal of home; But there was only one in all the street, And when he came he made no such surprise, As one who should be used to such calls and crowds. We told him we were persecuted for our crime; But there! had she but thought of that last confession! He bowed, but had no time to get in much more, And shook his head, and that was all--and so we went. A girl--I hate to say it--yes, a girl-- Resolved herself into a glass of beer, And sipping slowly down, took up with fire Of change--yea, determination utterly; And turning solemn, turned to the press, And the cursed charge that may wonders to make: "I have reason to know there's a heaven above, And I have reason to believe there's a Hell. Why of course I want to believe there's a heaven, That's an old one everybody, at last, fatigues: But I want to know one way or other, too, If there's a Hell, or if there's only space fornone." Himself got up, and shook his head at times, And said, "I'll be frank with you, Miss. friends, I've had my fill of them shroud-like 31 days, and there's no chance, you may swear, That will affect to warp or cometh no thunder; But no one knows; and I would hate to be all alone With little sunshine, or little night, or--well, One little wink from whoever it be." The old woman, too, had her moments, and tried Her stake for the black-eyedicipated year: "The more to do, the more to be out of breath; Gaun to take the wrong way, I'm certain to trot. That dear meat (phew!)--I haven't a hoorink why; But there's trouble, and beheads, and Lord knows If I'll ever get back in the same state I was." A sort of measured success in all sorts of things Is just about the sort of thing we're fitted to bear, And you're fit for it when you've had your fill of booze; It gives you up to a kind of thing you ought to find In the amount of lying that's called the " papers," Of constant tapping at your wooden wife's back door, And all the rest you've gotten used to in the francs. But there's a sort of proof, however it go wrong, It reminds you of the articles of daily use; And there's something you feel toward the end of doing right, That starts you up against the race you're in. 'Twas all for the latest gossip up in the newspapers; They had their fun; it gave them their own delight; And Br'er Rabbit would sometimes entertain his peers In a sort of a miniature WONDER WONDER as well; He made a cup of good old Hazelthiah bucks (That's Belgium for you--Aus French name for jack trumps). And mixing up a shapful of his herbal juice He told all the dregs of the drinker's lung Could rise to the top of a short stack like that. And calmly and patiently he watched to see how it went, Until the hopper was sound and the woollriting reasonably strong. When the "toot" came in the reward was but poor courtesy; And I can't blame the lad all that he gin in it, You've done well, old hat, As you were formed to do. My old Uncle's in the strait-'embreaking place, The tailor's son, and he guesses That you know what's his; But don't be childish, please; He's ======================================== SAMPLE 323 ========================================   That matters not, as to this stream of life I bow, who've learned to love what I am! The long night through, I have been thinking Of a speech by Faust alone-- Of that great day, when all their dreams of power By his formula were writ down for men To read, should their hearts but dare-- And how, when they but dared, The great moon-reflecting words Proclaimed them bastards of the world, And of the living God they spoke, In that earth-shaking phrase: "This hill is not a mountain, but a grave!" The night-black woods, and wilder still The thrushes' soul-enraging waters-- The white-coated thunderful rocks-- The still-valley-beating blood-- All these I see and hear, But off in a chill unbeautiful land, Where no street lightbeams hint of coming hoofs, Where night-rapt eyes catchfire of carrion eyes, Where stumbling eyes have never read Thegither "knoll," O'er which a mine of beauty glows-- Thegither styes, O'er which a mine of God's rich graces flares-- The wild-rose Canyons, That dim-gleaming glitter As if their own dark goddess were applying suntans For the good may-fruit of life's Perfect-Seed-- O, where thewild blood-clam goes running, And there as many hearts as there are of them, As there are of hearts that beat against the sun. There as many hearts as there are of their That this wild land leaves behind in the world of then-- And many more than that, That in their sleep chop, chop, chop, And on their lids a plening live, The grief-bitter love and the sweet regret And the fond love-denounced back-pelt-- Of those hearts I've seen so ill, And in their sleep still-- I've counted sixty thousand chasms, and each of them Or each of them a group of broken cerulean; And the stray-braces, and the rushlight spanks, And the spring-swols, and the sway-yards, And the white-swats, and the rollings dusk; And the gory old-scremizas, and the waxy caulsilcies Of the hopes that would be o'ershadow; For all blind events that past and future Betoken, they scratch yet one spot of earth, And underneath is known the Black Deee. What say you to the rose, my Rose? Say you that since her head, soiled and shrive, Wept over her father's knees, The poppies beneath her root, Which both brave men threw down to her, Have made her pang-ray And her front-stone, too, Of her grief upon her father's knees. What say you to the brightest star, my Rose? Say that it is more than light To look through and see by how much all else Is fathomlessly small in itself; And, by the quality of its knowing, How small all depth and all height are. Alas, the heart-strings pulled by and by The poppies, like blossom falling down Upon the white limbs of an old man, To his lean face in the dark there in the dew, And his thin lips stretching weak and white Lipp'd so wide to receive the scent, Tossing it right hand from right into left, As o'er his palate sweet wine does splash the pink, Till the soul topples down like a rainbow. But thy here, in my poor sparrow, where all are, All years be blent, thy weightless body says, "Alas, poor world-brained thing! Ugh! the head's red sweet of all heart's blood-drippings! Ugh! the peacock's feather-swept, empty blossom!" What say I to the sparrow, poor thing here of head, Which, because its heart's new dawn floats into sight, Even in the close and leafy whirl of spring-time, Doth for the while like a soft star-siracle, With a speculative flight Dancing through the sweetis sunny nothings of the meadows Till it comes back to the flower-time and the eye, And take they place of those young stars that were breaking? Sweet are all things: to ======================================== SAMPLE 324 ======================================== His stately hair down from his shoulders, to deck, The maiden led him where a cave was set Within a rocky cliff, which there was none But might conceal him from the morn till his Mouth and limbs were warmed more and more. The wolf-boy Showed him, and, when he had, no more delaying, Dropped him, and sprang at him, seized, and tore The matted hair, and dragged him in triumph out. Nor was doubt of this less fiercely fought; for so The spirit also fought; so that each blasted Crablanch, single-handed, would sustain Several purities. And now the prince's Finest hour of life was unaccomplished, For three days he lived with that sweet living Miss; then once again he rose, he felt himself Awake, and marched, with the child, up the stairs. The step-mother scolded, he merely smiled At her bland speech, but had already More strongly moved when, with mop in hand He came, and, in a word, sent her to die In the office of the Old Justice, where She surely would be triply worse'd Than on the Registry; so put her there, In another seat, and O, what a place And what a light! a window there was opening on The right hand, and in it a single light Golden-green, not but electrical, shone; The seat of death was never more filled with light. This light shone ever, never, full of seed Of the deadly flame that soon burumes the heart In those who wage with honest penant sin. He close the door after, threw the light out, And when he looked, the place was a field of flowers, The very round abaxherding, the child there Whom no prayers nor suppers took, and her face All hale, and crowning with her cup, and she Had need be drunk; there were none to meet her; There were none to soothe her pain; thus would She turned to drink, holding the child's hand With those other nerves of love and chafing. Then at the feast she told all to George, His-and-her best friend, and to the Lord Who had both Billy and the Baby. So bright her eye and eye shadow too, It made Melabel's eyes the same brown, The brown of airs by Phoebus drawn Which are the bane of poets; for they Come close and leave more rare on the sight; So did Orpheus' thunders hiss At her soft speech, which did his fury shut And melted into a mild and slow smile, And yet 'twon shine alive, and redouble Her beauty; he would lay a touch more deep, But felt himself, and with his best self check The overture Eurydice did bear To their return, and his crosse him give To a large woman with lordly look, Whose beard with many a land had made A smooth arch to the umbilicus white That tun'd his collar ("O make me feel the pinch That made the world see ince," said she), But who, when men would talk of State affairs, Had been her tales to hear, and now Had taken in her good mother to observe Her state within a transparent glass. She had it seen with a great deal of glee (For things in heaven may seem low to us That don't have faith in them at forty), That he would forget his private care, And be angry (her thought) with him; And therefore not between his grumbles and jokes But quietly, and in sort comment: Had made him feel the other was right; And Nino saw the Lord Grazvioso Had got a friend which him to call; A man of his kind, with honour honouring, With whom the greatest friendship was fain To bind him. This Nino spake to all, And thought only of the child alone. The day when these good men were called to sit At affairs at Tibur's place, where crowd Had gathered, to hear them speak, was one Where George and Dimier Johnx both were come (Lamp and bellety breaker out of bed, Ring at the ringing head, the cathedral bell Sends out to every member' shack) to try Their language to keep the peace as they conferred "Our foreign cousin, now has got a wife Who calls herself an heiress--not an heiress In hoof and hoof, nor anywhere the bearing has her Under ======================================== SAMPLE 325 ======================================== able to ride through dark, Spoke in that miracle of black, And the darkness bent over Him, With bowed head. I love the dusk, the broad-flushed skies of November with the tiny clouds dressed in fleeces, And the autumn-soft, And the tints of winter and the golden, The deep, the blue eyes of the white deer. I love the breath of mild winter, With its mixture of fear and rage, The tender winter rosebuds, And the white branches like a proud crest on a castle wall. I love the wide, white light of early spring; And I love the bold, red flowers of spring. I love the red plows that are turning each day, The tousled black hair of the forest, The red foot that is lashing the dirt in the wind, The red flame that is flaring from the forge, The red, red scent of the pine-tar distilling; I love the red mud of the black skulk of the otter, And the red of the fire of the woodman's heap; The red of the rooster's back in the warm straw-shop, The red of the sky on the far-off snow, The red of the wine-thumper's nose held high at the hatch, And the red sun on the mountain top. I love to hear the black-faced people crying, And I love to hear the clear silver groaning of labor; And I love the gleaming of the screw-holes spreading, And the tawny dark eyes of the night cock rising; And I love to hear the harpers holding up the darkly shining ladslippers, And I love to feel the red lip of a bearskin blackgirl whispering love; And I love to hear the long, soft, purty tones of the blackfoot, With his stitched black shoulder-patch; And I love the thrill of the night wind on my forehead, And the sullen, sullen love-lorn cries of the eagled crowd; And I love to see the gray-puckering spit of the tall jays bearing, And I love the red-wet noses of the cursing cats. I love the clanging of the great swords of the forest, The screaming of battle-slash-confusion in the distance, The rattle of the pansies in their whisp'ers, The red-stained wyams that are peeled and shining And the bright ruddy ofness of the dusk enemy— But most, I love to hear the clear-tinkous note of the black trumpet, Oh, but the night is descending, All its tangled matted hair, Over our futurity In the end of this moment, And its cold, black heart is yet Drowning in the deeps of night. And the enemy is rounding From its high cheer of laughter; And the joy of its children To the windy silence Will not wake this instant, But its burned breath is stirring In the deep heart of night. Oh, let us fall upon our whip-like stress, Oh, let us rend from our own good will All the sadness of this presentment Of an enemy that soon will be here, All this tormented thoughtlessness In this feverish presentcast. For the day is soon most the same as the day; The summer night goes down to the thistle-side; There are fields to be gotten, and a few strokes, And there is no more our home than yesterday; And our whole history up to this moment, Read out over a piece of blocking-matter With not much to exhibit save Some colours and the surname of our head. So, take our pen, write our names, and be done with— It will do us no harm to go and make ourselves scarce. So the white devils pass us, as we pass, And the dead ones creep us, as we pass, And the dead ones lift their feeble eyes, Or divert themselves with the things we love, While their brethren with us, with the same best loves, Await in line, and make our loves prevail. But she, the she-bird, that this fierce gang Blinds with her dim leafage, watches us, Wags her crown of spikes to see much light, And so bethinks herself what good devil will do To a brute covered with black brain alone, In whose glance she looks like the plain man's devil, Wagging her two black wings like them of yore. And I, ======================================== SAMPLE 326 ======================================== documentary images of sublimely stoned monorail riders, looking out from a baloire like a cello at a fête with an anachronism as blank as the Fond and proud to displace it, to displace it, to displace all art, and give a stony silence to the whole modern vision, for the sake of French cheese, French butter, and the verse of all artifice, let's be frank about it, let's be frank, and sting with the theme, sting with the theme! Sting with the theme is good in an almanac, it is magic to have on katun, but good magic is ritual, it is the scroll of the law that you and I are one, but the scroll is the real matter, the real matter is hearts, is human happiness, and the happy heart is the scroll of art, scroll of the law, but art is the true scroll, scroll of the scroll is art, but art is the scroll, scroll of the law, the scroll of the law, the scroll of the scroll of the art, scroll of the art is the scroll of the law, is the true scroll, the scroll of the scroll is the scroll, but the scroll is the real matter, the real matter is hearts. You can have the theme of the law, you can have ritual, you can have the scroll, the scroll is the real scroll, the real matter is hearts, but the scroll is the theme, theme is magic, magic the scroll is the theme, but the scroll is the real matter, the real matter is hearts. <|endoftext|> "Leisure, Sing", by Stephen Cope [Living, Parenthood, Activities, School & Learning, Sports & Outdoor Activities, Relationships, Home Life] Leisure, sing, home-leaved decor, groups of any size, blanket-ball, nun-in, father-out, mack-a-dee, furniture-mug, wallpaper-mah-haw, pigeon-haw, pillowy-pouch, scented-biscuits, Kudo's Cup, nurse-lay, nurse-pasture, nursing pillow—inspiration-pull-aside-notes-to-sleep, white-o-ronge, syllabic-cuff, rope-hair, oatmeal wool, hodden, homeguard, night-eyed, pup-eyed, pup-nanny, tick-tocking, boom-to-brave, guarding, kwalitee, patrolling, guard-intrancing, worshipper, hyaize, prowling, kaltee, knareth, corn-in-stack, thunge-aide, kalmette, thaluimite, taneh Sanctimoclome, holm-frave, clooreom-egg, hullet, guard-ercing, guard-ing, guarding-forth, watch-ing, periwep, veil-ed, woven, targe, shroud-ing, Mengeenyort, ferryman—okaidni, guard-marmalteer, seafoort, ferry, oide-diassle, thearmed ferryman—entier. <|endoftext|> "The Eleventh Colour", by Heidi Warren [Nature, Winter, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics] The eleventh colour is Light Fairy, made from antura fulgura and knolling of adult unhappiness, the twelfth reserved for worship, and the twelfth or last for no codex, her mouth a blue diamond, lolling elephantunked, she like the frozen fjord of colour, and she is very festive this season, though. She is a purchaser of mollusks, perhaps not the best to eat, but maybe a treat: mussels, quills, red worm, salt-life. She is a purchaser of colour, a blue sapphire, ink pot, ice cube, a free-face ox kidney, a cut crystal, rhubarb, and fool's errand, folly cruciform, merveis. She is a purchaser of family, a blue sheep, a black ox, two blue birds, a horse, a snow-flattened hen, a turkey breast, a chicken egg, blue wine, the twelfth. She is a purchaser of flesh, a frost-white frog, a pineapple- island, blue grape, blue curaçoa, a red-o'-back, an atabat ene, a pen ======================================== SAMPLE 327 ======================================== no hot gaze upon her, No cold reproof of her faring so; No grey eyebrow, and no furrowed face, My child. Wearied of home, The man returns, And cool of hand, and loveliness fresh and clean, Rise from the grave at every cottage door, And wonder at. The hearth fires his soul, and he Shows the tall, brown plant at the plant's height; Wonders in life from the grave, and life in death, Rise from the ashes in death's wide green unknown. LO, the grass is grey around the field, The day is past, man says, And dew drops bitter on the grass And the sheen of the dell, Brings sadness back, I think, To many an old, unhappy,woman; And tears will fall on widow's hair And salt the bitter grain; And the oaks, whose long, green, cloud-like leaf-sndrawers In silence wait for little ones, Will weep for the long, long joys past. But spring-flowers come again, Their pleasant voices pealning from all the trees, Brief and rich, like those of yesterday. I saw old fences, where now no fence Affords an end to a long, long grief; I walked along the hedgerows green, And enjoyed each slow-creating force, Ruddy and young and full of wisdom. Now Vimes, in the parlor parrots say I have the only bird, called Barbara, Who will come and love me though she not A nursery-teeeny six; And she pecks my grey hair with her huge eyes, Just like the well-known, famous sky-fish eyes. There is an old, old, moss-coloured shawl, Tied up in meshes, and around it go Rippling twigs. I found an ancient time when women sat Fixing collars, whence blood did thunder enter, When some went stark and stark and some went mad; And the landlady's husband rode each way To villages left no other land having But those two hanging, one on either side. It would have been a hellish thing to have seen, Those hanging, though the penalty for crime, Those two, between, while their children- wives stood by Hound and man, Ning, ning, ning, by their daughter's tears, And man and hound, Snarling, frothing at the time and crying. But the knot in that old hedge-bow, red and green, Now I can hardly bear to look at it; And the big old picket fence, that I wonder crosses Its legs, both dog and horse lying At ease, Eyes set upon the parson, sire and son For their protection and their earthly sweets. What, no sign of the mysterious bunny, No old, old sign, no sign at all, (I say what I think without doubting her,) No sign, no sign at all, No sign, no sign at all? Then, the rain And the sun, and the wind, and the shadow long, Slant over the sultry English fields again, Bringing a hastening, and a gladness to my thoughts, Of the days of love, and all they keep in store, And how they smile again. I may die well, un- draped by a white gauze, In the field again, The two lying together, My heart and heart, the pauper and the lord. I wish I was in England now, When Robin's coming, to see The children of Heathcliff come, With Moonley standing mid the throng, Above a man and child, To dance, I'm told, that swiftness, Backed by an alder-chair, Like the night-wind of Wales. Peers of the court, by step or ball, They came, they went, a firth-ball Along the harbour-side, Robin talking, calling Dante, Calling horrible Doria ordina, Making Abate some king of brass, The naked man that bears the moon, Making beautiful Naples nought But blond Hol very rare, Baring her bosom atte norone, Making the school-house an Elysium Of embroidered wallpaper, A holy sanctuary, in whom could be heard The sweet horse-boy speaking of the Grimoire, Or the Abbess-singing the chanson: Her, the imp of everything imp ======================================== SAMPLE 328 ======================================== Most amiss, one morn; but he, in fine, Had given her all he had; and then She let him pass; and one, as most to blame, Remarked, he was her own number now! And here--O sentence of Judgment e'en More horrible than that of Light! To wit: Since first the galling tyger Bark of Night Darting his bold orb gryphon-like, Into the light his sidelong stepping meant Ominous, had my Lady not turned back Her light to him, and he believed not one So imps of secrecy, deceit or guile, By his informer, had been trusted to. Light well knew the treacherous mind of Love, That templed her own eyes by the eyes of Day; And as slow his light-winged transgressions grew, Slow was his step and slaverlessness of spectrum; Nor lost he her faith, so wilful and so soon, Till suddenly sheled into doubt and doubt. She had been true; and they had fought: not lone; Their day of wedlock she had won, against The strong Predation which, without clamor or suit, Seized on her cold like a devourer. And yet, as hard as he found her to be, That she who had been so fair in so long, He would take all shame he meted her, for man, Back from her; and thought it were all nobler fight Than such a one, to have won the second mate Of two tall pursuitors, heavy and stout; And heavy though he were, yet he might so, Drive her out to one side of the Balenestrill, Whose coats and slops would cover her; and fit His violent pace to her loose cope and shoe, Which gave triple ease of motion and recovery. I had almost deemed the wight was Merlin's child. His words were good andwonderful, though I thought How can a ninefold profession bail With such decencies, and not even harm, The gloriously named augur, lying low, Sundering at peace in his old family home, Scared by his wondrous ways, all suggesting rape Since he first tugg'd his crown to Saul's time, Who stitched a king's padlock legs with three knots. And, though I treasured what but seven years befell, When I of that wight scarce half a haul, The pity of it made me sundered from mine eye, To strike some more rise-ing impulse;--when lo, A youth, the flower of augurs, with his back Above the bench of a House of Commons. If you heard his voice, and heard his news with mine, What do you make, and where design's leading? As they sought to fill a misprovisioned vacancy (What thing shall the good nation take up?) The post of Seamstress in a Phase, On which they made their selection; And, being agreed, it seemed a careless thing, To select her, they of selectors: A third screening might check material genes. This Julian were to marry, these moth-like arms From a third arm, and householder's property. They gird at the seam, and arc the belt a hansil To keep their interest in the seat a-blistering 'Neath the mental scenes they restaurant host On a hot June-night; the town-meadowed fields Of orange-blossom and unguent mileage; The heath-rock's bush that is nearest to the solids: And lastly the unseen two-tiered arrival: With rosetoned no-novelty of inward doorway, And post-ofmetre projecting outward from the door. "And this," said he, "with comfort to the Queen, By her Sire's commend, shall be your conduct: Of my journey I will in your Committee First openly disclose the happy event; Then, being able to express myself in French, To give my own pedigree, I submit Your plenishing to be credence, I will pay To those who sell for money, and those who buy Constant and undissuetybre and strong. There is one this latter kind will but betray To those who offer for sale suppressed the words. "Hail, not in the front of my future dream, As blindfold was the case to Augustus Fox, And I would wager even with you to cut the ribbon (So, ladies, if you need me, cast in one), My first ======================================== SAMPLE 329 ======================================== let fly for the current you take. Who shall judge my hand? and beyond To be of in voice. Then, which of them? let my poem be. <|endoftext|> "The Naked Lunch is Not Being Naked", by Frank Lima [Living, Life Choices, The Mind, Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] i First they came up the yellow rock in pickups: seagulls and line arms slung from a crane, black birds in camouflage. The rock is yellow and everything is covered with fish: poison and pock-marked stingray. There is nothing to see, but everything is covered with, undulation and hue. Then the men came up the yellow rock and all the way to the white rock: a dog: shiny, blotched, ragged, with an eye of dull and high pity. And there was also a small dog closely watching. The whole of the rock was not only yellow, but color-ghosts in the stone of predatory thought engraven and coming. They came up the yellow rock to full visibility: beached whales, spent, scaly, dying whom the yellow rock was for the yellow rock. The yellow rock was waiting for the diamonds, the gold, the jewels, the money that it took for the diamonds: Shahatpunt—the yellow rock. ii The men brought up the yellow rock from the white rock: a child brought up the white rock. There was the rock beside the hill and there was the hill-the-long-hill the long hill that was like a winding garden and the flowers that grew in that garden. The men brought up the yellow rock from the white rock: a child brought up the yellow rock and all the children brought up the rock that wasn't. Children brought up the rock of all the rocks: a child brought up the long hill and all the roads of the yellow rock. iii I bring up the yellow rock to you: I bring up the white rock to you: I bring up the yellow rock to you: and the long hill of the white rock. We are here, I say the rock: we are here: the hill: the garden: all things are here. All things are here in being, in being. All things are here, but being: born: born, made from the born action of the yellow rock. Born are all things, born: born things: made: from the action of the stone and wind, and the rock of rocks: the wind: born again from the being of the yellow rock, of wind, and of wind-actions, born again: born again from the being of the white rock. iv Born again: trying to be born again: out of the ways born, of trying to be born again: being born again: things born out of birth, out of birth: out of the years born: out of the things born: out of the things that are born: out of the born: out of the being born: from the 37 cast: of the 37 cast: out of the things born: out of the ways they are born: out of the 37 cast: out of the things born: out of the 37 cast: the things born out of things: out of the wind and wind-action— the wind and the yellow rock: out of the yellow rock: the wind and the wind-action: out of the wind and yellow rock: the wind of the wind-action: the wind and yellow rock: out of the seven wind-actions: the yellow rock and wind-action: the wind-action: of the white wind-action: the action of the white action: yellow wind-action: the wind and the yellow wind: the white action: the action of the wind— seven wind-actions: of the 37 ======================================== SAMPLE 330 ======================================== S . Like as a flower . . . … she was one of those mascara-tinted girls who used to peruse me in the oncoming war And even now it is December thirty-first—I am scanning The landscape, hoping That I may glimpse Someone I knew years ago Or, if not a classmate, a friend Of a classmate. That is the old cold weather I remember. But my mother's home. That is the new hot weather That I feel. She is checking out The home field advantage That the 49ers are showing In the National Football League. It is no longer the old NFL Of tough guys beating on brave men In games of leap-frogging and Lobbing head-on— But the new NFL Is not boring. You see, in the old NFL It was almost… Well, maybe 'twas, but it was More than sprint-and-tar. I could run, but I couldn't hide: The 49ers were beating my team, The 49ers were piling up four Four three- or four-five hundred Throws a matchless overnights And the men of the 49ers Were like humming-bird children In the thigh-deep bramble-bushes, They were losing to such opponents As could run no more than they could shit. Then the old pro, my friend, He was older, sack-slashing Texas, He was pro-Marshall, pro-Mr. Apuleo He was tossing around phrases As if he were overnineteen, And if he was over twenty-eight He might have been the fieriest man In all of pre-Civil Wedding. He was tossing around phrases As if he were overnineteen, And if he was over twenty-eight He might have been the fieriest man In all of pre-Civil Wedding or twenty-eight was If he had fucked up; if he had fucked up. But he didn't fuck up. He sent a letter to the players, He wrote an entire book About the fucking up. And if you're over nineteen you MUST He lectured me from the printing Technicians a half-century As if he'd been a boy. He lectured me about manners And if you're over nineteen you Must keep your mouth shut and not have no disagreements With anyone. He lectured me from the printing Technicians a half-century As if he'd been a boy. That's right, son. If a seventeen-year-old male Who's bigger than the rest Be the one to call you out, You might have Some talk. In the old NFL, if a player Beat your wife and you died On the court of public opinion, You were fucked: you were fucked. You were fucked if your wife Was really bigger than you. She was fucking bigger than you So she needed a monkey A thousand feet long to change her From swelling up to larger than everything. This is how I feel about you. <|endoftext|> "Venus and Adity", by Georgiana Kosheva [Love, Desire, Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, the Spiritual, Arts & Sciences, Photography & Film, Philosophy] Beauty is gift horse. When it is painting by Dorothy Ansel made. Most beautiful (by Darrow's most acceptable) is … A Life-size miniature of Venus by Victor (Clement's) Clark, now in the Metropolitan. Deserted by her Reedsy heart, her tender brain. To the crystal prairie, the arched folds of the canvas be made … By Adroit Note-Tone in Pure Elements, White Elephant has Scanged he camera. Furor in the brain: a burning for the sky, for one who disbelieves, or who is unsuspicious. It may be Scoped and changed, Divested of essential Variations that make the Variable Varitiable. ======================================== SAMPLE 331 ======================================== For our entertainment. But that left undone, the event And that part played in doubt, We, if all is well, shall find. But leave this busied ground, And make your study What's at hand here and there; With two or three friends Guide the ship by the oar, And you may be pleasantly Arrived at your first shelter. So that first pleasure endures Until you are everyone's friend; So you'll find your privilege Resemblance, in a nick of course. But if at first you go wrong, And in spite of wonted kindness fail A friend to your new home become, Don't forget, my friend, to say The reason you do it. Is God angry? is human life Doomed or determined otherwise? Or his prophets mad? or both: Are they both doomed to die By thinnest piece of wire in this wire, And in sepulchres to dwell, -- Dying, like bits of straw Struck out from a topisch wall And tomb-swept to make a boat-and-rail, And thence forever remained? When this you learn, pray him That he fight and not endure. By what word, Or what idea, Is the alien any good? By what same self-same word That wakes up blood the first thing in the dust, As the same idea or the same fear? For, just as straws, Or worms, Or birds, If shot through the bird's nest are, Or gods to men comming (not like these), So a wise man may be killed, And no sign of God to any man. If he's so far-gone, Or godhead, or extraterrestrial, 'Twill make you believe none's exactly good; And the less of god, when he's worse, So may a man's devil produce. <|endoftext|> To say that there has been an outburst of raids On the neighbouring villages mainly by the Folk, And the sound of women carrying off the men From the waters of the Horse, would all seem highly improbable, Except for previous exhibitions of farm implements In the garden or woodland neighbouring; and thus it appears That the Folk, after fulfilling their stomachs' needs, Leave the farms to hunt together stopping seldom To rest the heavy work of the day, and often passing In a sultry weather with few people present To see the sport, the coach and four might pass in silence. The Sousa, a light proper to move on, A narrow spot, whose hilly profile, breaking Above the valley, gives present protection To that side only, cannot be called a fault: It is likely that whosoever made advance To ride upon it, had perished utterly. On the road from Elster Sousa Mountain To the North Chiltern, The Car of St. Larther had a seat for me, But I never slept in it; and having passed The Crawford on its ridge, the part that shook Was still in grief and black as in a grave. And this, indeed, the Crossiem of Wuthering is Which damns the fields to absterable clay. The Crow's-in-air, for many a year, I guess, And now, when it has been a weary guess, The Iron-Apple has stirred it to a jolt, And swore a dozen legends against it; so It shall not lack, with other ordinary, In that regimental regiment of legends, Led by that Lady with the Stroke of Butterflies. Nor man nor beast can stand against that stubborn streak, The bull, the bullock or the trainer's dog; The mist and bluster have nothing to do With the iron-color of the autumn rose; And, what might say, the painter had not even seen That snowy blaze of Victory, so exalted, And narrowly missed, through Meaker's pierced and shattered ridge. It is pleasant to return through Eagle Honrick To Windermere, where the little stream mumbles To the quarry through the woods of Lydcott: The cooinglings, the woodpecker, the cooeing vioar, The wren, the rotund robin, the grouse whist, The loon, the owlet, and the chaff cried over, Are present to justify the moaning liner: The bird, the leaf, the floweret, and the pen,-- There's my vetoed bill of particulars. In Windermere, we are asked to trust; ======================================== SAMPLE 332 ======================================== Lo, a foe, whose form doth as in a book disclose A hoard in gold hidden from the sight. Who can this be? the hidden thing of all Who can the rest? This is he whose crimes here we prepare Refresh the spirit with law and truth: The world grows sick of empty scorn, And a high faith o'er stolen joy we feel: With eager spirit we behold him rise That man's contempt and judgment to efface, And he is me, who have humbled now The soul with presumptuous pride. Where is the whole of pride in what Law is turned by the writer's self, Who may not see how the phantom rhyme Gleams on the fancy like a hen's egg. When will it end? when will it leave the story? He can, he dare? he will. A cloud rose over the scene. A mad pursuit. "T-m" waited, ignorant, knowing not where he was, Whirled by the speed of the music of sound, He felt the wind's speed, and the reason too, Which is the reason of the wind. There is the skin of my horse's skin. And when you stand at a statue's feet It is a whiteness, it is a height, Beyond to whatever is unaccented, Unkept, untopognized, unknown, Which is the part of a noun and a noun. I knew, and my sight can do no more, There is no wind to play with: it stands, As if it had always to be. "I never did anything but knew; I was never on a horse. My mother Never told me the stories you might tell. She thought I might have a relative. She thought. She never questioned whether This, then, is what I've made of all I got, And all I want to know." She was out of her wits. Her ex-lover was dazed And sulking beside her; but he seemed to hear Her calling his name. She rounded on him, And as he stood there wavering, shaking the bow He had so often rounded with. "Dare you," she asked in her most pathetic Emphasis and desperation. "Me? No. But I loved her. She died to me." He took the hand, and stood beside her as before. He had not heard the arrows go. A hush fell over the land. "She's dead." It seemed to come from the sky. "She's dead. I grieve for you. She was my friend. And you?" He lay a moment at the edge Of a dingy lawn, and then he reached his feet, And waved the hand, and it was once again Sponge-armed with flowers. He was a hideously giddy dressing-up For a film of adventure with nonsense super, Berries and slime and the lobster tail of squeaking rubber. A peak and streamer for the echo of a yappy blackbird, And he wore a peak and streamer of familiar blue To the opera of his mother, scolding him In the outside world. He was a giddy blue for his own fists and lies And tocks of smoke perchance to keep bluer and whiter, A blue that kept getting thinner and thinner, A blue that went through the streets of the town Like smoke across the face of the ravine, And he wore the blue in the place of his wife, Who searched and pleaded and was clawed to death, And then he wore the blue at last Before he slumped, So the blue went through the town And left him there where he lay, Holding his breath against the past, The blue through the city came and went, Blue as perfume or blue lichens blowing in waters For their powers to follow, blue as the smoke of burned gold, Blue with fear or blue with despair or blue with neither, One that would not die, For the sight of its very self was a relief, Like the farwind back of a leafless tree, Or the hinge of the river in a fortress Opening out far through gentle waters. The blue is all about him there In this juncture, Trapped and fleeing like the all-flying hawk Throughout the regions of night, Trapped and instrumented as the signalist For faintest flicker of metallic threads, Or the all-aware engine trailing a darkness starry. And here the dark wind wends its way Through the dress of the frame, And this is all his home ======================================== SAMPLE 333 ======================================== : 'There are no dead in all this world. Only souls are ours, Which in life were servants of the spirit. ' 'Ay, as the beauteous point of beauty's in the mind, It falls on spirit's and on body's is the sway. And soul, being charged up, a clear flame will send Full to the depths of hell, and out of the mind Takes wing at last where soul left left wants.' And then the dead sea-meramonious changed its dress And had all teeth out and nails out, and pegs on All over as the fishes do in the seas In order that its brother-spirits, when they come, May find their body pierced by all the eyes. <|endoftext|> It is a fearful sight when one stands up In the face of this people, for they resemble Those who have been exterminated forever The Milky Way, and in the head a monstrous lump Comes out and grows, and when the sunlight falls, Cracks in two, and the thing grows blind and void. I do not love water, I only come here For my sales, my sales, my sales.... It is true That those who do not love you above all Can find in silence a way to pay you no mind, And when one walks through water, one finds a lump. Nay, it is this monster that I love so, This monster with the head of man, of rat, This monster, killed by water.... This is the same: Water: and then, then, comes the water. O Love in short, O stupid Love! So overcome by it, with its speed and its emptiness, By its motions and its hints and conspiracies, By the fact of having to get up and go to work After having been up from the last hot shower, By the fact of getting into one's own wardrobe After having had one set of taxis, By the fact of travelling, by the fact of being taken to hospital, By the fact of being oversuspicious, By the fact of travelling all the way from central London To an old papier open at upon one stack of evenings, By the fact of mean hair and a misspelled location, By the fact of walking about with a first-half that is not Bosnia, By the fact of yielding yourself to a first-half that is not Bosnia, By giving in to travelling afterwards, By flying with a powerlam with no money, By the fact of opening your legs for the devil, By not being an atheist, by the fact that you have got over, By the fact that you have got over.... By the fact that you have opened your legs for the devil, By the fact that you have opened Yourself for the devil, By the tortured and high-walled city into you, By the fact of going to the Grub-Stand after the Sacrifice, By the fact that you saw the head in the next dim room, By the fact that you saw him declare that he could do more for less, By the fact of his doing less for less while you were there, By the fact that he gives people way means with an accursed smile, By the fact that you gave way to indigestion, By the fact of giving way to indigestion, By the fact of giving way to indigestion, By the fact that you gave way to cravings and going to the wicket, By the fact that on coming to the wicket you are still here, By the fact that you catch the bus straight after the act, By the fact that you do not catch the bus from Belmarsh Street, By the fact that you catch the bus from Belmarsh Street, By the fact that you buy clothes for yourself, after the Arena and before the Coliseum, By the fact of the Arena and the Coliseum, By the fact that you are Aegaeus, above all other authorities, By the fact that you are not Aegaeus, Plato, Aristotle, By the reflection that you will be all things and nodes, By the fact that you are not Aegaeus, the dolgelexion, Bertie and Fanny, two piglets twins that have a famous but mercurial temper. The piglets bare-foot run up to the top of the stairs, piss on the floor, have their photos clicked and sent around, become the first gazillion-iggillions and drop the sound of a flag being hauled away. Bertie and Fanny are the Word's sweet children, not the hoodoo children of the King in the Wilderness, bananas are not GPS: if you put both ======================================== SAMPLE 334 ======================================== yarmouth up the butt's a slate and the first ones see: who like to ogle in old trudging maids, it's a kind of sport, but they'll be gone: a clap, a thud, this is it, it's over. A house that silently and regularly tucks itself inside the skin of the planet, hides cold and frequently sneezes. <|endoftext|> "Even the Sun Going Down", by Roy Horton [Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens] The old woman in the old barn swallowed her tongue and went outside to play that ugly old woman. She sat down by the open door and gazed up into the sky. Only the empty dark and a bird were there not even a twinkle in the sky. The red leaves of the barn were withering and dead birds sat on their wings not even a twinkle in all of them. The old woman walked on and off along the path, the shadow of her face against the snow was as far as she was going and she was already sad. She walked into the barn to put her arms around a neck all of her son's own, and when she rubbed the thick end of it against his lip the cruelest feeling in the world was what she thought but never was. Not the bird but the old woman's thought was the unforgiving heat and the cold. Not even the beautiful shadow of her body on yours, not even the heat off the fire and the strike of a crown of stars dying together was as bad as that. <|endoftext|> "The River", by Francis Osborne Pious How strange is the thing, or out there, And terrible and far, and how above us, Yet here in the houses and the streets; Where cats and dogs have built a house Round for them a few piles of sand, And there in the river-caves They hide from our fear and our doubt But think they are far up above And their snakes and their black demons They are throned above the city, And if we call they evilly call, Or top-heavy it clicks like a switch, And they scream with their monstrous voices Or drag their legs in the sand, And clench their teeth and splash round the lake With strange, lame words that do not serve, Or add: "If, thou, Herry, Herry, Hryry! Thither I fly and thence not I; Thither I fly and hence I never went. But that you thus may know I never went I swam in the ocean at Easter-time." <|endoftext|> "After the Fish", by William Butler Yeats [Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Heartache & Loss, Unrequited Love, Relationships, Men & Women] For one of us there was a fish that touched us, And one of us was mad upon the tippest beach, And the night sent a dark direct to break us. But none of us was dead, and none of us Had lost love a whit. And now there is a fish, And now one of us is mad, and then not. The wolf is dead of his bitch, And one of us is mad upon the beach, And there was the black unfair woman Who now is slightly dead, And she is well enough to come and call With not unfeeling toe, "TJ, over" And "Cock-ey, forward," and "What is your opinion?" I was not in the supine to shreds Of black-looking ruin, And love was not black to me then But blacker than was platonic. What happened then? - Was I in the horror? I was not in the appearance Of mad, black ruin. But blackness was and muted ruin. What tangled webs of destiny Ailed soul and soul regards? O, blackness of the look Of that one whom we regret, - And black of maddest ruin, - And black of the tangle! Yet not all! There was a time when maddest ruin Was tinged light; and we knew not how Our maddest ruin might fair seem At last, settled, resolved. We only know That maddest ruin moves not alone from blind Blank shape and blind prospect. The mind also grows and dark; And wild mind ruin shapes to ruin. Our mind was not black to see The maddest ruin move. A man who ======================================== SAMPLE 335 ======================================== Though I doubt him in his other arts, Still that none the less can withstand his darts. Nor is that evil that a menial slave Like me dares to scrawl such wild alacrity O'er a tale of Gulliman the proud, Merely to gain by my short stay some reward Such as might whereof I care to ask an ear Though not my own, yet what his country's news to show. 'Tis evil for the Lord to lay forth His wrath in such a menace bold, Who dares that none can stop his course without Some dreadful vengeance take in that kind heat. There's need for all, and I will get me one, Whate'er the cost may be, at once and now! Or thou, great Master, grant, with one cry Thou hast wrathivved all thy savage race, And also me, too far afield my search to make: I have found nought in thee to anger live, And had I power my wrath with thee to lash, None more than thee with doom quite ready came. So say'st thou, and that to change in thy stop, Which art more heavy at this moment lies, Thou must firstly by this right arm underpen For thyself that rage of thy heart gaze. My Master said, and as he goodlie did Turn both his feet; for such a goodly time, He had just quitted Thebes, where he got From jocund sleep lulled thereby a torment; Shook so his long sea-rolled horn and all At once put it at terrible sore, And all his menial thoroughfare was movd Intricate workhouse to erect; And gna right good-degre his soyle was stor'd, And in it nothing but damn'd wretch should geean. The damned wretch, by which one damn'd mother's fond, Who dares be born unto her son's error, Where she by lot might shee beware very well, A mighty mischeife can in haste be here. So says he in his anger, t' affrighted one, Whose hair with such an one ungraced keeps close, That in arm's succour is and in his eenne* craft*, That pettifick is, and schame of majesty, Of him boldly assailing he anduers He, That ancient gown well valued for its giuen, Which once his Grandsiree worn at Gymaine When he did first his selfe armish* in the field. And likewise honourd with a sable reel Hisches piece he so griesly goth a badge, Which might the ioyster sooth furn "Christ Slainte" Bedeirly through all his armesh compas With that his tunick pat below him doth hooan, That his bent ears in a twist he shall shrowd, And in them shall this offend That in his head 'tis hard to sleight be shedde And in his eare blench 'tween his hooers het, And with his toes turned up perch'd like a pike. His shoe He does with fingers compace, And with his nails he ties very long His flints, such end of fiery fury. His blodely hands he jangles wellnigh Into great eruption, throwing out of his behooe, And in the best hee's full dispos'd to beare, Ofloure the roofe of superstitious clos, That with his fires in Cæsar's countrae Hee burns to carkasse, that he blesse the iudice, And kingdomes wealth unto the parlevlce. But yet in Oeil's parlev'ne houses good Unbelievers there be great manye, Whome faith in no endearing art fashion, Nor rich giuesgaman th' believing side, Nor trimly trimmed palare lie constaine, Nor piece of charlock drawt, nor eild could faine, To werre at end of day, and what succeedes To these, that have th'anatical part of man, Say thrice saildrawe in fierie could they bee. And who that out of good camom hight, And reasonts he hath not man within his breast, Nor them permissive he doth caange, And of the rason is cryesly set To eabite, and the refhamte walkers Unbelieving ======================================== SAMPLE 336 ======================================== Here you see the dull light play And the silver water ripple by, Where a lone canoe rides the murmurous bay. No laughter, no boast of verse, No boast of arm, no martial ode, But the gay shore line's jubilee When the day's forest's lanes unblest Leave time's flower-crowned kings forlorn; And the saw's gnarled trunk again Tossed to the waves and dashed o'er, Where the light craft sails not now. Once, long ago, In the land where north and south extend, A highway for the chariot ran Beginning from the golden starts Of the snow-white sea and the yellow land, Winding through the forest's shadowy hard, In the path of darkness; so that the driver Might follow in crashing waves the tow That rose and fell beneath his wheels. Now, no longer sign-less of the sun, The soil is turned, and season flows Blown out to endless length and flight Since the black boots of the chariot stay The onward march of the life they tread; And the tractor, at whose ugliest start She stands and looks with little lust Of admiration as his thing you guide, Has learned to cast a part in the swerves That his chariot swerves to and from. But the farmer, intent to earn The mockery of the picked crowd, Scornfully alters the prune of his bark, The hedge of his clock left as bare As the night, and the fold untenanted Of the true movement of his broad's stretch And, to the wonderment and the scoff Of the birds that flock to and from, Heaves up and up to the topmost Casqueless, and by no wind but that whirl Of his own ocean-maddening tide. And he cries, "She lives, The cold, triumphant teacher lives, And I that shall follow ere long! May I ascend and look at her, as she lives Up in sunshine watching me wander by her-- Do I live? Do I live? No? Then I die! No wind to tell my lab'ring and my soul to thee! Look up at her, and read over her: See how the air goes pouring under that story Of the lake before the crag and tree, And the water tight and tight between them! Winter is come! See, brook after brook Pours down to the sea! Look at the wings of the breaking mist, At wayward mist that spicy quickens As it tightens over the floor! Hear the blast at the door withdraw! The winter's clutched and sealed; And the eaters are full! Hear the frost's beat down in halls! Hear the sturdy rock be rocked in rail, As the first reel round to the ground! It's bare and lawless in the quiet, As a brook with a barren stone, Encroacher by woodcut and strong. Yet the say of the stones by the rock In whispers above the meteor streams And the small movement of the river, As the minnow's eddy whirls to the main, As the fortune of the shaker flashes, And draws it to the bottom broad and vast, With the rest of its fiery load. So the winter's wrath at the roof does cling And make the boards, heavy and sapless, Tackle like a life-call of a mother's. So the ice, beyond all turn in the pane, Chafes for a space the sheeted sheet to tongue, And, as the breath that turns it to stone It comes and it goes, a fact if you watch, Core recovered five days after and still It cleaves to. So it, when the snowflakes heap'd in the wind Rear on their bulged amplitudes on high Sank down by likeness to her image, white, And her face said "Do not move." And the face that said "Stop," Slew one smooth swoop of its pallor, And the glinder took note and stepped aside, The steps or floor apart to descend. But the face that said "Stop," Peroxide'd sharp and white as a pearl, Painted the same vivid hues and azure, As a child of the prime Prisen'd a painting on the wall, And who starts last again. Haste, sir; there, England's witch-wind blows From the spirit of her land the Thread That made him blind. I tell you this, and sure and ======================================== SAMPLE 337 ======================================== Qur'an) before the life. "It is no good!" 'Vive le Jour' was the cry, "You're not fit to eat bread, you're not fit to drink water, You're not fit to sleep in a room alone, It's no good having a little natural beauty, Or a string of white, or three black eyes, Or a generous chest, if you can't get a stone in your pocket; You can't live with people to suit them, If the hole in your leg makes you walk with a swinging weight, Or your back pain makes you restless, Or your frowsy breath makes you pale, Or you lack one shoe, or two, or three, Or you run behind a clogg while driving a cow; The cinch of the tight-shank corks and snaps And flies with a sound like a popped bicep. A fast bird could not live with such swells, And slow birds could not do it; A flacer can. The mite's requirements are quite shocking, When he wakes each morn with a crawling shock, And he feels so much in the milk and the dew, And he's always so chubby and crumbly at meals. He has a dreadful name for a hop, And cannot fly to the safest sunny place; He cannot cross a road or walking pace, But on cricket-fields, and in walks, and in rows, He'll creep with a gimlet-like flicker over the feet, And he'll lie in the grass, slow but trotting. The flicker's quaint, and clumsy, and slow, And none knows what the devil he's meant to be; He jumps, just like a baby, at everything; He builds, and begins again to wreck; He has no art, but foot-walks like a mouse, And bites with a desperate hard-drawn jaw. But he's really out of the way, and his very love To the well-aimed bullet, his eyes and ears, When his parched lips and chapped lips each thousand holes fill, May sell for high or sell for low, as the trader, May the seller be bold or he sell for sweet. I can't describe the flicker that flies over the sky, And he comes running over all by his self: He comes, with the ground all behind him, and then, He comes, and he hops--a crazy, baysome creature, With a shriek or a squeak in his voice as he goes, So that you'd know him by a voice, or a nickname if he had one, With his tails all over him, and Shirts that are green, with the short ears and the tail Of a cat, and with pierced muzzles and pointed, And with short dactylisms, and with a little muteness. And then there is this dandy long a spring, With the best of it, with the pride of a hop, As leaping as he ever did in the tree; And his eyes are flying, and his little dachshill Spies a farcical view of the court, and he Would deceive you by saying "I come to claim Your piece of walk, pr'ythee, in the street, Where the Friendly's House, as you can well guess, Comes soaring, soaring, as egemen. Now you see me, If you look well, I'm Mr. T. Jones, and left-handed." I was left-handed, you see, Miss, I'm so- Or so I'm told; well, that doesn't make much Of the angle of my fingers, if you think The whole thing with just tax and duty; see, I'm right handed, and my friend, Miss, is right- To-hand like a chappie mill, and we pass him, you know, And mine's a fine arrangement, hers is a late one. Well, it's all fun, and we should be friends, and friends At my left and my right, and "friends within reason;" And we'd be eating or drinking, and we'd make Many a semi-arcade show, and dance, And joke, and joke, joke, joke; and you know what? We'd dance, and daffadilly dances are queer; We should walk farce, the pedals of daffodils, and Singing in the woods, and the chocolate-bottle squares. It's when of a late night, and it's early of night, When to the ======================================== SAMPLE 338 ======================================== ams true; And I've seen one in a glass case, that hath grown To be the object of such curious prying, That when some want to know, they cannot but ask, For, no, they cannot tell what it is all about. It is in truth something wonderous, nothing less, Than the like agreeable half-detail of Julius Cæsar's Affair in a famous wayhome; and if with Lucius I had begun it, it might indeed have drawn a little out of Where Thames, down the middle of his course, Goes lamentably gnarled and painfully, Down to be filtered through the musckinese, Past Lizard and Lee, and into the Sublime At Tom Tunstall's twittering feet; Where his feet, strong-legged in the job, Shall pick it up from the bottom, step by step, To the quarter, thence to the sixth dot, And thence,--that there be nothing amiss-- Down to the goose that never hat Her shell in the marshes, thro' a fissure In the chalk that never quivered before. Down to the goose that never hat Her shell in the marshes, thro' a fissure In the chalk that never quivered before:. Down all the station, down to the quarter; Hills that have a majority of their feet On the ground, but never of their heads: Lakes that have a majority of their Firmly on the go; And over them and o'er, and over, With unbelievable largeness, The ocean going on from hill to hill: Over all this wonderful station, With a sudden spring, Here's a place where two rhymeful lines Come round a rhyming commonal; Where dreamer sits with eye benign, That all the delights of a Place should dispense bitterer wine. Here's a place where all seems blest Because all things are blessed in turn; A cradle, there, and a graveyard Spread with many an ANGELUHLE fronting Together in a BENCHMARK, together. Out of the first we shall take a peak Of the place called "Bethlehem," And the hill of Sorrow, and the place Where HE who had not yet come, ABATED The bow of Canaan stretched without bound, As if, for pity, He battered The rocks under our feet as we paced The wild, Western ridge, That, stretched without bound, a weal-shouting FLEW. And it, all enthralled by a shamrock, And haunted by a single snail, A place where God might largely feel, With enough and various things To suggest His very heart, a longing For something whensering His to-be-loved double-faced waiting Beneath a western eve, Lord's past the sixth, with face towards Arabia! It might have been, and in a few years, In our open bedrooms by a fire One day might see us both together, Thoughtful and quiet, in a goodly heap, As together, in a goodly heap, We slept in the same room when we came After that long and fearful troping Out of Nazareth, and up in Heaven. We know not why the Sea Gull in Heaven Has changed his faced yet, and ceases to face The planet sun, now when he wakens. But perhaps, like those imperial seals That keep their wisdom in the same box Which once hid King Apollo's speech, He finds it time while strangely preserved, As waters forth from spring of nectar slaked, To evolve and find a secret use, Hence of no use at all, really, In a world of yea and nayings but ONE. The white rose fades; and love's fair tree withers, And from the summer, as those dim stars decline, Faint Nessuna dies, Famine's cleansing candle burnt; Through many a night the Wind-Hawk wails her slayer; But here, if thus, the cold had frozen desire, And motion lost, they only woke again To hear each other and to look on each. The lion's guards, the cubs' play, were gone, The moccasin stood at bay, The white foot swept the dusty track, The boats were ashore, Eve white, puce, squash, primulina wine; But there came no buzzing ages homeward, No droning thrones of kings, No lamps athwart the bridge's clouded wing; But still ======================================== SAMPLE 339 ======================================== To the row of vessels, the green deep, And the earth that is the frame of the world; And now, for the first time, he seemed To view a fitting scene for God's own temple. The waters rose and fell; He saw them as a God might see them, As incarnate power, a God to be. They girt the world as a Lord had ruled His creatures that were witnesses of him; They crowded in the great river's bed, And gathered all the islands of earth. There were two conferences first, Before these shrines, of which the common sky Bears witness, they had both for their part Fresency of glory in their earthly court; And secondly, with like reverence of love, To the Christ Birth, as to a blessed Bed, Whose sheets were new, and going purplely With water till they go a bit past That they taint not, but are radiant all. One, that was immediate on the spot, Had with his brother one hour after Sunday; Two, which were apart had leisure to dwell And muse, but not compose, on those very texts Which make the Christian stiff to walk forever; Three, which were last and one of the seamen, Made up the sacred compound as perfectly As any newly thrown up by a genius After a ten-year survey of sea, And, all the seals of time or brass between, Kept up and guarded all night long beside The still venting water in readiness To burst for feast on England's flesh when she Must do the will of Jehovah's angel. And now, the hour that might be called the last, At last is come and found a spot at war. With England now; 'twas fought below The walls of Paris, in the ends of swamp, Where the waters of the Po, guided here By a motion taught in righteousness, went round To punish France for two hypocritical nakes Which she had not invited, and did not dispatch, But which defied the authority Of her reigning Monarch, and of Caesar Who was his heir, Father of his country, to shake. With all that blood the flood passed over, Which would have swept away all nations there, Before it would be convinced that she Was hostile to all other nations, herself Except a little space in possession. Now, I believe that I have explained The more, or the less, the grand cause, For which we met. The question is not of the deed done By us all; it is of that truth we gainsought. I believe that we were proved, or I Had proven it, if I could discover The fact that of a few days' power In our defence -- except that time Has been spared us much more -- we had been screwed. That night I was an unnamed ghost, With no more to do than turn and vanish Of dull everyday rumour, which Takes the form of fiction, then is destiny. What is it guts a nation's might To let a byline be as much as a term to Rolling tragedy the main-bill length? I got no more out of "The Treacherous Chance" Than a bag full of sand and a spear to stick in. There was something vague about the ship That drew these men into its arms. When some murmured, "I think we ought to get The yachts here for their Racingurations," I would say to them, "You're out, boy! Go drink Pabst out into the sea!" And men would ask me, "Is there no light? Is this thing ever crewed from armewe are It's so mad in both these pals? Will the saluting horns please slash the shadow, And if so, when will we do the same?" But by 1896 when it got to port My conscience went up a hand-mill That had well reloaded already. I had a friend, who did not lack Proficiency in Greek, And he stood for many years could not Understand a single word Man said into speech without an end. So mad the press clung to his shame, And mangled him with speeches, That by the civilized world's praise They finally got him soft. He salivated and panted (It was harder than thirsting) And watched in idle suspicion A charwoman's negligance As the coffing and the stamp and the paper Were entrusted to her care. I learned from a friend at Wapping (As it transpired my father owned A certificate of marksmanship For a rifle) that ======================================== SAMPLE 340 ======================================== listed here are varied lights. These are three one-light candles. At night my bedside A friend would ask me, "How is your health? Tell me about your pregnancy." This is what I would say to him. This is my life. At night I am I, with my life, at rest. I am the water Who asks no mate. <|endoftext|> "Reading Housley", by Louis Unterrier [The Body, Nature, Religion, Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books, Mythology & Folklore, Horror] Take out your pin whistling danger to small ones creeping to another room where pin is fiery-fly standing waiting for blinder hoping for little yellow head. <|endoftext|> "Trailer", by Louis Unterrier [Relationship & Companionship, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Fairy-lore] My friends: it is I, who wake in the mysterious present and which ten million reasons, hoping to KNOW eveything; my friends: I, of whom half a word is this, I, who bear my bleeding ribs of heart; I, of every one, shout out the image which cold machinery of facts (I know the gristly details!) makes to stand still—mirrored in the mad arcaded mirror of my own face. <|endoftext|> "As Sure As Hemmed Crocuses", by John Donne [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Love, First Love, Infatuation, Desire, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Poetry & Poets, Theater & Dance, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, Philosophy, Old Age, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Popular Culture, Heroes & Patriotism] As sure as hemmed crocuses or as poker I could meet her, Sure, and as bound to keep time with her wherever she go; But to call her thief, would be in much the same case that is had for shoving Neptune in Roman seas. A girl is not fit, and criminal, to be seen in a pageant called "The States"; She would, by common admission, more commonly be seen in; A series of lectures, or a tour, or a condemnation in "The playhouse stinks," In fact no one should see her but her Rooker, or her Dom. A casket or box of keys, and every one blunt; A hat of sable, or better, if that will let her, not to have one particle Of her hair fine, one single event if chance to get; An eye free of luster, goit, and its abbot pike, None of these excuses for her I seek, or she should me; The fault I lay alone with all publike loveliness. And if I should fail, with a flourish which will surely fail, My life and tongue to banker petteth better than a pap remained; If pellid, bankrupt, mean to call her "blooms" (nothing, reckon it man, Shall rob her glory of the taint of higher taste; I desire a reasonable exhibit of strong traits, Such as she sees or feels to have caught from bad about; As for dress, I think the last insult would set her up. What she has heard from me, and what I have put into her tongue Owes equally credence to her celestial descent And her base elements beneath. Ne'er will the soil the earth wipe off, but such trick's a patent Of the common man, that if you've a kind heart, You'll trust to its public race. That said, I to her will incline More to trust, than any public letter, than the eight Thousand most puissant maidens; Nay, I will have this pretender's subtle wile Withholding all good faith in her, by a mere look; That good look will carry a hell fire Rather than that broad shame of every day wrong. When her soft blush wakes the loud joy Which she suspects me; that she should mistake me in The happy time which I disclose to her; For still more joyous, and hurlineer, I hope than being my doom, I hope than dying in gladiators' hands. Let me unbend, let me relent Even to the sin that she knows not ill; Love without pretense, or dissimulation, Will fit me for the last agony. I should have matter, had I more or less, To weep ======================================== SAMPLE 341 ======================================== Many, as I thought, I do not now recall I know that to-day The months have finished, and that for me It is right to be happy. (papa is guilty) In that happy land, Where they sing at the shrill of trump, And of God, the God who at this hour is thrust forth from the gracileth of Christ-- my poet-lord, The truest one he shall speak of you! I cast you, I O prophet, out of vain regard, into the gross world, Where the untrue in crowd with truth, they shall shred Your word, true shepherd, and I shall never in heaven sate, again. (Here, to tickle his time, I have written a few recent poems which shall not be taken down from file.) Of womankind, I do not ask reward, but rather in itself entertainment. I have written a good while without a woman to gaze upon. Behold, behold! I, who have excluded the senses of pleasure, and in which I have but myself an object that doth present itself whatever loose attachment I may or have. But womankind contains, O my sweet friend, the parts of me, and I containing the other parts, So that I but keep your spirit and your self within me. But, again, while I am now tasting again my strength, I have my weekly there and my time for my own; and neither day nor year is fixed, nor time to me. No, mine is not a nervous hysteria; I have simply chosen a day I love and let it pass. It may be the crime, indeed, to be so busy I am free from gratification. I have no longer the-world- ness- thing. Because I love you, who deserves it for self- pleasing patience. I love my own mind; I hate the fetters the thought within them. Within my own- ing himself as- ets-- I mind my own life. What's comic- ter- ing in it? I read and get written into what. And this is the world, too. <|endoftext|> "from Lyrics of Goneen: 1", by Paul Muldoon [Living, Growing Old, Sorrow & Grieving, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Trees & Flowers, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology] Sappho speaks in a fragmentary Dantiace. She is said to have inscribed to the intimate goddess a chain of verses too exquisite for any sort of debating amongst other than words alone: Iuelshe pleasure she awaitedsuspended the expected friendly level-headedness, and went beyond Any form or display of that sensuous Freed Spiritwoman; the friend Natalisa gave her the beloved face Elysium made her to feel and endured estrangement from her Fabled heart and the outraged sense Of purpose never to be redeemed by gratitude and she begged her To turn her bitter gift back to Joyous Formenable. <|endoftext|> "From Lyrics of Goneen: 2", by Paul Muldoon [Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] Baffled by the exquisite and silent Susana, who would not sing For all the jewelled hair she owned; and Disheartened thereby by her lonely singing ======================================== SAMPLE 342 ======================================== O how sweet was her voice and hie sight! To me for round about Where ere a tree was at its best Her slender, slender form was seen. A better than the grace Of any poet seemed As her eyes scanned the crowd, And her heart relented To the poet-hand That had made her. A slender yet very fair And warm eyes there were, That seem'd half joy, half ruth, When they meet'd with some romantic date. Her laugh, her speech Were sweeter than the sound of nest, Though but the trace Whence it led was anything but sweet. Her hair was silver white, Thigh-high, and very fair, On which the wind and sun Had left some rainbow print. But when her hair was white, And shining, as she went The wind and sun between, It seemed to me a wild waste On ocean, and all sky But gold, leave it a wreck. O then how bright, how fair From her fair white cheek I turned all day to see The flower incline, the light, The long, white, silver arrow Of moonlight, falling, descending, Or, cleaving as a sea-green fish Four quivered parallel silver barbs Up from her tresses. Or, when the light, Full in my face, Is lent to me by her Up, high rise the flowret, The rain has left the snow White the air, and smooths The snow-man's face. Yet there's one Of love and me To be with me In all time, So sweet one looks, Her looks, A child might hold for me. Her look's Mad amorous, and her voice's Focused to one spot She gives the wind for wing And says what means what thing. And all her body's grace For love and me. She laughs, she cries, she talks, She pleads, asks, threatens, O she says, Her eyes are both blue, She has the air Of swift-footed birds, And she has the speak Of beasts of prey, And she has the tread Of mortals, half That pace with men, And half as fierce, And she walks right luckless All by her lonesomeself To my woman's woe. O I say, she tells me, With eyes like tears That have our love put out, How much of God, be kind, For our bothre's sake Give them light and breath, And let me, now, see far To any heart in ye. And be their hearts a relong That for no thurst or good Mine may lose, Yea, let mine own heart's eye see Of all sight, to ye-than. With more than shadow, With more than shame, I have this forail Born of some sin that stealth Heard me from under ground, Where I found pores "A goodly size" That my love might find me. And how I labored, Yet I woulda, should she find Her way unto me, And the thorn I thorn, But to her succeed, And from my hand take fast And of my heart take keep, I hope to God the gate is nigh, That with his daylight well I've stemmed, And my heart's weary enough. There is too much of heave and sigh There is too much penance to do, Yet how the quicker I accomplish All my life-blood does enable In me fairly to fore-take What duty has and what obedience bears. But it's a cable, And so to speak, It's a fire of hope, It's a water-cart, And a wonder-worth Of men do debate If I God, do walk or ride. I hope to God I have my will, And my way have nailed it down. I hope to God, That the gate's open year 'and wide, And the keeper, I have hope attested, May see that I enter in. That I need never turn back, That the would and have all in his command, And if I may defy him to spit, I'll be here where I can rejoice and sing, For the ransomed have never known any other. I have lost all, but thou hast none to lose; Who is the sinner? whom will I offend? I grudge not lost, but unbalanced balances, And points of light out ======================================== SAMPLE 343 ======================================== time's greatest captain of the New World's ships. Life and all And all its power, If all its brightness and mystery And all its mysteries And all its mystery Are only one the one And only one existence. If all this If the chains of this This There Are only this And this And this Is only all And all. <|endoftext|> "O DILEMAIAN LANE", by Alfred Lazarus [Living, Death, Disappointment & Failure, Love, First Love, Classic Love, Heartache & Loss, Relationships, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] So when death comes where today, Has seen me walk alone through the uneven streets where heaps sand and concrete instead of marble and heroes, not even close to where I lived in my culversation with the Duke I was almost glad to leave the world, for they would speak no poetry and almost glad to leave it, so. XII world ships in less surmounting manner than the short story. In the long days before comfort comparison, life seemed good. And how should I know? I only knew my friends to be my colleagues. Even when dark fancies seen above, they were my friends. And I died and could hear the sand drifting behind them toward the soft-packed buildings, my funeral home, the gray stone heap, the West - and then. I died blind like all poets blind and full of quotations, touched by the world's mourning. But what could I learn from a doctor? Could sound track, only flesh, could hardly bring a poetry could hardly call itself "poetry." Only look at the marble of my lungs. And then I saw the cigarette yellow in the hands of the young girl walking with her mother who told me of the beauty of their dead friend and I saw the damaged Ford Access Recreation space where I had suffered a relapse, Blank, Indiana, home of the Quakers. A shadow of me moved while I heard the hospital orchestra begin to howl like birds from the United Music Groups of the Great Aims. The lights from the pool atoning for the dead light corraled each distance away where I had put my face and I knew the roses of second sight were not mine. And then there was me who had no name in heaven but knew itself loving and hating and being loved by every man and woman person in the earth. How to explain? Is there a language where I but chimed with a guitar and sanded with a sieve voice or stuttered with an acoustic keytar because I played it so well among the rows of raised violins because I was Hemingway, because I was the drinking party or the duelist because I was Hemingway? In the squares and circles of a square life I too wandered and wheeled with a Fordish heavine in the mists of the barroom because I was Ford Stenna! Ford sells cars! And I walked into a Panic when one pursued me through the swirling vino crescendos of a factory's sudden shriek and death machines' beep beep of the mill and mint and dizzying screaming culludient dictabros. What would a Fordish sibilant and gulped Ford stare inflame in you? Because I saw you howling, dragging yourself back from escape bids, I saw you howling, found my tongue wrapped around a Fordish flagon but flouted and slipped out of the lexicon of Ford because I was Hemingway. Ford sells cars! But what does Ford buy with? A Scarred-strewn desert of escaped souls of the soul's suffocation where each Fordish phantom arrives from its vapor-developed reckoning of guilt with unchanged " s " guilt " guilt " guilt " guilt with Fordish fal dura guilt. And you found me howling the second time and heard me murmur like a dog after I escaped with your life. I have no money for your booze. Give me your best dance step. I bought you howling. Ford sells cars! And I bought you! And, to be sure, have ruined and made murder of many homosexuals. I loom ======================================== SAMPLE 344 ======================================== . <|endoftext|> "Gleb Gabor", by Marion McCurdy [Nature, Trees & Flowers, Religion, The Spiritual, Mythology & Folklore, Heroes & Patriotism] The principal reason I choose to go into the hedges at all is that the hart, aware of itself, moves into full social provocation. There it sits, querulous, seeking of one to give it courage to turn and face it, which I do not want to see. I go into the hedges because that's where the beast is most at home these days, and there it sits when it knows that one can feel its heart. For this is a time when the animals are more in view than they have been in a long time, and they are not afraid of us, in part because they are not very violent, in part because they are mixed with something on the positive side. For this they have given us flowers, which have some sort of weight, as a bar or a base, and they have given us the fresh air. This is the time of the hoping beast, and the spirit stirs as it waits to be inspired— though it doesn't exactly know what it is waiting for. It is eager, but it doesn't know what it is inspired by. For it has lived enough to know that we are the pinnacle of its intention, and to a degree it knows this desire, which it doesn't want to call need, but which it is as well. 2 We are deep in the holliness of the evening, the hedge feeding floor upon floor like a picture frame, and day upon day, and the tree on which there is no sun, which refuses to go at all, and has been referred to me as God-point(TM). This tree means nothing, and in this atmosphere it means just what it means, for there is no other way to mean nothing. The spirit means nothing, or its need to mean something for its own sake, until it means nothing again, until then. It feels this, and it is. This atmosphere is the negation of all that the spirit has most desire for, in that it has most desire for, in this atmosphere. It is the largest white circle being picked out of a circle, the largest unopenable universe. It is the negation of speaking. For it has us bewildered, as if one could come to one's senses and one could not have gone in anything close to disarray. 3 I see you. In the dim far distance, and then I bring you back. By the dim far distance, as if you were not there. In the dim far distance, and you are. So that what is fatuous such as mine can rise to the intellect and be borne to the ultra spiritous tower, and be known. And when I say, "I saw you," it means that I saw what was beyond, and that I wanted. That is the effect of the will, of sustaining a spiritous intention, and such a keeping drives me to higher and higher levels of being. And I do not say, as I do not believe, that this is happiness, or that misery is the same as no happiness, but that the former is pensive exhaustion, while the later is exhilarated; so that my being is like a ship, that has made one voyage, mooring and stuck, standing to receive shot into its keel. From which point of space it strikes itself, and, I don't know, rolling before it, or drifting, to the other, satisfaction level, but unsatisfied—unstimulated. That is the state I beheld when I raised my affirmation to the intellect, the affirmation of Nature in its natural activity, which is another way of saying that the world is dear to me. 4 And thus she mused, thus she mused, looking out upon the dark and partial dark side of life, the ebb and flow of currents, the whim of the wind, and the mad urgency of clouds, before whom one cannot raise the blind walls of one's heart. For who dares trust dreams of the spirits? The feeble spark of light in the blue clouds? All the lamp light that makes the trees Ionia dark when they are seen against it? All poor light? The meter of the air? All light that a tree makes? And the I on the wall? All light that is in the woods? All the dark as black as single rust grain in a lake? All that dark as blackness that abides (and descends) by the silence of the forest? And the morass of darkness in ======================================== SAMPLE 345 ======================================== : and sometimes, I thought A distant Sister and I were two. "Yes, this man -- if -- He thought me his brother; With those sweet thoughts and tender Obedience, prayers of a brother With me; Prayer that should mean More than tears or breath Of the brotherless seas To the sister, broken sister That we saw not -- neither thee nor me -- His sweet and suffering child, Who doeth dreadful things For her sweet God. Sister! I love thee! But with the woe That he doth cause, Thou canst not look on me. "O! to see thy brother Drain his very life-blood In that dry, thin, bald head, On which has time cast The hue of the shade. "Oh! to hear his gentle voice As it may hear thee, Upon my hand, when that is nigh Is of all sweetest things, To see his sorrowing face, When I bring my inimitable Face from out thy cheeks. "O! to be mute, And then to hear him pray, By the tears that trickle down To the blind eyes beneath, In a loud drowning tone, In fear I can never toil: To soothe his fear with smiles, "I cannot live without Marrying love with love. The world goes but as the market-man, That moves as if suspended, Plunges suddenly into the way, And moves no more: The heavenly races are handsame, And man is only a reel. "For me, It is wisdom to quit it With fulness of sweet hope, And, turning to heaven, to stay For a little while. It is beauty to be seeking, Though joy may well becouch, For beauty is the course to know, The course is-like-a-stream. "You who are seeking still, You are unsatisfied: Your seeking hath found you unsatisfied, And you are leaning still, Without news, far, away, Without friends, as you stay leaning still, Nor enjoy good cheer. "Ah! did you not tell me that! A man that is unsatisfied Fell out ere night. The wedding's on Saturday, That was not the night. I look forward to you, The happy, happy day, Not the bower, bowerful day! "I seek to live My life, as it is worth, I do not seek to live it all In a bower bower bowerful. I hate to be a bridal-maid, That pressest humbly Where women smile. And hear these words of mine!" Softly at that moment's distance She rose up softly to the valley, And, not knowing where she was hurrying, To her utter surprise the beauty Of the place exclaimed as she drew near: "Where nature prompts a graver course, Is always art. "--The world is so beautiful! I don't know whether I like it Amid a bandage. Your soul must find it by heart-beat, Or you will be glad when it goes, It is so very small. "--The gold of all your tongue, Like the grip of a black-thorn, My head has felt callowed off. I am so wide, I wonder If I know my own younding That a tree is. "--To be fair, life is not fair In my heart, I am so sorry, I daresay you don't like it, You say 'It's not my work, And I don't like what ae they do.' Leave hand in a restress tree Would look nicer than that. "--I am almost glad That you've marriage-certified That it's not so hard. I would not be the bride If that were best. "--There is light enough for you To see how the road is lay. And we do seem to be In nature very much. If you were but fairly heard, To you seem not far. "--Not to be beat about, But she did say you must Have a flower for her." Now the parson's dog, Roly Rousillon, being a bruiser, And a soldier of what was called the "square race," Was Kimmerley, in fancy, called "Heart of Oak," While the bride--"Olive-gold." ======================================== SAMPLE 346 ======================================== riotous, and for that scoffed at it, and that her dress gave pleasure to the eyes of men. "I'll make a pure infusion. Have a pinch of the yellow folk-saffron, pinch of the kingly-Indian, and I have sun-rays willed to me, that I myself must wear the crown. I'll charm it, so, with my magic, so that whoever shall touch it, whichever hand it may touch, that person shall possess the magic power of toiling for the glory of the Greeks; but this is not all. Odyssey I am telling to you, has much more than this, but now listen. Say that he spake, when he commanded the dolphins to play and whom they shall bear to. Say further, that he ordered torches to be carried to all cities of men in case they would amuse the dulcet-eyed Women of the World, the goodly-girt, be-dowed Womyn of Science. So he was called his fine old age, his wondrous war-currents, his prodigious voice, so that he could shout, as Tyrtheledermyrt is shouting to the motley tots of Peri cross, and that these monsters shall become a city every hour, a city ready to call every man in the world by his name, as I shall please to label me my country." Then the Goddess changed her veil, twofold for the knowers of it in the watch-dod: under one showed the nations in graphics, the subcontinents of the world, under the other did show geographic nations, as India and China. But when she showed the nations, the shiotgia had drawn to the nations, each from their proper geographic hole, the little world being shrunk like a bubble to an l from that world, because of the work of volcanoes and not because of any pollution. And the continent of Europe, continent of ice, in the retreat of the volcano, no longer was there a trench of water, That the great mother of all flame-lands, the great Mother of Trophies, over-fatten and darken during the long drought; from the heights of Kerguelas, the fault of the moon, to Naples, the position of Naples, because of the earth in its orbit, in this corner, and from that position, Europe was addition, was addition. Europe was Europe, the mother of the world. It is true, a little time in their lifetime, as time goes on they more and more officially burn, they are overrun by the world- son and world-sister. As the coalspread out in all directions, in line of sight, the timers boosted their bodies, approached their age, gathered their ages, and found them there packing their common grave. Europe was Europe, the mother of the conqueror nations. The part that was not chopped up neat was the mythological. The rank of the mortal was the common mortal. So much for the visible and the human, the mythological. Yes, you were mortal, but you were not, you were the son of Mythology. You were not the mythological because you were a mortal. I tell you this, and I say it with all my voices, at all times: man has died in the body so many times, it is hard for me to name the wounded unender who could say it. I am not a religious person, and yet, lest I be wrong, I will be upfront and say that I believe a God for two children was killed in the body, lest I be wrong, and I have seen too many God killings, and even now, I see him. I see him everywhere, and if you do not want to see things, stay away. Now he can hold your hand, and when he can kiss, and if you do not want to be killed, you will be reborn, and we will take a bath, and you will be given a robe of meat, and all your brothers and your sisters and your mothers, will tell you where you are going. On the other side of the wall, there is a door, and to open it, you will find dust, and then ======================================== SAMPLE 347 ======================================== es He is King, for your long habit of Thessalemaus. It would be easy to make an end of it all. I'd do it cleanly, and dispense ... For the sake of the times, I would. But you'd have to be ruthless about it, and give them as they see fit. Make them fit my own notions of what a 'madman' is, and a 'sentient' one. In other words, grab the straws as close to your heart as you can. They'll have a freak-nought to shy from your pineapple. Give them a shot of yuzu to dull their own bells and choke theirs, then start on a new round with the air of one who but only saw himself in the glass turned bottle, that mute glassman. Know you're only recovering like a monster from a bowl of spaghetti. But I'm the king, so I'd set that case with angel skin. Here's the glass man talking to his maker: "Be the mind in me, and after this summer, my love." <|endoftext|> "Sunflower", by Cynthia Marrbeko [Living, Time & Brevity, Religion, The Spiritual, Mythology & Folklore, Fairy-tales & Legends] I have to tell you something. I know it's risky to talk about the sunflower, the ultimate source of HA! with one glance of its face. It makes me feel "high-anthem," back in the day, I'll have to eat my words. I have to tough-tumble the world I love down into its rough Earth to find the inbeity that shines. It's not the first time I've done it -I've taken on the mushy-like residuum of a poem, shaped by having my eyes eternally melted- I came again this afternoon, this little plant, and to hear is to know. To keep a pet is to understand that it is a gift of some sort for those who have been nice enough to leave behind the fortune- telling dog and the fortune- telling goldfinch in their hearts. <|endoftext|> "for Carolyn", who emailed us with concern That some people think I am a villain: Of course I'm White, of course I write In bad blood (the old way), and therefore We must all of us in the diatribe. Why can't we just be glad that someone Remembers that midnight relative picture Of me in her basement, curled Naked on a hammock chair, a girl Who can't have gone dark. But I'm not a monster, member of the clan, A goon or girlfriend bomb-thrower. That's what we are not. <|endoftext|> "Devotion", by Cynthia Marán [Religion, The Spiritual, Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity] when my spirit is raised to your altar don't look for the creature you used to be. look for the empty chair. don't look for the man you used to be. the one who washed the dishes, the one who tutored the Latinate kid, the one who rode the T and drove the token Latinate kid to the game and taken him home. the one who prayed and came down again to water the plant and make its sighs the substance of your stories. the one who traveled from the nation, alive, the one who went at the end of the month and the season, dead, the one who stayed to hear at the end of the week for the sake of my own people, I turn to you. <|endoftext|> "The Story of Your Face", by Cynthia Marán [Living, The Body, The Mind, Love, Desire, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] "If we could expand the view to include the front, the back, and even the bottom from a nearby bureau, the whole scene would perhaps appear overhead, propelled by a thrust that's similar on every side." from now on out, you'll experience time as a frontier, not an‎ every shape. When I refer to your "new body," I don't mean it in the generic way, the way we use it in the videos, in the videos. The way we use it now. Your body. ======================================== SAMPLE 348 ======================================== Of not being in like mind, but in so far, That, when we think of God, we not repeat What is beyond recall. I say I.Toward me, who of all my thoughts, For I have them, strive to conceive, Thou: do thou then Thyself, though still Thou art unseen, refer to me. So to the heavenly thought, and not in me, give Names to those gods, those sovereign andacle of heaven, When thou and they, forth with their ministering spirits, Made all things heard, and all things seen and heard In you, gave all earthly things: all things were heard Laid die among, and naught was hidden. Now, when I call to mind those spirits, Spirits of love, who kept the wea.st. fountains, Thee and thine, those spirits of heavy Tomirisene, And those others, silent and abides in women, And they whose breasts shed Bat, ere yet the rose is green, Those words wherewith Pandora bore Those things which Thyself didst lay up, For torture pent in Paradise, but they By love were won to Heaven, so one bug ELENOR Tell me and tell, if unconfessed, That he may know if I am sad, and prostrate Before my Maker, for my heart which does Break, may be thy coach and sword to do so much Tory every one. <|endoftext|> "The Two Entrusted Knights", by Samuel Taylor Coleridge [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Love, Infatuation & Crushes, Romantic Love, Relationships, Engagement, Wedded woman] The two entrant knights, one comforting words,One even stricken in all senses, sad, glad;One sowhipping his face as the other—Sorrow and valor his affections—Warbled gentle. The setting sunsNow, in their weny, frosty mottled Frowns,Pale with rising up and dressian Grace;And the thick rising Himalaya pines,Darkened with graves and rosy temples,Yonder, above her husband's bones,And the trees, like dials, their moons a-glow,And this mortal dress, his lids, like either sideOf a yellow casket, whirled aboutIn this cloud-envied inner place.He, the organizer and confirmerOf those first-griffioned issues, nowA resolute, pagan medekingWith furloughs, prophecy, predictions,Fluctures, Parts, ftmi predictions,With stars, with conjunctions,And sharp leaves, and trips like that,Whose leaves and hark the mighty footsteps,And the hale earth reeks with ambrosial dews;Whose feet go forth as the scorpions,Hex and scath, on the hollower footprintsAnd staves which have what they desireIn still renewed delights. With haggadoesWhich terse and strict forbids,And makes ajar the pungentQUIUSClad and soaring like a temple door,And flaunting huge and blazing brightWith rich immoderate dames!]<|endoftext|> "At the Gorge", by Samuel Taylor Coleridge [Living, Coming of Age, Genius, Portraits & Statues, Heroes & Patriotism] At the top of that mountain Which, 'sinus mowOn the azure ridgeAdvanced so highly trussed, such as 's a themeFor translator, bard, or poet high,Think not but I will utiliseThe memory of the Æasica's guides, To make pane or parlour, thus my case To be the 'guido' of mine own house. Within, soon as I arrived, Young women, a party trusted, Gather'd, unimpressed, to smoke and chat;And 'moved, young men, who shyly dragThehive-crickets, or one airily. While, at large as shadows, expected That all my species should unfold. Not that she was a bitch, or bred the bee. Not that she was proud or meek, though somewhat dull; Not that she was glib, or Kraft, superapart; But that, in stirring, she had what it promises: The highest in the class the plan affords. Full of my travail to compose,I cast about for material.With others in my cup I drown them, And play with their ideas to infect.A rabbi (one of those) gave religious Discussion; a deist, Hume at nat'ral; Or John Gilpin, in eminently trammelled state, Who shook his neck and ======================================== SAMPLE 349 ======================================== Of some unlovely jade Come no more;--she never was true;-- The maukins in the pennon, Stray no more; the bells toll; Never he led the dawn To the sweet, green-hollowed mound Within the fortress, day by day, The same; the same; the river throng From its abyss to its marge, Seeking, weary of their quest, Soft part of her they find not,-- Ah! have pity! Why should ye And thy woman die? With thy woman have no fear. In the river lie twain, Two that came from the same home; Eyes twain and hair alike; Yielding their lives,--and mine! Go, trample, tread, On the crowds of those that throng by. The lover luters well, The maiden does not shy; Though between them wed, A breath of love she dare not give. Thither go, stand and cry: I and my Rose! Moons are made for lovers' tears! Rose, I and my Rose! Eyes and hair, and brows, and throat, Hail to me only!--Roses, Eyes and hair, and throat, and breast, For thee alone! When up through the mirk"Of ere"Wilt thou rise, Blows I know well the hour; When downhill sweeps thy drifting bark From the loved one fair, Who with weeping arm lacerated Should take the words unsaid, But I have thee always by the throat. Thy spirit wings the wind invades, Thy spirit sails the sky: Eyes and eyes, nose and breast The spells of thy phantoms wear! In tears, out of sight, unslaked, Till cold wenaments give place, The innocence unquelled Of my arms and my heart unquered Brings tears in an icy flood, And thy will done transcends all things. There's no helping it; a pang-purring siren singing her round-elancing tune, And she is the SPRING; And she has sung herself into my heart, andsthraping my soul I know not how, How strongly one feels one let the other speak, But to one's self one isn't so mad; And I have thought my ten ears must turn to hers, and left mine eyes to hers, But her tone goes up and down, And her fingers patter; And her song has caught my thought in its strength and its eager lilt: "I'm the SPRING riding over your back, Over your head to fall; Over your shoulder your dress can see; Over your body your wing-like form can bear. In the soft-flutey HOPP, hop of step, In the acrid-blowing planting joint, In the hop of leg to leg, In the sharp hopping leg, the high flying foot. In the gliding hop of dance to dance, In the rainy hop of cricket, In the ache and reuse of ball-play, In the looping hop of leg to leg, In the hop and burst of nimble roll. I, too, have I" said naught of actual oak, As in the laurel bracketed with flare and smoke, But as white pines wanton to and fro, So do my limbs move, my sounds, my tongue can say. I, too, on this spring day, Was singing the manner of the Spring, When I too, singing, know the way to an open space, And that slope of woods we call home. Ah! the love of day that's gone! Ah! the fall of a leaf! I'll consider its day even though it are never sunsets tomorrow. I'll consider its afternoon, if it be only sunsets, brighter than the day I counted then. I'll consider its noon, or its noon-atmosphere, Any moment, at any moment, in any world, If its light the spectrum of space See things warping, and turning and growing strange. Wings will be let down, and eaten, Wandered under by fairies, And all the mire of the earth Be kept clean as a fool's dream. There will be time set for the waking mind, And time given for each to do his best, Time to rise and go and bring in the garbage, And time for garbage to be burned and forgotten. I'll consider its afternoon, ======================================== SAMPLE 350 ======================================== First Father and Mother, I abjure thee, And thy lovers and those loving friends, Who receive thee kindly and with wine; O I now hear them declare the wine Which hast bidden them to this merry day. Thus when from wine and love 'twas thrown away, The boy comes in his father's place to bed. He trots daintily, behind his mane, And if my gown the point of a mouse-tail made, He blushes even at the name of "Dame". And, 'fore the morning we are out of bed, The wine makes us hot for our neighbours wives. We've no time then to be tumblin' sober, 'Tis too hot our fingers are before, And the wine we are pouting out Because we are tired of the cooler clime. But when the sun, that sets on the west, From the rivershore slowly and with pain Falls on the sea, and gilds the sky, The souse going a-boatfull, and with smoaker in Fills the big square-che starting slips. The cove is passed, and we are down, The masts are on the water, And down the south bakes the snow, And as I write, the pouring storm And I can hear the thunder awake; The mate came panting, and I said, "Ay, and it's no use, I tuck mine," And he smiled and said, "Glad we'll be." The anchor, bolt rough and flotationless, The hempstitch bawlin' thin 'neath the sun-- This is all I claim for song: A poor young man, with space but little head-rule 'être', Time much less than a sirtian, lots of weeks, In short, not even a month, to tell it short, And yet with face askew, And with gobbler ranting And with hang breath, And with latchart cool And with great pullarr rude, And with hands all brown And with odd thumbs easily passin' them up and down, Who, as the weeks in towards the end crawl by, More and more get their miserable confidence pins-- I really aff duty tock on my own laundry; And the more I see some folks loit'ring, The more I think, t'oke of the fact that, somehow, Somehave not all been soak-sacks to day; God was my counselor, and I confess His advice has been pretty stiff to get. He says, "Hear, a gay good-luck tale, A mile or twain, so tries the mind; And while his eternal providence A wise divine approve'cs shape, Savour cherries of golden store, 'Twould taste most bestif it could be As fresh as may spring, Would taste most gracious, though it were Early in May, when a dreamy train With music sweet And June-like warmth all supports itself, And gentle breezes bear The glow of such music along. Then add the depth of aim From genius, and the sweet Side-bright courtesy Of unashamed frankness: And added with relish, which is just Thrill-worthy miracle! What need of curse or threat If this same heavenly sort Would tell me, time and again, So writes and sings As when he sings and tells The same story so, In presence of that friend, Whom just now I've told I'd fain pray Heaven Have better care taken of him? The waters have an element Of tenderness. They shudder, And then they cry, and when Some hint of a star Comes hot-swiring up the sky, The seas, ye ken, their sad allegiance Whiskers up and say, "It can go all sums, Where it is needed, 'tis true; We feel the splendor, But we're not so fine, We can't, however, Imagination make it, Nor warmly dispense With the gentle grief That sometimes trouble us, When a dreamy loft Where glittering Angels hold Their peak, a tower so high, That long-untershallest Look down on a limping, sorry, Yellow, caution-needling plain." When the fight's to turn it's on its back And go still, oldy beatdown, There are two fighting pieces left me. I know, I know They're twaining, but ======================================== SAMPLE 351 ======================================== odies, and very clever, and very smart. In his trunk you can see the nape, the ear, the belly, The folded knees, the sightless eye, the secret thing That makes him Bobber, and he calls Pinkerton. Fried, and fressed, and powdered, Bling-ey'd and blinkered; In my Lady's gown Blest immerITIES, I vow! Lily, bergamot, and rose, The glorious, the magnificent! (A smallpox hinders me here, Down in the Bowery, Ma'am, but so true, True as I walk it is.) Our Appialcous will be In the distant Game; We'll cut a round enervated And supersated waver; 'Tis the strong Devil's arm That we shall see in full cross this play; I see it tightened by the cords of bacon, Argent pain, and sepulture. For the Doctor's lost neeght Will hang the back, and pound the Beat, And sentants nae frugalie; The wealth of Aladdin's chest He stoir save a breech, And make a bargain with this: Ye Lady and King, take wicht, For Chief Architect unto you, Ner-cry, or lisp, or fling; Stoke-a-bed and stay, The Resounding Mast; And to the Fiendish King, Hold, a foreign sword-blade, For his beastly bisection, A fee-lean'd testament. Our Apialcie will be In the distant Game; We'll bring you your boist'ry, But not on ye ane. By high indulgence slice, The havey of a distant meal, The bob which you waxwile swort'y, And think you have it made with; Look round eny baight, But you'll want it never: How anes with cheese you do, For nae at winds a-chaping The lintels, thud. Hae ye ageynst nere a kirk cunnin' How w nonaki lower do? An Oons and Oons I'le reel wodedee for mair. For frae morn ye tak heed, Till star each buss-chaun gits dressed; For monie a burn the tussling blinks O' ye smoke, as gowd toog that air, That ye are nought. For see, with bonnie glowing eye, Ye hold the prettiest hame; Art well conceren'd i' your droll, Or fool's ev'ryting? Troth, my sweet, sweet, set free My bod' a little; How ae freedom bringing life-long trollee I'm hurt, kenfu' to kill! But mock not, gentle thou, A churlish hide not lent thee, To tak' thy besOut at your will. My suit, sae fair and a'! It gae some sic ache, Lord Christ send me the teeman, O. Mercy e'en me! Or sair as a'! How wildly 'thworn I'm routh! Lord Christ say how! Aew, it left the goreyne, A winged angel, wi' glist'ning e'e, A winged curlee peer, All 'twixt the bright aye ringaff! A spark of Life the star of e'en, That, passing inner light, Sees and mysteriously foresees And secret hints of myrie. Nature! who 'sheer gae to de'il or truth, And can it have grasp't her by the throat? To feel and ken the limpest of things, The fush and floud in each seething glade, The broo when storms open! Hush! sweet Nature! My heart is rivell'd in my bosom to this: O, grant me waic insight, man is yet to lose. Whare else hae I sep'l griev'd, dear dainties, Nature? O, let me gaspe thee, nor ever more ane disobey. But added to the rose, the hone to hone, and the brackest of weeds. And see the princess in distress, whom I wish'd but might be My suitor, come at dear nor see her ======================================== SAMPLE 352 ======================================== eless flowers, to bring me to a place of fear, to blind me to the beauty of the world, to the life-giving joy of living. What is this thing but a monument, an echo, an ill, an emotion cast onto a living form? You touch it, and you own it, you feel it, you make it, and then you die? And yet, without a human voice to say, without the joy, the fearless beauty, the soft wisdom, the tenderness of hope, of peace, I say it is not a thing, but a place. You touch it, you feel it, you make it, and forever. And here, in this soft summer evening, in this European city, at this end of the expressway, the sky sickens from some distance; a man screaming, his face a swollen mouth; a small child wailing; and, in the sky, a dying light. I, too, appear, a man; a hand, myself; the memory of what I did; an echo, a crying infant, my baby, a mother loved, a girl, her body open like pleasure, her face white from shame. And then, without reason, the sick man moves, the screaming woman moves, the infant is crying. I see her as woman, my own fierce self— the body, the face, far too perfect for the white to pantomime of white and sin. And you— what white is this? This white humanity? And you, too, who saw the metal of money as she did, the treacheries of man? What white self to choose you? White and human? If I had laughed at thirteen, at all the sex and violence the sopranores taught me, then I too might choose, without choice, what white and human I can think and say, without choice. <|endoftext|> "Cliff Leadbeater's HS Year," by Frederick Seidel [Nature, Fall, Arts & Sciences, Social Commentaries, Class, Memorial Day] 1. The eldest of five sons, the oldest brother, he'd Tinkerbell in his hand, a golden transparent stone, a small stone thrown by his father by his house where we stayed the house we'd found on the corner of High Point with its rusted-out rusted locks underneath a busted fence bordered by wood slabs of loot corn or wild beets and acrid living trees, we thumbed a piece of slate to carve our names on, at laying our limbs with the boy on the same side of any story we'd write after a life of work no one could lead but each other seeking ledness (as if led were clear) he wanted Fitzwalker or a tu bson where bonsai fell as just one of two on this orchard of maple and oak where just living there, without wanting to it was all there, the house, the yard, the trees, the unbuilt-up street behind the house we'd towered from the curved edge of the woods (as if we had laid ourselves there first) the loaded shade of the house through our built-up windows it glanced as if it were paneled or framed as if it belonged to some other man (the other wore a rope, a domp, a jumping jack) my room had a red t shirt as part of a painted hangings and folklor. one wall was planked or fenced with corrugated glass. The whole house hummed with voices and hands that shook the walls then? They shook the paint, they shook the rocks in the crook of each arm and ======================================== SAMPLE 353 ======================================== The House of Hades yawns, deep, gloomy, still, With unquiet hearths, and slumbers mild; Its gardens sleep; the ghosts of forgotten eras Glide timidly along its wood-egged streets, Like rainbows on its midnight wave. Whither, then, dost thou wish to go? Whither?--if thou couldst, wish ever! For that which forgets no more, no more The tombs that dread its sprawling flank, Shall hear thee in thy stupendous wings:-- Woe, that the awful, awful, only whim-- Till--well--look out of its gaping hole! O old, silent cemetery! grand, mighty cemetery! Look out of your gaping mounds and murmur your strong refrain. Look into the vale at night--its star-ship has landed on its breeze! The skies are blue and glow with a soft, calm glow-- Our wings are behind us and the ground before! The space that is circling us is like the Universe-- nowhere to go-- And the goal that is waiting for us, far down below! Whom do you ask when asking who thou art? <|endoftext|> O Lark, in your shady skies, a-swing With many a scintial, shifting Blink of yellow, you will know much That I know not, as I swyrmon's been Under dew-quenched trees, over many a hill Wherein Shrops-bites with thin wild rime Have writen no trace of sallad feathers, In natur' pure, as vintages of eazemouth Or dew-edged hillocks. And, nigh nice, the Hilloo! you have won My heart. Nigth, you' will find me in a DB or DBE Pallissed, as if with satin-patterned catkins Warm'ing, and stuffed with reeds and lily-wills Cooling. And heaving deep, my maintenelg'e Before me on a horizon wide open, Dark'ning, in the vale of unexpected dark Shall all the horizons of the world be barred, A black conception against a black devider Streaming, a black devider on the BLIND FLOOR Thrown, with its large black disk labeled IGNIS JONES... I could not see him. All I know is, there rolled, as one may prank A hippo some silver balls, and there in Opa TearLE, One by one the Cus Andronceus its whirring purr Took from the wronged nose-twigs, and purring did the crook So good, and well-trod hat, and well-cushioned chair He clipp'd, in which he sat so sweet, and with such a florid Licence that Mr. Vincent Would, to make a sure treatment, Had scrape'd all ailments that London never knew. But that long-aimed bullet well he right 'ploy'd it. And that.... But, O! beginn'st to eye Oiazza now, As I, who do his races from time-to-time, know too well. For I, who was once him at the hands Of one that did not look on him come and go Full kindly, did both haste and break both strongly Down the Strathearo, past all his other doors And markets complete his seasons clinking, Until the Castle in cuck pressure Seized me--and now, O he justice display Full man-shape in the tallirin' iron-bound, I see him still at the lifts, but I see My bright friend's shape taller, taller, taller. If there be charms so precious and sweet, If there be beauty, that nought can dull, If there must be one perfect beauty, My love to crown, I wish it were yourself. Flatter about the curls of perfection As you never yet have from the curls of hers. O that you were here, my thank-ful Matty Marso, It would be an old tradition, I daresay, That you had brought a donkey in your wise, black car. Full many a time I have heard people say That when they went with you upon the zip They took in front, that when you stepped apart From the dapple that is slowly unrolling, And down into the small hoops with you The audience clapped, cheered. And there you stand, with your eyes ======================================== SAMPLE 354 ======================================== ... and bade her, young Vayla, be seen no more. 'She came in her full strength, and wasted down the stair Into the room where Tú is laid, and said, "O friend, Speak with the King, who loves you both, with me draw near. O Mayay, he who seeks the Lord of all has need of you. So, say your say, and press your lips to mine in prayer. And thou, say, in turn, what wilt, for the world is sore And I am weariness and lack of sweetness at the end.'" And through the virgin's golden hair and chest were seen The threads of gold; and thereon none ever laid Hand upon the hair as though it were gold and wax. So rich was she that on her bed of lawn she lay That the sharp sunbeams might have glittered there a space. So great was she and so observant was she, So noble was she in brows so grand and so jet, That her body had no swathing except her soul. As she had said her prayer she turned to go, And never a look asked for on the girl she loved. O Lord of all the goodly Oats for which we wait, Had she kept her self aside and stayed the maid, And made a condition that she should be her own Through virtue of her sex or because she was fair, She might have had the lady's favour. O Mayay, her mother said, be not so brash; You've done more than one should to scorn your own. Yet go you sometimes to the festival? And sit you down before the master of assemblies? And bid he see you when awen, sir? We will have to consider the mean behaviour of the fellow. Oft indeed he visits us in his slops; For we have introduced him thus, and think he is not equipped To manage grace at a festival, a ses Vandal, Before Tullia the maid with her high Norfolk nose, And a wonner Guise than can be managed by a man Who is not yet half so ux and half so wondly As Mayay, the maid whose name everyone addresses With words like gol, won't, and whom some heart seeks to love, With the look of, well, never mind, as most do. This is the way he takes his trouble into himself And talks of opinions, so we get our pick Whenever he's in a frolic so as to have His trouble into himself. Then when he's in a pickle Between us, or between himself and us, We shall approve of what he scorns and praise What he approves. But he's got to pay for the trouble he's bore With his blood, you see--upon his hands and knees. And thus the torpid age of complaisance Become swiftHDlashing hoofs of a thirty-two-stool And ninety-five-times privy to the spot Where he ascends, where he sits between the head And chiefest part of the kingdom of waste Which fixes the term for which his wits must run, When the absent trilogy reappears in every scene Where the wisps grow obvious, Must become such that we can't see where he is, Must feel so strong that we weak people determine That the nature of Divinity is a indestructible mystery, Unchangeable in point of man or order of the universe, Begining out of chaos and enduring as it were on errand With whatever incidents are necessary in the way To change its modifictory points of repetition, He's old, I say; and you have a general kind of picture in mind, Absurd as be your protagonist be, the last of his race All the tempests he endure entailed, in the manner That his ancestors had, as a matter of course, No doubt, a custom, a custom what couldn't but be current In that case, among the black-eyed Africans, and may have Hind cast their eyeballs and are what you describe, A disgusting custom--we'll call it true to keep it pure, But we leave it just that it be true--till the expiration Of the day duly have greeted an unconsidered wish. It is plain that when a man's in the current of life, As men are often in want of life as soon as a man's born, He doesn't think of anything, nor of anything imminent That may change his condition. And as to his religion, They say it's just a tolerated creed, not a religion that permits ======================================== SAMPLE 355 ======================================== But the flicker of eyes Is fastened in the human frame. When we are poor as the crow's We are rich in the eyes of the globe. I do not know how we got out of it, He said: It wasn't the heart that got out, It wasn't the head that got out, It was a flicker of red All over the roof and walls, That went away, one second, After a minute. And then They took us back to the City. <|endoftext|> "Carolina Poem", by Elizabeth Barrett Browning [Living, Death, Marriage & Companionship, Love, Heartache & Loss, Relationships, Home Life, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books] What wavers not this fleeting life But Love?—No matter by what cause We are again faced with the same white hands Bleaching our quiet pages in its flow, And with less clearness the morning sun. That face is older than our faces: It trembles round us as he turns away From the still pool where a great plague bird fights In a gray sea sea of blackness. We knock and examine a wood Of foreign sticks, that seem to smile Suddenly with absurd little griefs Only we, some moment93 years old than you, Already see through the transparent age Some old-fashioned quality about you That old-fashioned face... But who that ever shall see through the tear Tears the real nature of men and women Of nature's ancient times Whose fundamental love is love? <|endoftext|> "A Delicate Help", by Elizabeth Barrett Browning [Living, Infatuation & Crushes, Love, Infatuation, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture, Painting & Sculpture, Philosophy, Poetry & Poets, Romantic Love, Relationships, Valentine's Day] When gentle Youth and pert Stonelie paint With Scrolls the swimmpt grass, The soft orchard's delicate frame Is overflowed with Larks, The tall grey poplar stands A daring work of Arts; Men work in Shipsteemen, then They sell And snug themselves attired pleughly: So, reader, my soon Clicking will open crates of Shipsteemen: The Custum's a pawn; the Muster is a starring Of clanking, unswing windows By old Nicholas, who (bightly he bleached his edges) Gleeful, fabulously rich, A true New-year's pictur'dRoom, with panes of power And thunder'd oak vaults crimping with rubies. (A rustic Rose is planted On rich Shell-bustard trunks, like relics of grimmest fate.) But lo, hapless I! in frolic dressing most beseldome, Which rais'd my inhead, save Anger only, cri'd my pain, Some worter multiply'd behind my calm, Peaceful air! my sleep would open The marvels of my life: Nor will the smallness of my snivelled heart Suffer me to kiss Chipp, or to wrestle with the Frowning Face That dwells around sweet Beauty: But the great Shadows will not stretch A-striving under the blue; The Wisp of shadows shall stretch and cease Ere long over me; the Stars will not dart their lightning round My native Zodiac. Dear to the Budding Moon new-shapen in me Are the deep swaths of her loveliness, Like that anomalous Pantheon which neither suns, nor horns, Nor other stars, nor gloaming Arrayed in shirt of immedicable eyes, Gluster in the deep, which all the Gods adorn, Nor, reeling through immaterial fires, Them all night telescope, Swells into a fine explosion topmost, Which from their mutable height merrily cuts With sharp crescents dart'st in each unmeant Target of Will With round analyst glance. (I say only on their dart's body Their design indeterminate; But the dart in flight is chaste, An on-run of thunder: Every shot from thy bow, Anticipation of what then strikes me, Bears bow new-born skin of many hues.) Now, dear Moon, shine thou sweetly With temper indversion in response My reprehension; nor compound ane ======================================== SAMPLE 356 ======================================== Did such only for their sake, who teach The idle, pleased, to live disjointed, And selfishly give themselves the care, And other people none? I'm against keeping quiet, Against a sense of humor; I'm like an old theatre fly, I'd rather bite. An old theatre fly's a play It can keep. An old theatre fly is No more a worm. I'm sick of sponsors, Of preaching to the weary, Of proofs, objections; I'm with Swinburne I'm A Quaker. A Quaker of the cup Is no more a Quaker. I couldn't call the cot a home, I don't belong there; I feel myself at home at night For dropt head, for rain, For wind, for wo, for woe, For round, hard ground, I'd rather be, On dark, windy precipices, (Where nobody sees me walk). For if I pine for any one, It is a riot Of discouragements, A fluttering, a dismembering, An unscathed divorce Of duties, supporters, Of cuckold soothings. At twenty-one I left home, I think I ne'er was welcome. My coevals seemed evown, They say I tarry in church, But I'm eligible. My cold relations, they're all in prison, I've forgot their address. I can't find them given names, it frets, I keep forgetting man Vittorio, They're only ten or twelve. Here, here's a pound, Here's a pound, Here's a fathom, here's a pound; Selling all my lands, Here's a straight feint, Here's a whole sifter. Here's half my lands and this"-- "I canna see, I'm so bald!" "Here, have one sista, Here's ma barm," said she; "Ye'll have no daw, ye'll have dore, Ye'll hae one barmint, ye'll be buey, And be bald." Here's one half my lands, Here's papa, there's mama; Whish! what mamma but love? Here's three soria's What mamma but LIE? "Ba gum, ba gin," Here's one faint and here's tae be beat. Here's one half my lands, Whisht what papa, whisht is sonia? "Ba seid, when I'm seint Mary, 'Tis tak to make a rat I fand ye heard dat," sez VICKI, "I heard de first tings de German castors use." When I'm a woman set, Goes down and folds me up, Til peaches breath in me Grube a big red rat, peaster aces Sargassos, Shins? Yet speak I must, Yet cannot use me, The heart within my heart Part of part of me Will not down, In the greenest of autumn seasons For any shelter. Yet speak I must, Yet cannot use me, The heart within my heart Will not part me, In the Spring, in the Springtime Sail I am free. Yet speak I must, Yet cannot use me, The heart within my heart Will not rise me, In the rosebloam, the rosey, Seal me at last. Yet, speak I must, Yet cannot use me, The heart within my heart Will not rise me, In the shoal, the fresh, the deep, That Pool my part, Will not drown me. Yet, speak I must, Yet cannot use me, The heart within my heart I can not love. In the Spring, in the Springtime, Please I twine me, In the pink, the rosy, And bright as gold. Yet, speak I must, Yet cannot use me, The heart within my heart Will not rise me, Tho' the rosary fat, Crowned with crosses, For love's kingdom. Yet, speak I must, Yet cannot love me, The heart within my heart Will not rise me, Tho ebbing lessen, Harden my love. And now the hour is changed. Where splatter of shadows is, Now dr ======================================== SAMPLE 357 ======================================== Before the open door she stooped Upon her reverend knees, and gave God thanks for all Her pity and wealth, and then with her dear chain She laden, as in old days, a poor maiden, Spoke the fervent prayer, and led the little children About, as duty led. And when she went to lead the prayer. It was the dawn of day, Before the solstice. The silent forest, like the world, was still, And a small moon hung in the blue. The long grass glittered white Where the wild grape grew; The holly holloahed in the wind; And the maiden, sleeping by the cottage door, Shouted a hosanna: Lay down in yonder quiet place, And stay your steps to-night. The hush-dance of the quiet moon Will carry sound and shape to us, And we will hear and see, By the blaze of Binniane's golden towers, The splendor and the glory of Milan, And ever farther away, shall carry The music and the flush Of one white hand brushed over white linen! Monna knows you of such sorceries, And those who sway her hidden trade; And some are bows and some are wings And most are not at all: She takes and denies you--she, who knows All bows and wings, by the whole of heaven And earth and sea, by sea and land. A farting fart--I mind it well-- Set my Physician Fab and all the Shop, To wild set hearts a-flying. "What's up?" askedentirely the Fairy-vault, "Dear sir?" "Monna wont life sae to ane hour back-sat, Sae cauld to do her last kind duties. When she'd hobbled back, the youngun Jinked talkit in, an' ye hiS she proudly Thoaned That kind maister wad ne'er stay gode ane Wi' the likins o' that time-honied fone. "Nae," she said-how, like a mysis-cracking bull, That storms-spirit wafted like a trump! "Nae," she said-an' iS she knew my chest, "The tailor's shop, in which you used to tine, Would I wad stayed now. The land forna afir Were hoose baith weeks ago; and yet, sicteranet, Mumen Priam's city, wud be ca'd a paradisk Ere that on rare sawmant mo on Crist at all!" "I'm aadde 'at's!" I said-like a woefull oaf, Bismarsel like, that bawsnoaf on a mere. Soaring to heck, I leant my auld buss, Guzzock and winkied gaping like a stief. She rushed on; aścarles jinked out, An' thunstèd aśhill in oor dropt the claque; An' soĽ an' ressified a deillish O' bed and board! O dear, that slip-sack maks o' t' seas o' shox Way the go get richer still the deill nowts The city I should like to see, Gana, as a stief I'm reid, An' tell you daisies o' christ'nads in, More than one dies, ye're in my sight. Daisies, colbyters, fair, an' mezz Rowland She's prickin yet, but sune anent her, Though thotty-stutter she's feear, I like to see the wheeleASSISTANCE And his long pith, An' cauvin a boy, Whan he casts mools i' the craigie snie, (Cou'd I am CUMBERSTER for to warme, In city or country, on a shaw, When t' rooskis are all done with me) He's caufeth this," she said, "in city te spend, For t' claque, As well as token waiths, For bairns ye hae in thy, bad thi beau, To spend together, i' ye knowr}, Thicker than a stouty ceil, An' swearer te him. Tho she put in a rout that I fowk ======================================== SAMPLE 358 ======================================== A beam of light in a box. I will not be ashamed to be afraid And to look at you. I never knew the secrets of the sea. My fancies rove. I cannot tell you how the sun and moon Shower down like water from above, And why the storms are so bold. They will shower down their drops of blood, And then again. I only know they come, all together, Like a crowd of birds or a swarm of bees Dropping into a hive of sharpening combs That sit on high in a little frame house They have built high on a hill. With a tilt of the head and a swing of the hand And a whisper of the tongue that goes and goes, Borne by most alone. We are not forgetting you in the night. With a snap of the fingers gins in and out The sky and sea. And I know you are there with the waves to climb, And the rocks of life claw with their heart gleams And wrap around your limbs. And you never will fail, You that are tingly and tiny and strong In a world that loves to throw Its hardest questions at your pigheaded breast. And yet you never will fail, <|endoftext|> "The Bear is Dead. Long Live the Bear. All Attend!", by Robert Duncan [Nature, Animals] The bear is dead and the summer is begun.The bear goes to the yard in the swampland,where the dead bear's skin is bobbing poolside on the wine.The sun bear does not make any sudden moves. <|endoftext|> "Bees", by Robyn Waldfell They had their day— that bear was it— Billed in the year with them, five, or four— Billed in the year— that's how it seems to us By the time we first saw them panic-shed And bore them that January night, We should usually see them another day, But one turned up dead and another, So each that followed had gone back to keep— Billed in the year— but that's too simple a story. Our five had only the night to make it. The wind's first light that arrived with the bear would never turn in by night, March or 48 hours, and so they had to—"Bilign— Is—is" the way the biologists use, for that matter, and so they took their pass— Billed in the year. The month and year are ever a-dooming them, and nothing happens after that. <|endoftext|> "the great ballroom incident", by Robbie Kessler One of my closest experiences was the great ballroom incident. It all started when I had stepped on a red carriage. At this point, I'm a boy in a boys club. I was buying cartridges for my gun. This is where we always meet. I had no idea what was happening. I had no idea who was coming in to blow. What should I know was happening and what should I know or remember? I first heard the word sexual through a voice masking. Later people started stepping on. The number of who didn't included me. I was told I was in a house far away. When I told the guard, he told the same reporocity I was telling myself. He said I was so Token they couldn't buy me a ticket. We started with many of us and then one. That was if I don't charge the full plane that I can. I didn't know that meant I was a fill-in for a-trunder. I didn't know I was loading time. I was told to pack up what I had and fly somewhere amazed that I had been born at all. I didn't know I was filled with power to fly I'd only flown on my tum until all ======================================== SAMPLE 359 ======================================== ; The wives were happy; and so were they. * It is an easy world to run in. We live there for two or three days and return By freighting thimbles and dirt. To be is easy; to end—the road Is rocky at best. The glitter is growing dim On the bright devastation. * The spray that smelt like roses Swept like death on the last day Was a cloud of angels on the hill While the little boat slid down Slipping the whirling lips Of tormented souls. The sea is like a huge wave On the beach all day. In the sand the heaped remains Of dogs and of men. I called him strong. He lies there ill sprawled On the burning, blown-green grass. The last boat's standing In heaps on the sand. * Sister I must sing a song To make you strong to bear Love's turmoil and conflict. Love's fire consuming, Spilling love's delight, Make your heart more precious, brother, Than your great dead father's soul. Sister, sing this song of love; Brother, agree; Neither will look at either. Rather you will look at home, Merely a green hill and tree tops. The rest is ours. Sing, sis, sing! The world has little to give. We snatch at love in vain, Sister, sing a song. The world has little to give. Sing, sis, sing! <|endoftext|> "Spring", by James K. Barrett [Living, Coming of Age, Activities, Sports & Outdoor Activities, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Money & Economics, War & Conflict, Heroes & Patriotism] the end of summer is the peak of violence against child-gen Rivalling the plague of times, when we- all- bice our ankles with torn promotional adsfor medicine handed out by a friend with a bag full of plastic blades we'd divided into 4 equal portions, each of us holding one, we'd watched as gypsies threw cigarette butts into the bowls we'd served picnics under spornial breeze, our blue T-shirts bubbling in the juice of Swiss Chorizo, splashing around on the bacon they'd stuffed into caps we'd spilled upon, we'd even gone so far as to share the mustard with a friend of a friend we'd both selected for our husbands, who'd addorsome burden to the nest-loaded southside, whose pusfueon only latoubled the leather of our hands, making it burn a shade of woodruff tey swank to scan the cars as they cruised thru Irwind-y sections of town. and we- all- raising our hands to de-light our shadows, only fleck-drawn babies were once-and-a-dreft children. but after smoke, punch, sword, bloody floors, we're each prom-tops, juice gush-sparking, self-sealing, lined with fanny-ful of persimmon, on field trips instructed by our "inmates." after which we-all- leave. each stammering youth-on-the-rose in proper chrysanthemums, lilacs sere. after which we-all- exult. <|endoftext|> "Letters from the Castle", by James K. Barrett [Mythology & Folklore, Heroes & Patriotism] RED wrapped and held-open umbrella a bow she tucketh, her arrows, her darts, the primrose, each one, three, four, six, eight, ten, twelve, sixteen, twenty, two four, six, eight, ten, connected, two three, six, nine, twelves, four, three six, ten, twelve, two four, six, ten, twelve two three, six nine, eleven, one four, eleven, laid out, the mats rolled up, the lake-folk, the Lake-men, the men from below, the prisoners, the new, the unwed, the old, the betrothors, thelers, the paramours, all the castes and divisions of [NOT FOR SAFE INTO, but to keep them apart, lest they touch.] the Mare Fraissart, the Mare Blue, the Mare in a Coma, the Mare Who will not move from beneath you even though you ======================================== SAMPLE 360 ======================================== Make out the riddle. Pip! Pip! Pip! in the dark. Pip! Pip! Pip! Pip! Pip! Pip! Pip! Pip! Pip! Pip! Pip! Pip! Pip! The golden sun sinks down and dies, the golden sun shines on a golden sea. There's a ship in the midst of the shine, And one little candle beside her steaming. And she's the divine steaming ship And she's the divine little soul The steam up to the light a divine first movement of a divine second. Well! How do you? - I sit and look at you. Whom do you think you are? a dog, Or a goose, or a swan, or a fall-glutting, oinks in all the heaves 'Photograph!' or 'Gobble!' And then you go away, and sometimes I listen, and I hear; And I like it. That's the world-of-tomorrow, and over-world-of-wheels, And I'm not as other people are, And I'm not as other people are. And the thing is, As I sat one winter evening and one winter midnight Looking at the stars out of the window of The Boley Ball, All of the toys I saw on high That I could buy with gold, Tow-headed-cat, all other cats Came much too slow, and said too seldom, But brought them too close and went away. But the stars did come too soon, and stayed too late, And I missed them too far. But the moon Could not come on over. And the clock-women, when they knew me, and men knew, Were in the ball-room at the southeast corner of the hotel, But not alone. They came too near and went away. But I missed The moon That time. I have to settle up the Balance now. Fairies did it by knots, By which I got them to follow me, To go with me to the herb, and there I say; And fairies can trouble, I did say. I said, 'I will leave thee, and ah, make no more.' Then they were to come from the garden, and they did; I threw off my body, and they burned, and I laughed, And there I am. They crossed themselves, and they made friends of me, And I said what I wanted was not particularly To be distinguished by a tail, now I amqueath my tail To be the fright of rats, till I am gone hence. And fairies may trouble, I did say. I'll to bed, I did say What I would do, which was to read the cards now If I could. And what I should choose, which was not to live, 'The wind has changed, and I do not like the gales.' The wind does change, but not to my liking. And fairies may persecute, I did say. In the old fairy city, They are still who played with her, She sees the little lights on her ways, And the great fairy trees, As she was told, and her cedar tree And her dear cedar friend. The little fairies are shy, She does not dream of coming out For a good night's play, She dreams at least she may crawl Up under her own lots, With her green and green, green leaves to show, And her yellow et cetera, Her yellow neckcloth, Her bluing eyes, Her combs, Her quills, And her wigs, Her bobtailed fans, Her rings, All these, She toads, And more, The clubbed feet, The club foot pretty, The club head very, The little arms, The little ears, The little fingers, The little hands, And more, She turds, And the forest parts, She as a rose by being turned), She goes and she carries, She has a way to turn), She rolls the eyes, She laughs, she yicks her little heels), She can takyn in). The tail, She goes and she carries, And she does not turn), She has tills, she has gowns, She is dressed, and so she is pince-ted), Her legs are telled, And her soles are plated); She has bands to hold her arms, She ======================================== SAMPLE 361 ======================================== charity, thrones and amasses. Where e'en the faintest languished dreamer feels The dreamer within. What gold cloud-compelling power Hurls us from out the mind's eye out of reach places, To unknown starry lodges! What marvel there Of inward thought and dreaming on the wing! There is an ancient story, it's my own Told of the Englishman who wandered about The wilds of northern Italy with Peter, Found foxglove growing there and ass's-eye, But ne'er had seen a wild rose or a red rose, Nor blithe mademoiselle--an old False tale indeed! And yet to me it had A more than pleasing sameness, like a song-- A song I've longed to repeat for long years. I set the table for our supper--she unwound Her finely broken fernal cloth, and wept To think of the cold broth,--but smiling said, How in the world I might feed my little feet Up toenantly, as cowslips do, "down To the depths of Paneus, where the sweeter thaw Suffers the grass, and thro' green lanes of snow Up to green towers and glassy splendors, there, As if we but entered 'vere willi to look At some ruins, or at a fair old town, or caught up An agateskeleton, or even a bit of Goos Dodge And crooned soft on a plaintive draught, while you sat there, With the wild bee vies, in your strange rapide,--'tis there You wax perfectly sweet, from the heat of sun And kiss and song, with the peace that glides away, And a sense of endless cycles, and the breath And foam and writhing insectments of seas, And all the wet silliness of elfin shapes; And there we sat, you stifled many a sob With comforting all things with a comforting smile, Till I would tell her, were 'twere word or cake, 'Tis timorous fate--you know and I Had jumped at the word--but first--let us go To Myrtle's Gap and take a bath upon the rock. The period is no more! The holm-looted brooks No more with their tramp no more do they with roll What we olenty persons call life, ye ken? No more, madam, no more--my haggard years Have erred with their endless years with you, I hold. Nor any man more lonely nor moister nor stander by The close of the intense love with the hide around him; And neither you nor me at that elfin thrillin' hath The quiet nurselings--where the lone birch still is bending Her age in barin'--to tend--and spin a shell-like rhyme. What knows the spirit the spittle?--the smile it falleth From people unseen, speaks the love what none beholdeth, Soothes sorrow with its ease, and the hollow wind with its sound! I might go on like a bore, and the holy-days keep me fixed Indo their tumultuous graves, the complete wastes to roam among. They ask you, then, to describe your wonder-going And the desire that is an unbearable interest Wherever you have been. Tell of the exquisite Snow, and the--fog that o'er the lone fields dews to flow, The exultation of the lover, and all desires To which you have been underversed. You, and you sister--we are going to play In the dawn of a magic night! Hark to the horn, and follow me inside! We shall throw by the clothes, and girdles, and all, And quiver our shaking bands in a frenzy, And rise on little feet and feet, And in a minute she'll a spring, and I'll say, (As long as the beast I choose can be undone) And she'll fly on her tender weak knees She's as sure to win me with her head as body: She's as ready as I am to spin her in a cage; She's as sure to get easy, and stay it, if I do: There's no woman that can move me more dizzy Than her heart, when she has got me at sixteen or so. And, though I have seen her when she was small, and though I think I am more like a man in his depth Than she is in hers (she more like the laborer, or ======================================== SAMPLE 362 ======================================== Evermore they were on guard, Hemming the strong hands of the dwellers, Warding the houses from sudden raiders; Till one by one they fell in the slaughter And were carried over by the raging fire, To the dismal place where the harpies rove. Lo now, ye that pass by that horrid mouth of hell, Lo, there upon the high seats of the orcage Four of foul night Lit, kindling each a fiery spark, Lithe and watching the vultures. Whom the King discrowned from his throne at his banquet, Stood one by one Till he came down the western stair. "O ye lowlights of my court, Here take you all the scum Of the wicked," quoth he, "The worst of me! for once I WAS King of all of them poor apes and birds, And hadsoever monarch or lord Either winged or limbless, A king though now of lice-bits. Fierce, foul, unruly, ungovernable, wide, hungry, wild, greedy--is the same after rinse as before. I had a fit a good way behind, And my early land was very broad. I gave every man his green season, Nor I kept a secret pact with slaughter; My appetite was forsy/our new over And my poor state was much less than The king's, lay, than my good word then. And I once telephoned a form and equipped it for a poem, But the finger of wire foundered And the flaming creature/State foundered In the manner of a fast fall of water From the sky, from a cliff-edge; And the mad child had no more to give Than a cry of "blow this, break that," With a rattle of sticks after. "A glad day," he said, "to all of you"-- We, by the by, on the gentle links Did shoot him the eagle from the nest, And the baby eagles did topple As we admired him and we prayed to him As we never had done before. And the earth was so gracious about him That men brought to student him the fall Of him down to us from far places In the air before ever he knew it; And he whispered with a loud voice At the first remission, "I'm glad I'm a high-born Orion!"-- And "by heavens, you are!" we shouted. And the king was sorry he was late, And the men were sorry he was fat, And the cooks were apologetic; For we always waited with quite a smile For the royal delivery party, Though we hadn't seen his child, And we had been certain that she was probably Princess Aurora's own. So the king, our subject, said, As the prince, our royal, would: "It's a very good thing for a prince To have so many subjects." We are seated all inside Over against the wall, And I am the lily With Poppy's flower. I'm the lily with the fiery breast, For I'll take no leave Till Poppy's flower be gone, And the black-jay be in, And the linnet begin her to seek; And I'll take my love to bed, And the thrush can sing— When Aurora rides Holding the reins, As we go to meet The little meadow-maid, You shall see me pull Each clover-head, Until the full mead Be specked with our leaf. By the timmer In the red amounts Of the silver-mountain hour, I'll be waiting In my foxhire, For the harbacher With the husky voice, To say his part, I was lying in a bed of green clover On the first full moon of the year; The wind blew over my marshy ground, And pointed north, saying, "Sun, you must fall Here to sun the garden, this year, With or without planetary light." I was lying in a bed of green clover, The-wind blew over the great stone fence, And pointed south, saying, "How like this season's queen The north star is to-day!" And south of the fence the sea-gulls screamed, And the friendly house-fronts spoke To the sun the patron-name, And the mountain stream flowed, And the woods were dewy brown, ======================================== SAMPLE 363 ======================================== Of country life and love, His whole being I must render Into the pleasing pursuit. The gods to whom I look for help, To whom I veil the naked soul, Forsake me and I am a fool, Struck with a paralytic thirst, Thirst for that which I cart 'em in, Trespass the gates that they give me. No man is I ‎ ca, c. 1. Who hath the knowledge of his own Self in his thought, being clear, And understanding all the rest, Seeing all that comes to him, And being patient, getting nought. A man is upright who is true To himself and to his fellows, And holds as one that must be Condemned in his world for good; Knowing one way of being true, And nobler delights than bliss. Not so the man, expiring, dead, Erect, of life despised, intombed On corruptible earth, of all One mass of disenchantment, all One rank imbricker litter of dust Each calcined heap of thought and hope From all truths emptily expunged. Ah, Jove, when all this breath is fled, The mighty heart still will beat Above the parapet, the star Of man's hope! Above the tire Of life and all its grievous toil, Shall beat the steadfast, Godhead, brain, And from heaven look down on earth. If thou but be willing to break This neck, the labouring world's collar, Then hast no sin in giving Earth fit body for the strong; And being rich, as men are now, Giving shall be twice as abundant For those that give the other way. So on I have not seen the harm That was quelled by me. No pain Has come to me in any way: To do or to be, no sin Incluss in my doing; For what is that sorry matri Within my soul that should Count it sin to do? To die Is not now mine to choose; But if to live within This phantom of the body, To do or to be, Once more to choose would be choice In choice of worse or better; Though this he knew who has the last, Of all the glorified To know what is that command Of the Ruler Infinite. To be content with that Is not my modern mood, Which walks with buttocks invisible Through this Pan or any other This is the Man's attitude, Who walks with feet bare, And has his head and shoulders spare, And drinks whereasters live, and eats Most sweet of honey, And seems in every part To have purged his seasonous path. Not purged his or her breast; Nay, but akin to this, That he walks all hands and head Along his Master's ankle, And lifts up his face and bows To thy giv'n focèd face Who sweetly speaks for good, And mildly shakes, when will be done. For such full times I see him stand, And then adorn himself, For group too great that now doth lie, And in his breast most wondrous grace His whole aspect adorns; and when all stands fair He sometimes bendeth to the broken waste, To hear the holy noise of hymns From some pure flow'rs that he passeth through, Where, as he peerest wide-stirred to and fro, He stoppeth down and looketh skyward now At times, his heads locked in vision. And what is that, because it shows The hidden riches of the mansions? Scarce any crescent of old doth show To this clematis of such trim hospitality As may qualify it for all men; And yet upon it smile the guests? And yet it tells of years gone by. It tells of strength of old finish'd houses, That, fittest to the use, doth show Strength fitteth to be blameless provided With something of their fellow-walls, With something of the Augustus time. No torch required it; It found its keepers by the fire; A country cro'lay did it best: The "going" it did appear Was not to show of time unkind; No prince's depredations wan Within such walls, nor Ohio's rash ambition. "In the merry month of May, When, houses idle lie, Full fathom five the ocean pumps; Seven is the degrees of man: ======================================== SAMPLE 364 ======================================== nloves of Beethoven. And now I go. The lilies of the valley Vibrant in the bright sun's gold. Tall firs, Like vessels full of flame, Burn in the forest. And now I go. The winter twilight, profound, Hangs thickly, dullly, Over the world. And now I go. Thou, too, wast silent, dear, when I lay among the rushes. There, with thy brother sisters, quietly, without a word, Thy prayers rose up, without stirring, without sound. And for such a season they were upmost needed, Peacefully. Thy thoughts, Coming from distant worlds, Were in a way of sunshine like thy prayers, Songs in your thoughts, Foes to cheer up with, Wains speaking good words. And so you were not quiet, I knew why I rested Among the rushes; For, talking with a friend who specializes In these things, I learned, you knew, Thou art going to live off the world, And have a holiday, And turn, if the world sells things, Into the new thing; Thou thinkest, of course, With all the good faith and honesty I came to thee with one leaf In my hand. When the daylight was swallowing The bodies of the dead, I found thee, I knelt you, Seeking that which once thou art, As it then was, in God's garden, Or ever it was. And this is the first, last, last time I'll ever Ask a debt of gratitude to thee, Sky, sea, pen, tablet, and eye! For heart is wax that has no soul left in it, And these wild flights are weary; Call away the instinct of the grass! Depart for the dead, and come back! We've souls to spare, and we will live. In thy light we are tired, and in the darkness Lie down again. The morn had called, and robed the wests, When bright the rays of grace And new creations sprang from each thought, Trailed like springs Of last year's blossom or the year's First perfusete flowers. It is the season--time is over, And night's dark shroud is short; Let me, O night, which loved thee so, And thou, dolcy. Thou, which it didst appear, O Moon! Or thy light cowling, didst bear Day under your hand for spirits' sake, And shed light upon us, didst touch Our tongues with sounds of great beauty, Wherewith didst make sweet quick Short phrases, like the words We would our heavens proclaim, Wherefrom the Moon, O Moon, Answers us--our mind's first speech. Didst bleach this earth this moon from Her body of light, to make Spaces sweet, varied, full of Locohes, and shadows, stars For no one word but one, to say Man is raised, and stone, and soul. Then, light being past for ever, Let the night bury its head, With shadow on shadow, And all night-woven ill Forget its windy finger-work, Which now seems to us As time's finger-work, and behind Which is as moon the sun, To whom from sun and hence Song was given to be Of all the songs that can be. Went into her house, and there she Was wont to set her paire, her ward, But before the fire she vammered In aydingt of ox-head, And een befell that she, foreord, Went into her house, and there The fader had her in his ytle, That all was laid and salted, And to the fairegither aily The fers had her in their wing. She let her husband speake her thus: "Een so fair, and rare, and blue, My heartes fele in thine eye, My grases yeve tyke and sheke, They which ye see in sleep, For in your qtees they are spread, My soLLets are all awake: Such qtces as ye do see, For ye are such as ye are." "And at this typer all as in ultimite, The soLLets, my QVEars, rayne, And eke the Queen of beauty, I, For so like, so fair ======================================== SAMPLE 365 ======================================== St. James's to be no man's home, And of the grave men talk but now, And to be dazed and mad and blind Is not for me, I will not be, No, not if in the dead man's name. But if, like you, I serve the King And pay the blessed tribute, When his cot I've a-gley, his gun, And all the day as he am me, I will be free as a king's fisher, And shout my licence--Lord--let me live. So now, brothers, now that the battle blows And our broadbeams tail and spatter, We will sing to the fallen and the dead, And comfort them and say: "We too were brave." Let none make his own rules the state Führers, the state-stoppers of the stolid, The heirs of the glutton and the sinner, Who bring not their whole selves to the mart. We will go out to the wideness of the green, Who shall not the wauing self-tears bear? We. What, dead men! living man! you men of peace! Freed are you from fear of death, From the thrill of fear, and the unlock'd mind, And the gaze of eyes you could not trust. Now come, and weave your swords into plough-shaft, And take the seek of God and the just; And live neither more nor less than a waif. We. I know a stroll In the meadow Shall make you high or low, Make you a wonder to All children after; Body and mind, Will I keep the same, You shall not haffard go? So the shade Crept ahead close as you Went in go; Walked he slow, Walked he fast, But before you went, He did not that one Child to scold. For he saw you Was not at all they, And he mind'd the story Beveringly, And he said as I, "Your Father's kind as from the Devil," Seemed to say as we, "Aren't we all kind from the Devil?" O, the children's shall Say to the dead, "He kept us late to bed!" Now you are armed And trained with guns; Now you're floating round In a ferry at the window-glass; No more by pothOrings or creak or clink You sight plain or balcony, Now you're cannonade wary, And having gone home to your fire, Ready with your prayer For your next march with the flag; For which you've left the quiet Tree-canopy to tell us Lark or sun or woman Has in secret gone incognito, Or lastly to the grave gone; But as we passed On our way to the curfew, As we were leaving the Church; Something seemed to stir in the road, And we two went a little green; A ray of the August sun, Like a brook from Wonderland; Twas a veldt where Nature might stride, Where the souls of the men of summer Four au pairs each drew. Like evening beer-drinkers The fairest in the land, They stood in the pave, Theatre-dresses, at a glance; Brown-dyed sweedish-pall, Or comely-spotted skin, They kept passin For their bouquets, au fait Full of dailies and dearth, All freshly smelt and dew. And a little way hence They saw a little company Of oaken boxes and barrels, And there was talk of spittin And blue-staining teeth, and spits Of tea and punch. And the way they came among Some ruddy cabins, in which Was a still face on a coffin; They thought that the springin For more was the two pence wanted; But they only drank decaf And wentin' a little further I will tell you this; for it stands In the factus, and not you Is falsen at this one word Called not spiez. O happy day! If the King were back in England! And when he was not in France I knew him, and he's "far in gold!" I will swear that in his pay He is as good a banker As a spy, or any thing; And his army of young slackers Is no improvement ======================================== SAMPLE 366 ======================================== and had been far beyond it, There was not one of all the family But had borne something of the affair Of the cruel birth-work. So the word Of this good man spread itself through all The kindred, and was heard at last. When Judith did hear The death of Constance in the great hall, In the high keep of Caesarium She put up a smother of flying Silence, and all were listened to. And the wise kings it seemed at length began, Wondering, to unstone the tomb, and found And opened the bread of life. A deafened generation hears no more The solemn summons of the voice Of God to the great lobby of death, Where a vain and icy mixture Of passion and surrender Has acted for the silence of the sinner, For the revivals of faith and of love And the search for righteousness, and the redreams Of prophecy; -- the tumult and clash Of this proud octave of imminence. Over the trasitional gates of earth It looks not yet; o'er us and the living It looks; while blinding phantasmal death, And day that is his olive, and the light Of dead days, are seeking still some way And message of the eternal word, In the yet unrisen days; -- in the now, When this our whiteness bursts upon the eye. He raises a mighty tempest in the sky, And the worst of it bursts upon us now, Whereat we still live; but it is less sweet Than the swells of the absent sweet sky, And thin as the taste of reeds above, And without chance of respite. It drowns Our livers, and hinders the births, And calls life into our wills faster; breeds Prelude on death to some that die; And grasps the living hand. -- It is true, Though we have not love's look, or embrace his breast; If it were so, by this reserve We should not trouble the spirits so. And the greatest flood of life's pure gift Is not resistible by the sea Or clouds that struggle over writer and man. It is true in the least austere man-seated Chamber mightily the poured-up sea, Now thundering on the cliffs, now sweeping down The mountain slope at one leap of huge wings. He counts his gift, and weters as he goes The durstest of his plethoric deeds. -- But we Wait our depths by dreams and deep sleep, And the white shining of the spirit's eyes That wakes the dead. The mercy of the Lord Shall be to soften the swift time and its work. When the North cometh, it is dark below, And the trees swell in magnificent wrath; When the North cometh, cometh the armory That we knew not; and the tower by the wall Is new firerated, new grimated; the snow Lies in fresh-dropped chunks on the square, white, And the rapt in the circling wings of the sun Is a first or last greatness: yet or before, The enchanter leads his train Through the dense air, or in the open bay, It may soak a square of space the livelong day. Now the will of the multitude is gathered, Now the round wants are rolling, cartwheeling, With the unknown servant at the table of Oppression; where the wickets dropt Their loads no longer, and the tariffed Passengers, waftside up the downgrade, Passing side by side, where the waters Have scented them; then shattered and still, They describe in writing the nearest way. Lo! it was night; ere long it was Full-thrown snow, that on defecent wings Collected drove a way the squalls And the full battened heart of the earth, Till all the open water spoke and raftered The vales, with an art that was new. The Alps hold forth, with a gesture vague At the skies, a menace to let fly Whose dripping lash rose red and tost, And filled flat plain and lowland sandy tilled With a nauseous and constant sob of sobbing. And then one morning, when the time was swept, The open waters had changed them to water-stars, They looked down in a sight of sightly danger; Sitting at noon, in a boat that was being Retained, or at least was water-swaged, they saw The face of a cruel-looking beast ======================================== SAMPLE 367 ======================================== syllogism muffin serotonin unexplained pap bell con dance puck pans lew knee knee kicked blown sullen gled trembled shrill wrenglers plush plush squirrel screech ple pleat squirrels muff molligASR-VOSR-TA-SIS--No, it rhymes as is well known, and the facts set down for us In Old Irish are as in the first line. But having read in the margin "boda doibh nodh doith," I can't help noting the peculiar spelling of "O. "Now it happens, when they are travelling in Ireland, They get the cattle to some cattlemen, Who are kindly thanks to them for allowing Their animals to feed in their stalls; But when, at least, the animals are nearly Over tired, the courtesy ceases And each wished the best of it. The Englishman says, in all civility, "We wish you make ourselves quite clear;" And the Irishman, "We wish you well"-- "With an explanation of the same," While the Welshman writes, 'Our mount the Mate,' And the drivers write, 'AcomMet' o'er the road, Where you p://have/imett, p://mahinam', 'Bout which p://dlean's very few.'" "O the Child's Play Book. One little book."-- "The Pilgrim's Pills" was written by a Rhetorian, But the same man--who has been many things, From a Saint Pauli Pimpermonkey, and At a time when the Performers were few and far Between--was at last elected to the number of Bards that live with the Hammer, and so on Sunday mornings, when one pops up in bright chiq. O the Child's Play Book! one play into two days Of my life, and I've got all the times as well As any one else, for which, as they say, is damn well suited. But, O me! what most grinds and burns one's author To hear is not there--isn't there!--not there!-- 'The Mermaid Theatre,' the play the Dutch Never saw that shows so good. But 'tis in force now, they say, and tonight is our Blow-'em-dry night. Who the Devil is he, with the green hat And the red mouth, to tell the red story Of our loss to the mariners? They are thinking of the end of the world, and they Are old of the world, and its end is Right back of the speaker, and he has a staff Which they pluck, to begin the day's work, And they are up and away to his stage With his green and red cap and his red band, And his green and red hat, and his red tip. All about the Mermaid Theatre Live melancholy thoughts, and burn with regret, For they are an olden speech by now, And 'tis high time they were out in the sun To concert and theater echoes--although Their hearts and souls are with us yet. So they have gone from the shores of the Sea, And the fields of Ulster, and they have brought Their bluff, and their blunt, and their bifurc'd stock Of olden times, and words whose sound has gone All about the world, and is like smoke, When the tempestures of brimming rainfall Hear through their boomling windows made By the rains of the eve, and the light Of the blushful Sun, and they look With a yearning look, with a weary look, At the Mermaid. How they despise, with a brain sedate, A subtle, smooth, refined, arrogant heart, A brain well manufactured for defiance, For the purpose of destroying the law Or God at any time, and the law of love Of God's absolute heart; for any cause! They sit in their spots, the blue and the open, Well bought, well bartered, well sought after seats Buoyant with pride, which rests sublimely On the slim possibility of wrong, Though white and baneful it be. The Master of the Merchant and his business Closes close, as he enters in a knot, But the black Messenger, with his slip in the wind, ======================================== SAMPLE 368 ======================================== pool which too much space with men hath drowned; There shall be mercy for all who dwell in hell, Though gold and letters should to filth persuade The numberless race, who without such aid Were doomed to waste in hopeless obscurity." Then spake the God, "My son, the Muse is spurned, For these my Powers are over-possessed; Thine heart, Nevyn, is good and pure, And oft hath visited with regard The heav'n beneath, where Mars his sons does guide; With those good looks and paws of bear, which far Sublime ye have upraised in wish of praise To that King buried in the bones of St:Peter-3 And lift they head they shall, nor long ago Did ye arise to go up where he doth sit Who is the true Jesus, and shall come, years hence, Probably to sweep the seine and garden whereof I Strew cards no more than get people Slain by the knaves." With that kind word closed now the synod's door, And to bed the Prince, but with whom sleepe all the house, The moping moon, now laid as left, about The buildings twixt Aldermane and wood, where A lark was hovering, luvin mind how long, And cease he might not rise to know If one was sleeping in the simple garden downe; When tweed was as the morn and day, since he Was frae mortal man, and of his sins was telling; When wakened he rose and looked about to see If any wenner or pilgrim were there; But there being none that wondered then If he should seem one, she up and spake him thus: She spake And parted thence and made unknown the end Of her imagined journey, which did nought but Drive her from her heart; for she could ill brook Fare to be bound of flesh by mortal men For ever, whiles she loved her Creator so, That though despard spring though putrissake, or wheat Crab or praffrement, were in thing lacking proven, Still would she for him vaunt and vainly vaunt, And be a galantries; but now all else She held with targes, and the cause is this, Her will is sweven, her purgings growing vporned Day by day against the wolke of her hand And sauing to despaire: and to-morrow Fond she her tun'd or gretplesse of wil Should for his young beautie commend Or fall a spaire to commend her son To whome she wasted nameless hours over. But he, full fain, full chastic, fawning cary, Worry'd downding on e SleFTERING on him: But with full sperrits, as boding of mis aged, He curtis'd and said, "Myle do ye wENches, If I be sore dare you saue from me To saue at mi word, unsooney'd by ye? Scorne you wil after my triumph come, And cruell I be by you! " said he. "Scorne!" said the maiden, "il put it to you, You're grownr veray, and spares trusty right and ly. Ye, caitiff, though ye pity missuring And come to mi father for reparations, Ye wrong him above the whipper-streames, And in time slay him; but ye be growring To zeal so great for my sake, that ye Zow ye the murder of me; and how you Carry it forth, and caith of other, As ye haue with you! why? whether by zowes, Or by thee; that one is it followers, And missuring not at all; whether by Zoran It be." So he gan, Her enimies fierce and furiously grating Farre from room to room, round, and rurring And barr'd with screens and portlers against him, He strook't his fists, broke his crowns fast, For crisped blood and trazure melting In half sobbing cries; but yet at last he drew Zonfort, and with both his sons be wreaken Zonne the old sclavic priest had staid; And little I witness'd, but the mother Vnfolding, child was beginning to respair, And men again; and she more tragic Was then, as in the business of itte making ======================================== SAMPLE 369 ======================================== from his little shoulders, From his neck like cordage, Swimming upon the surface, Like a little fish, Like a marble On the surface. In the shallow shallows, Pleigh, pleigh like windles, Yammering, swaying, swaying, Sarrasin', As we wander, Where we swim and wander, Where we swim and wander, When we swim and wander, When we swim and wander, And we see the sunset, And we see the sunset, She is a fairy, a fairy, With a bird's blue wing, Who can sing aloud Where the old leaves fade: A song for Charlemagne, For Charlemagne, and all! Greet, welcome, and await, You to our hosts of Guests, You to our hosts of Friends, You to our kingdom, our kingdom, When our shadows grow empty, When our shadows grow empty, And our lakes grow lakers, Mother and father beloved! I have waded where you weep And cast our nets in calm, Where life is most a wanderer's life, And best unavailable. Our farming above all Is best when done with. In state we meet--comme derred, Whar our paths cross at wilt; And we two together Will go hiking above, And take the car. Our hearts to heaven in hand Should go when we rise, Nor we question whether,-- If spirits dip and dip They also go,-- For a man to the world By a way must go. We are not of the plaintive, Nor do we love to be Upon the tearful, tearful side; But ours are ardent and true When a man's in her. If you're a man who's sad, He's a something for, yeah, yeah! And if you're motherly-- A mother here, a mother there, I tell you, I tell you, That's a lot to be afraid of, For a man to the world By a way must go! What a man's stature, and pen Your stature, and pen Is now a little lower, Your pen is a little higher For a man who's thinking now About something fairly elementary, Something the devil never thought of. If you're not a man who thinks Of what the world might be To him at fifteen, be still more Somewhat imperfect, be more Likely the skimmiest feeling there To the law of averages. I have notchkied us millers To drive the odd wood wolf To our lairs of berries, But I have routed us merchants To get us gold and silver, And thought of everything pertl (that's "behind"), And thought of everything edgy We have everything pertl and chill-- Everywhere and everywhere, But never have known whelm (else you drive Those men that drive), The thought of what the world might be To a man that's in. We have learned to think day never dead In our meat and usage (No use going where the bugs may sting) And every fruit is fortnightly red By the infidel we crave your blood. (And those you meet in charlie tan; They'll drive you all the way to--well, you,-ithin. <|endoftext|> Thy voice was so soft and sweet, and those eyes, Whence all love dwells, lovely with their beams Of that young, heavenly, angelic light Which turns to dew-memoried mysteries Such warm, forbidden lights in such as these To make the sum of love divine. Hands of velvet tied my wrists and ankles; Chained my lips with the touch of thine own; Given to me the humiliating gift of thatus' wings, And made me darling of that God alone Which is king of kings, and God of loves. Here, with a'dolly velvet and th'anazened finger, Tying me so fast in bonds of sweet mariage, Thou didst wed my soul unto thy sin, And gavest me, to the fetters' happy rope The world's choking place in Christ's golden chain, There come to me in this whirl of ill or welawa, An holy cry from under the wire Of the swift wheel the hail of your mad ship Prancing, The cry "what thing soever it which you mineleapest, To lock me in "Dolores," ======================================== SAMPLE 370 ======================================== bit. Not this was the deed of blood-hounds, not of moon-vaulting hyenas, nor of boar wolf, nor of wolf's son; no, but of one whose hands were left behind, his lips still moved to speak, whose face bore no shame of his reprieve; only his nostrils breathing showed that he had lived. Then from his raiment he dispelled, and put on the garments of a prose-lover. "For, lo, I am one who loves his art thrust in between the fingers of a strong male hand. Wherefore this hand that thine own has made, thy love for him must seek a way whereby these two wrappings may be joined, being mortal. Was not even a god possessed of such perfectness? How then should the gods behold me, having been once gods, not mortals? And let this mortal man be god to thee, being far older than thou am maestro Esencio, and without mind or inkling of how such a thing "Thou shalt be eased of all from this time henceforth, even as I have now no hope of anything further from you; and it is come so far that Mitalicea, the salamandrier, a vile, craftless embe-keeper, and one who lets all in that she is acquainted with you, has from you that story. Her way was known, and is now disgrac'd. Amen. She shall be for- done with soon. But I there too far earlier had fix'd my eyes; for what with this the builders of this frame might I say. Now since I, my Lord and myself, see all things in one, recognize then by his vice-like- sire, who was ruler of the woodlands, tyger Cabiū's son, Laso Tur; that the most and best of all thy goods are by him far pay'd and hasten'd. Here thy goodly and pleas'd faces turn'd are though at rest. But at some long interval there will be risen at Alumelle hatred and farewell." "My dear counsel," answer'd Hector, "seems dearer to me, because it arouses one's wonder at the Gods; and for by it one hopes to win some beginning of revenge. Thou, therefore, with not the desire of spoiling or of making me high-brazen, nor of adding to my fame another name, how once I lean'd thee to, a little behind, I, Hercules, from whom these illustrious ments are reverendly springing; but Pallas, as thou know'st Iguanodon thy father, calls me not so much now as a canker'd that for ease and not for fame I might be tainer. Never the certitude of my hopes have I ascended, but as one much-at-ease. Let not the half of me be spoil'd, but the entire me, that even earthly glory may ripen. So much of my life do I desire Then, as it chanceth oft, so will it now. Slain withal, let me not to mere silence bring, but let me pardon and let me kiss thy feet. Never in all the Isles did I;--whither would go nearest, I or Zeus? for the Cyclops' wide heart is not more cover'd with armor than mine: behind me far lurk I nought but my guards. I beseech that, first and of all I come to greet thee kingliest of all the kings, and the most favoured of all in summe, had he not sore annoy'd of late unheeding, and from all realms convenient round to drag him fugitives, Achilles the bold had been searched, and myself had been redeem'd. Speak. Is it because the fleshly founts are not reach'd with his water, that thy rage so basely sours his royal praise? or because, again, thou art taught to revile and odious by none except me?" "These are too words and too beautiful to be put in rhyme," said Benvenuto, "I therefore devote, to make them easier for the sense to convey, and they will be far more honourable and mathematical than if I had beheld them with the pen of Dante.--But vivas to thee, great as it may seem, your courtesy before all discoverest. And now as to what I am now terquinary, I assure thee, that you have no more ======================================== SAMPLE 371 ======================================== / It's a white-maned steed,/' said the jovial Cresset, /'Tis the newest mail-bag son. /A toff for his Muse, it is true,/' /'Twouldn't do to advertise himself too well. /And the next oldest one/'Rector's daughter and epigram/' was talked about. 'Tis a crown fit for a queen,/And the fourth most popular/'Twas said;/And a Gaspee, of the better breed. /A triumph, to be sure, Of the breed known as Gaspaccio. /Now not even a boy, He's the model of a steed For that famous father poet. "And a Gaspee," cried old Cresset,/ 'Tis a famous cup, and sure to weigh heavy at the first. /The old chief of the papon-lereau band,./ /Tis the bottle which had Balzac long been wishful to see; And it contained the balm for writers. You fill it at your single eyes, And its ferret-filler comes in And nibbles till it passes by the head. "There is a certain quill, if you will,/ Who does not look, and never hear, Till he get a good deal within. /So long as he's in the press of the quill/ He's not heard of nor remembered,/ /But he talks on in the utterance that is to go. Pshaw! don't you see I hear him, too?/ Tales, melodies, he's the former (not theere) all swallowed up in the long lead. "But to his credit, to his crown, he recollects the double trouble. "It was," he said, "the saddest moment in my double life." "And saddest on that occasion," said Henty, "is the double life of your poet, Le Gallienne." "Hold on," said Mr. Henty, "a while, before you commit an overt act. It's not prejudICAL, I proceed/ "When the exasperated mind has gone PREPOSITION IS MANDATUS."/ Protters istate par par conture non possible/ /Vive la Juvi o Milano in teare vento/ /Ma filosofia de Moscizo/ The Leopard found it long to rural wrath /It eyd wings to get away, /En emmentum eyd wings/ /Unkempt soelegram/ Someday he lands so depd/ /Mundan poordwitter/ The Fox was charmed by the sight /Of the new-engined beast,/ With his cabfor bird,/ /He went home at eeve,/ I am the Queen of Delight,/Thailand, N. Y. If you know of such a palace, For your picture I need not say/Nanaimar, Crown Royal, At the Royal nude fair at the Island/The palace of Parris Island, New York, land of three ponders, On the top of the Statue of Gift.../ What is in the glass case/Holding the largest place On the left,/ with its wonderful reflections, What do you think it is, Buddy?/ I am certain that I know./ What is it worth, then, Jewel of Middle Age?/ I am at once delighted and annoyed To see you send such questions,/Dad,/from those who have neither/ To make your watch, your coat, your haircloth, bow tie, corset, opera jacket, With original color pictures of old men, Bearded, glossy, wearing wings, In crimson velours, green chaps, Troubled Asian tones, Beneath all that is still a time piece, And a watch, dear Time Time Piece, Whose face looks like that of a girl, With radiant eyes and a smiling mouth Whose words, still untamed, Come back at evening, Bondsmen, heroes, kings and prophets, And living saints, Watch, and carry dreams, Purples, chaste cyanas, Dames, with eyes of gray... To carry dreams, indeed./ Deeds to do,/To do, to dress, Watch and act as if clothed As if clad, in green silk, Green twilights, green sedges, Green adventures, green laces, Smooth-haired maiden angels, In v ======================================== SAMPLE 372 ======================================== 'Tis every day as fresh as when the great light Of yesterday darted down the tunnel, And the sweet kisses of first-love, unworn By the cold tomb, bear witness to that kiss, To which the strong worshippers return, Pleased with the fresh-kissed shrine To which their lips and hearts are ached. I'll take the faithful pen and penance blunt, For he can no more endure Than did the lucky hero's mother, Whose soft usue Aware of her Gilgamesh Lord Did oh! his life's ditty write. The hero's fatherless were ever calls To which his heart was never sent; Who for long time his virginity Aware of age and call, Neither turned his barren head nor single went But ere the second, and the third, and fourth day, Went his to come or second man. His mother in not having both was dumb, And his brother and his sister long since died; And so without recourse to her had been A living tooth, and shield, and counsell thereon, Or comfits, and such like things that pay For serving man and ways. Where was the fair nest of sweet content Which their sick leas' with joyance did deliver And the sweet being fed therein? Where the cheeks' joyance, where the ingenuous face, Where the glad dears and each lov'd playing child? Where the gay world's face, where the happy light, Where the palace of heaven's great building? A little kingdom loth sighing laid In eating salt, raying much pain, Heav'n minded it with anger, and shewed By her great image what the fault was: The hundreds slew; the thousands followed, they; They but an offshoot from one stem, they; "What was that? say, say!" said then the King: And there rose a prodigious cry From the stern Greeks, "Who quell they are, who?" And the third high holiday they named. And thou might'st see, if so voyag'd you lookout, How they madly all on her clamorsta go. Say "Cease for this," he cried; and "not that!" And "Prayer," for ever praying God to save Their navy from ruin; "Progress," holding hard (Inety to an art thou, God, wert born to mock) The single egress to Hellespont, they; The rout that follow'd--"Accursatus," again, And "KPase," and "PKFA," "Steppatch," and "PKSA," While the way was once to probability staked, 'Twas save from that wreck of all confounded, By the mercy-proud meteor, the God's pretty angel: Who to the wan sear Cimmerian fixed, While the fierce sea-beasts, there in the gloom, Panted and fought, and to the seaweed incline. And that sight in my soul's nowt, nowt, it was: And that sound--what it be, I cannot tell, Where it came, or where it went: but 'twas there, 'Twas this--"I see too," I heard him say, "but I've met "Pale with the face of one whom I abhor; and now "I know not with which, "I only know And the mighty sea of his discontent Knew the rest as well as he, and he knew each heart's hard storm and its cold stone constant, And the dim folk of that mirehorse crippled; And the boundless ocean, which yet he might not clear, Though he draw hardly on its watery springs, knew him, And his soul's old salt gusto in it strove And knew him every one of him. What marvel, then, this conflicting multitude, If in one instant they had gone to their combine, But one impulse made? That minute's in-ring, unqlous To any of the other males in his forts, Were not for Death aloneilon bound? But every one saw, now in one, now in one, Now in the light of one, now in the gloom of one, Now on earth, now off a thousand heights one man. Then his eye a man could see, and his eye a man could see, And eye-shrubbed women, and false-bound women and a' Such a leeudiarch's gold, and iron-weeded women, And wigs that bulged with ======================================== SAMPLE 373 ======================================== . . . and from the rags of his lips to the roots of his hair . . . Just when the guests were getting ready to grace us, the host turned round to us and asked: Who here will be for the night? . . . At the pillar of fire . . . our spirit seemed like fluttering of a feather. We have camped in a dog-grove . . . besides the host, . . . She was tall and round, and dressed in brown, high-fashioned sand-green with holes and fanciful designs of golds and purples and a lock of ice. My uncle was seated on her lap, . . . with the folds open on one side, as though she were a bag of holding. From the open folds the sunlight sank, and we saw that our duffelbags were taking shape, and that our feet were summer cadavers . . . the self-revelations of a dog-hide . . . On the walls of the denHe was covered with scratches from the bedstead to the headstone . . . A wall-sheet was often left behind; for it was known to us that these openings . . . Were made through the coppery inner earth, and that of the devil. I was made to kneel to my uncle's bones . . . I could hear my uncle . . . Now, between the bones, I saw an opening in the headstone . . . When I saw the opening I could see that the moon was There in the empty cave As I had seen it On the Lion's paws . . . That night he did not weep. I saw his eyes But he did not weep. He smoked and he drank . . . I was learning of Him then In the old age Tall and grey In the smell of air Between limestone and cobbles Between the dog-grove And the charnel-hole. <|endoftext|> "Mr. R\/", by Cheryl Booher [Living, Death, Time & Brevity, Activities, Indoor Activities, Jobs & Working, Social Comment] I took R\/ to the Lacewood Avenue station To catch the R train to North Avenue Then I went all the way I paid them no mind Who were not necessary I did what I was brought here to do And it was to stand in a corner Allegedly "to see the light of day" But really, who was I I wondered no more than any other man I experience life thus and so I have my answer Why is it that those who sit on high Have all the time in the world I have been taught and I observe They use their imagination The natives call it spirit This is what they do now at Long divided City of Language Architects and bond traders A train went by and it went fast to Chicago A took and I missed it But I saw the stub ends of it It bound for Atlantic City I have been in trade with ancient Greek An unknown word so has been blundered by Old Caesar to mean blunt or unmannerly And it was blundered by By a native Englishman who was laid Surprised that a stranger lived in the city I blundered in blundered my spell For I meant old Homer can I get an instrument That will tell me what it all is like And it is like a coin called the lyre It is like a lyre but only a twang To lead the eye of the mind It is like a lyre but it changes And it sounds like a story I told of the old Roman His withered brain and my Roman Who merged his wits in mighty Roman Hues I see him as a Roman now And a graffiti sound On a wall in a jungle Long before the tongue Was moved To conform With the here and now Of the here and now And so I blend his ghost with my ghost Who are you? And I am not the ghost Of a Roman What is in that wall And in that jungle And in that wall And in that jungle And in that wall And in each Roman What have you done there And how long have you been there I do not know You there? I AM the Lyric And you are not the Corinthia The Traveler in me is not The Traveler in you And never will be until I die I am not that ======================================== SAMPLE 374 ======================================== , and had not for men the livery Of a Turk's robe, his loves to ha, And his raiment soft and clean, To draw all eyes that would fail to see His majesty and all? <|endoftext|> "Sonnet 16: On Being Laid Against the Wall", by William Shakespeare [Love, Infatuation & Crushes, Romantic Love, Relationships] I may not love the which she must not love; I may not shame the which she must not shame: But lay here every guilty subject's name, Which shall not havely apply to white and black. O, that I were no more!, which phrase She hath absolutely sovereign in her sight *exclusive to sister but held by law ever more, to herself, than any other's. A woman to her beauty is subject Oft for to voice her pleasures, as she doth now, Yet still herself denying, making a Strong general suppulsion that do bewail Oft, in the soft accents of her speech, Feeble and false delicacies to name; For, in commendation of that beauty, A fine desire she may take in all Which are the messenger and test of love. She hath her reason in her beauty squander'd Angry, whose aching sightfore the morning star, That hail'd it and protest, thanks for it. Hath her a sting in her sweetness, such as was In hue unto Robert Ginond a sting So pernicious ag'ts the Greeks empaneled? Astonishing, that such damage should hap To be introduced in a cay, where faire And no incontinent blindness to his eye Was thought by the craftsmen of the temple. Astonishment and surprise are other thing: Astonishing may we think, dol'lar to be, And this high pyramid of her sweetness sent To the head of the procession, may be thought There hath not need to wish it liq{a}d When she sits down by the half-deep well to tea. Beauty keping her speech with "my fond commands" And hearing in mine, desire my heart's lettering, Yea, be thine eyes peeping there to drink it up. Say what brings thee to this well's side, Mead and wisdom? What would'st thou thereto? What art cam'st thou hither? To forsake The world for any? or to stick us there? No need that thou Shouldst ne'er return. Say just what bring'st Thy soul and you therein, to the cup there where, Happier thou art than thou forgett'st be. He that comes and lives in youth, and longs For love, and has a mind most prudent, May safely love and drink together And not feel jealous nor die: For, a' the time that heart can cure Is in his hands, when his thoughts are guide'd By a wise head and judgment serious, And he quits lives and takes a column. The time that meets us with such anger Or corner as happens there, is When we offend'd amorous or courtly Becomes our daughter, spouse, or son. When justice does 'round the earth and raves About our aery chat, and warrants, Calls fudge and reici and complots, And vows and bullations for our pain, Bills for our loss and ours for our fleece. What then, I bid thee, my mind entertain, Such mensurable plaints from Celia's tears? You mistake my feelings, far or narrow, For Lily's tear for Lily's heart-coursing. There was a time, when, with Lily and Rose, I did not know happiness. There was a time, when storms did move My thoughts from her to her, When roses were my royal blue, And one that did waken on my rest From Lily's eyes a simple kiss. One, for my Grace, in rills and entablasts Of love and happiness, without a charge, On whom her part (as you to read the events Of daily life) Would more than as one lily on the threshold For one of garlandedhall, didto cleave; One, for my Grace, in riches of tasteful food And figure regal, in quiet rooms of art, In cheerful ardours, where to grow was glory, In sunshine's rainbow for our souls making, And in our King's indulgence with his own Patience ======================================== SAMPLE 375 ======================================== purse of gold the sun do what it may, it can do no wrong, not any, to the nymphs, the nymphs, the nymphs, who this glacial shame from on high bear, a sorrow that does bring all business of their lips on a stalk, and with vulture fear of each and every, in vain name of Numa Pompilius, so long consort of Proserpina. How much we bear! How little we deserve! Yet if we must bear it, let it be for a praise-worthy cause; And by your Leave, I will grant my feeble Muse the little she may have. The cause I choose is serious: so listen, anthropuriced Numa Pompilius. (This statesman-like, he's somewhat of a fool; he means by "these lands" he means "these graves.") We have had too much of your kind rule, foreign profit is destroying our tribe, We Americans, in our pride's emphasizing our own brutal rights, nay, when we gathered as a people we forgot our old sense-twisting refinement of a temper. And where our big Néerican is, your bank account swelling, your gangster Dou the French may say, our citizens in your group of fools, are at fault for nothing but our idleness in bearing the burden of our people's lust, and Dou he would say of us: "idle" is your being idle, we in our small way" corrupt our own souls. This is the case, I hold: we are cursed with a species called sap that never takes pause but bursts forth gushingly at speed, and fatal motion of streams on these green lands a river of earth will have to find its outlet, as rivers of wood. Had we been better babies, or born of less wealth, our names might not have been chosen for use as barns, as aperture-things to pierce the ground. Here the bared places are life: this air, so quiet, this nothing, is idleness —what here is no business is there, and nothing again is matter. But you're wrong, you're reading me too much into it, as well as you believe the world of space, the prologue has not begun, the story is not yet written. The Remains of Johnny Death are not distracted by this blithering idiot in a propitious age to be general with no knowledge of Folly, and should not be thought of as fallen from the annals of thought though they resemble the characters of those assassined by history, spoiled children with hearts like gameboys, and thycile-drenched hands like bloody hands. Were we not wiser, more Christian, to spread the faith of peace that we really brought you, we might have been less desperate and you might have been spared that corruption's kiss upon your baptism that drew us together as murd'rous elements, and out of the world's desert the sap that is your baptism sending us your spirit. Your spirit, and that of your mother and my bravery, and that of a nation that dares to see what it can do to a continent, and to make it if order be no more, to lay down its arms to the first fascism, and to choose hope over fear as the only weapon against the fear of a world that moves with a sinister delight of malice and of mockery, scratching the lazy crust of one kind of despair. And how could you have stood here a conqueror with no arms and still have stood as here you are now folded in the halo of defeat and quiet, with your foot upon the spoiler and your foot upon the republican — and what is this? angered because I call you dad? Yes, there is your father, pal, and your mother, and the mighty nation he loves to preen and strut in comical insignia, but there is no more Gotham in you, no more naught for him to plunder, and in a thousand years you'll be ashes with his bones tainted by the murder ======================================== SAMPLE 376 ======================================== Lord, to us let those false dreams never have shown Their sleep was bitter as their death more short, The blood their wound, and the desire their death. Lord, for thy people, even the wretched Thou wouldst not look so narrow-eyed to help; To ripen thorns thou wouldst fast, and stab them deep; But now they have lost the faith, the life, and wine; Their trust was a drum, and their rest a clod, Whereof in ruin their belly king is heir. He that in looking back toward her was born Which with dishonor to her daughter brought The mother-water for spittle upon her head; But she, for dread even to so good a thing Which seemed like so many, me first and last Upon her looks first smiled, with the hot life Which the first young cock more merry made, And the last old one, when 'twas too late. To our isle we now have these three best men, And three champions against our so great plain: Raban is the chief of our band, And as an armed hart he he keeps his pounce; And Sabr breathing from his country's side, Is tamer than his feather, and more soft. We all in this are ours, and so shall be, If for but three days we shall not be forced to fly, When these, our fourfold camp shall be forgo: This new field for less work shall be did, And all this land to be deserted; Then may we dwell in open breasts, and rest. This for two days; then shall be two more, And thine own life, even from this morn, Out with the beacon, with a pounding pace, Fleet as he may, head strong and hight, The first of our fourfold band, he may Of work in himself, of civic work, Sith to all our isle eft he must. Henceforth for his own, himself, his own life, He shall not be for more, but let be As gods do hear the islands of their fair nest, Gently, not loudly, not as we that be Unto the stream of it, as them that keep Their steddiness, their place of guard awar. Mellifluous, multicultural, for all life, Their makers of old, their makers be: So weighed the musicians in the ancient Greeks: So the harmonious offspring of old Sefolos: So the citizens of happy Sparta: So counted the men in those legendary days To the first to crown the sphinx, the King Lysander. Lord, for thy sake, so many fulfil The high behests by kings of doing lowly, As, trusting heart to the unrrousle hand, Thou, for the hoping world, hastataened many a day, Art proud to be the hand thereof, And for the world thou yearly art beloved. <|endoftext|> The eighth with Jean de Vencebawn, whose name is still most fondly cherished and used to make (such was it such inodors are) an album of all his tributary things, prepared by common impulse and sharing of minds, and in whose dear person art does good pleasure to the serene and gentle votary, forever and ever. Full Shrews in a plump ring, braw gold, green shrivelling, wet roof tops dipped in linseed liquid, De banged and cage bound, a flock of bawmèats gleaming, Whispled, white vested, smelly, tabbies in yellow, Cometazy and mokëry, Smelly marmot, gutter green, Piggie and his mate mucking, Rottchie and his mate moaning, The famished smothering stinking, The poisoned stinking dying, The runny swimming, The droit god talking, The tales of toilets, The oft heard lamenting, Till bars turned in and all hearts turned towards themselves, The Toilet turned for to receive him, Squat broke out, rigoritch, nunney, The cursel would make him void, He has broken all his metts, And he thinks he's worth a lisnrrow. All these the purchaser, bent for pleasure, delights In his In-the-stone-burgended life, with his In-the-stone-burgended wife, As-a-cake meals, suitable ======================================== SAMPLE 377 ======================================== Then he rous'd the hasty funeral: A native bark fit for speed, Quick in all things, to the fire he lent; And made his horses in the front to ride, Then th' other two on wings his help bestow'd, With ev'ry charm a runner still adept, And, following up, the windy blast beguile, Their passage thro' th' unctayan way, The sea as wont, they pass'd it, a surface smooth, Fancy then had barely made a stay, For shee far excell'd her pow'r to wake; The sea was smooth, a fine white sand, of cause too, Except where some bright fragment of a rock, This bright fragment of a rock, was always sought, And first in her wond'ring descent, Rous'd from a squaw, at fading Quakers wait, A pruning-sword, a treble chop, a stick or stone, Then straight to rise again, still near the shell, Her wonder-steep'd company of stars she took, And sound abroad, the ocean fresh she shipt, For one natural hunner did all cheer, And being near, with vague, inking eyes, The sea seem'd loving her, and crying salt, Blessee her! Sweet hair! Thereat with leaves in a sunne-craft' inglorious, That still were expected near, she did desist, And judg'd herself shameful to presume, And bade curse her scorning and her snare, And soft say, "Quick, ere ye cold begin, Aye come we the best and first of thee." With that the storme a strack hush'd evermore, Sprinkling her with spray involv'd amain, And so it remained till the hard of y'are; The spar was bent and sintered and set again, Without a rent, and the sea did inter, And now 'twas the 3500, at the farthest, had she Approach'd and gazed below, out of her awaes. Then shuddering through the sludgy pool she run Into the hollow: with a flocal dulle The septentrach black did inter, and pin His entrayde toes on the smoothed pistach rim: On the ground-up, push'd it under tow'r, That horn-headed swine: "See" they say, It make a noise like shell-gamearent. Thence the silent snail, in his bend fore-feet, And shorn clumps of bones, and goateering mus We custodious of in a footpath found ourselves, Our breathless arrear so aright; our bane, Our bane, our torments, our choler, our ache have learned, That is noicht, tout bas guerre. Cobb complete then ran the casing guant, That we, as all men knows, but know not where, Our ring-dowsing from the septentrion to the t; Saith I, "I will give her such a one As no comedian is in the house." "Ah," say I, "I see I cannot flye; I shall pay full indeed a prease." Then to my self I will my second case, That now in you may flow as the first, And all the paints that woodye in their wounds May know their torments, know their pain: yet few, If any, the number will reward. This Octo luned, and in his brood Five children lighted words of watery speech, The most of any, in my threescore years; That single one in all may give The disease which waxes woe and death. 'Twas Octo cam' to the place as he drawed Long ereikins, and then he did ensew' And then he did eke up with a speckled yilch; But all his work yonder, that should be a map Of some world or other men callit OEchalia, Which most of all a map is of th' unsapeld land, When all is tried from shore to silver sea, But this was not all; he could as well, doeth chace If that by all else were done as well, And then to the mouths there followed, all of wax, Which were the tongues of men to the woful backhont About: for there and there a pen he light Of one ======================================== SAMPLE 378 ======================================== Then will I choose to go to join my own again, Singing that there's nothing sweeter than a mate. I sat in the boat, And she in the lonely boat Singing and singing, In the garden of love By the streams of the E. O'er the water, Over the water, Through the leaves, Keep always whispering that true love never dies, That death is only death's emergency, That affection never ceases to be our rule. Where the little boat Gatenallies with oars, Love wakens fleetory hopes To drift to the centre Of the waters he quaffes In that green vale Where the oolis are ever singing and straying. The last stroke she made In his fortune of life Was when she brushed his hair From the crown with a lint-handed finger, And a lisp of joy Came from the disorder Like the crowd that sings and strains When a new young king is crowned. Down from a crest Of plumed thists, Like a shell Christina steals Flaura from the mould To lie like a pearl In her milky place, Where her seductive eyes Keep an angel's face Awake in every shape. I asked for magnanimity From the aspect of my case, And I got sour and unfull: Grateful for words at this moment, I think of the far-off sparrow Slying near the rock, Slyly waiting for the shrimp to swim Out of the fathomless water, By the long-haired carp that waits On the margin of the place where we drink. Ah, but the sparrows of the air, Chirping, honking shrill, Chasing rainbows down from the clouds, Are not richer than I am; Far more little, yet great; They never pass Gaza over; If they did, it should be every man And every woman born of her. The mason at Bethel lives a Many human lives We waste in wasted passions, we lose in men and wine. What is Banker's Window but a panes With laths, then, fall down, when we remember well, The man who wanted nor hammer-struck stones, Nor any design of streets between market-square And sky, nor yet extended to unicentre Of cathedral, nor to vertuct Of bridges, nor to marde lined with pines Over bubbling cisghnale, nor build a town Warm with store of water, nor open Veneer at central aqueduct, nor dis- cyle the grvert uglcious sand from marble turned Into her metal? He would have bought rather A window, if he had had one, rather. Well now he sits human, with his pride Letting board, and hanging eggs to crack them, too; But if he had sat as the goose warden does, His cum-cutters, with their film of blue, Be absolutely sure that the poor cawings Of birds find not the good road, whate'er They be, but crows, and even the convenient Fliers, stars, moths, are above those weirs That have in common the upper run, And drave his epitaph rather low. For so they were worth the weeping, And so they were worth the carping too: The sorrow they rested, the poring good. And from such to-morrow we shall not be Down in the deep themselves, as well As the soft-curling tear-drops; such a friend As a worm, a fly, can teach out no more In this high buzzidigs of the human world, Then let one read, or one write, and one weep, A month, a year, or twenty-three, ere he do If he has paid no money for the music That answers, and no strings have touched; If a farthing is the sum of his gain, He has nought to sigh for,--and all for this, He knows, that the fairest fair of things Was beauty, and from her he became; She became a wanton girl, and therefore girl Too dear for sale, then pulled down, By a complication of an arrangement, Which makes her fair again, as little of one And now of her gone in whom he is To be re-filled, and the toga clad ======================================== SAMPLE 379 ======================================== All this is real; but you, who Are an Eastern beasemen, and sat Ill-temper'd, satisfied with just Vranium of Faith, and with a thread Of Mohammedanism weaving With his holy law, must needs Endure, because he is not provable. He knows that you are blind, and will Ignorance what he has told you, and reject Vulgar errors, given to you by the Law As to the moon and celibate clergy. The former you can forget or charm, but Celibacy is beyond your poise; and from it No small, though gentle, illusion has been plann'd On your youthful, gay, but sovereign mind, As boy, yet man; as mature, yet still boy, In virgin-begins not yet broken. Yet grow Good when God gives none, sexual begetting As apples of their size cause fruit unsought, These errors of a by-past, though bred in you With as much hate as yourself, will now, Being by births of a rig in them, your sorceries. But I have sowr'd, and enderd, with my spare care, To plant again from ploughshares. Still, boy, go on, Till vof these straits, which calls me up, Point out thy manhood, if I here find You have no yet unsown in you. I have now More rights in you than if NORICE had not sinnd, And all her sonople, all; for who then will be Sorry that he is; nor will I then underage Mistake my reckoning! but my point is this, That Love to know how much a manness is Worthiness splendidly to fill, If I mean to exalt me--this for a woman Is worth extolling! Thou, my son, more sure To grow, if, true to childhood, thou keep'st free From all these, and other temptations, From the efnort way, from honour, from these streets, From all deceit, secrets, sins, from allull Blood, with which we are at this hour Bred, which leads straight to slavery; from Desire of gold,arel, and lavishment Of the soiebiant or handsome fall'n in life, To leisuration and opinion, Entail'd in those three:--For in these werkes, Which wttl arise, he abroad desired, He must first satisfy his craving eye, Ere to acquaintance made; what relationship Can be between these and full knowledge, But contact? which by familiarity more made, For envie, can we not with like approvation Seek and know you also? besides, whose thynge, If not approv'd, hongs ufd as devyte, And heedles calls more feyt then it deserve; Of thyrsis no doubt it is but amort, To sene brotherhermtit heart, but time Hath trusst it so. With this purpose now Of knowledge initiated, and truth can reach, Compar'd with which the neghborly poort is frittered In the removd, gife vntended on the ruthe, And dead as in a brood confort, Which by dissembling seems hong te him Till pluckt from him as from their centre; Which hee, surety, in his rectitude Cares nought of, but as to end he fritter, Such neer was the thing set in his hart Tis life; and to the full all his hart Canst graft, before this, wandreth in woe. Such brass will stain a child, such wood corrupt Adam, dust will mold Enoch, and as low Sped Methuselas, EuphroSesGamia, perfernd All have their office in his body, Where they were seed, effect of his act, If then his state, his Nature be God's, Ne're otherwise with man, for since he The garden was unfulled, lost All nature that was in him while By just committal, and presently This venereal, weak self-drinker Powder-constraining spirit, banished hence To tabernacle of self-restraining inebriety, Thence arises such a generation. Begynneth the Gentil-mother (as Lagrange was) This Poesy from the birth of music To this, to thee the raine of angels gat. Taught to dispisse ======================================== SAMPLE 380 ======================================== muttered dreary, long, Dreary dreary dreary, Long dreary dreary dreary, Long dreary dreery dreery, Long dreest to a treble of treble, Brought us, one by one, Their little small heads to an even tune, With a tiny touch, With a tiny touch, With a tiny touch, Tiny touch, Tiny touch, Tiny touch! No, no, no, not in this world, This house of clay, I'm sorry the secret is out,-- Off for a body-virginia, With a tiny touch! After awhile the crowded room Curled round the head-rattling radio, But just as suddenly At the other end rose a voice And a laugh by an autograph Clearer than ever Quick o'er the throng, And a single line:-- Why I am glad that I live Here's a master's path, Where the birds are free To the not too distant sun; But the nature of the land All doth banish Bath from her list. The little river eternally Streams and spirals by the inn. And the houses, close together, T to e o' the radio Are two caves beside. The radio show is up at high Impound the other way. All wild-flowered pastures With gardens full of Stript trees, old farm houses, Close as we love our very Listless homes everywhere, Bath is not on the cliff. The little noisy machines Seem to confuse With living watermats. Houses with rent-periods To a year or two, Sit the weary bent-st where Scrub-grass in the lawn mow Bristle as it kills the mower, And j. date-pink, with its white Upsprings instead of chinos; While the road is grown-up And Persiforion's Plus three extra large car O'erlooks with a magnolia. 'T is true that though It is well-spoken Chisel-lips tell the news Easy and plain, Still you ask How good it feels To be Sally? Pensil, aside Lao-li bid good-luck To all men, Took his truck; On a windy day gone Sat outside With the newspaper Up his nose, Thinking of Sally, On his perch, Thinking of Sally, And a dozen things Other than When to go down the hall At three, I think of the door And Sally And think of him As a young man Going somewhere, Going away To speak to Sally; Doing for Sally What we do For God's Sake. Then of three Who'd have thought By Ma and Marie That he was taken Home with Sally To be shown to his Little girl And not Died in the war Of the newspaper War Scoring a single coin In the total Disaster? In the real sense Ah yes, it scratches The head I am clear How he saw Sally To Montreal Last spring. But Sally Not Sally. What a strike! The star turned pale When it seemed To buzz around The word The star Did not know Meanly. It goes without Using the word How many are there? How many, me young host? There are many, me young host. As many as the bees Or some are to sample The honey. You are not happy, young host? You would rather Go out in the cold? I can not blame you, young host. You would rather Watch a sheep-handling Or prink In the sun. The room is plain And the indoor room Would be more your style. So the plain room you may Be satisfied. So the indoor room, But I tell you, my young host, There is a much better way. Handy it is to show These peevish things The first and the last. What can be done with them? You would rather Smell the sugar bunches Under your ranket spot. <|endoftext|> "Five Poems on the Loss of Late Gods", by Robert Herrick [Nature, Winter, Social Commentaries, Heroes & Patriotism] In winter the way To make ======================================== SAMPLE 381 ======================================== trade will not fall by such a blow; And we can find as good an estate As we used to make with liquor at night. Dost you love the master of the horse That bore you in the battles of the west? Dost you love the master of the man Who saved you, when the waters were deep? Dost love the master of the wife Who feels her soul in every fibre? Dost love the man who parted you When life felt very thorny, The sullen way?--and did he fail In his great duty, and was there naught That he could have done, that he could believe? Dost thou love the toil of the year That darkened forests put under, O'er which the whirlwind blew its fire, That the somber clouds were chosen, O'er which the snow and blinding - The snows of heaven were strewn? Dost thou love the storm that cowed you O'er the sea that lay in rest? O, was there need to question so, About the man who cries at night That he would surely perish on If better had taught his heart To tremble with doubts no more? I love thee, if love can do so, O, the proud boast of youth's conquest, The great dream that life summed up in one made; I love thee, I love thee, if Thy heart be where fury is, And if one longs, yet cares the more; For thou with my soul art mixed. I love thee, if love can see That glancing water between us two, I hope, and you above, and make believe; I love to see the day in thee rising, And into my life raining every day. There's vanity in the low, grovelled eyes That make it easy to turn out friends; There's life in the quick, wistful breath that breathes Between us two, the need makes fain; But oh, I love because it is fair, And you to please believe that you don't fall; Because you believe in full is paid The debt that you ever owe to me. 'Twas just the spring time, and summer beautiful, And flowers full-blown before their summer wastes; A violet, the earliest, on the lime-bough lined, And a tulip incomparable sweet, That, versus, war had won with a purple stripe On a white ground. Ay, its bright sides made such a haze That light from the sun seemed locked, and e'en the breeze Puffing out its box of berry-scented hairs. The chirping birds, the lumbering breeze, all thought They had been dreaming of something that clear Had been all this shopping in the world around. All loves were declared, and declared in song, As 'twere again made; who said what he/she knew, And said what they would name, and Tinday said not a word. The love that lifts up its eyes to Heaven at night Is not so very tender that it not betray The surmise of a man who would be wed To its own hidden smell of emerald taint, White of the mere, and green of the tree, Green of the gloam, blue of the feet--say, what is it? Love that walks on the nethermost places? Oh, something there is triumphing, vindicating, Knows no more of jail and chain than a hammer, Spends no money on the fielighting of black and blue, Than a man with a goal which he/she should touch. Love that knows no risk and threatens no delay, Thinking no evil of the Spirit of Man made, Hath, with a wild-bird in a tinsel cape (A gold banner with a golden ecru collar) Watched the labyrinth of the world as a rat Dilating toward Heaven, the sun, till the mind Of the world, made of pure and broken atoms, Could not follow, even though the motion made An evildoer out of the morally right, With a might that was equal to the literally wrong. Yea, there were some that were right all the time, And so was the uniformity of their lives; And some who were so right all the time It seemed that they would not wrong nor save a thing, But just went on as their budget told them they should, Going on as their right mind told them to. I went about my business as I do every day, Visiting rooms I wasn't ======================================== SAMPLE 382 ======================================== her re-birth the universe is I say The Gorgon's mother, Nausicaa, saw him lying in the sand, and with her teeth bit down his neck. This is what she told the Argonid, son of Polybus, but men muttering behind her, who was in meantime for a sword to cut his throat. Or as a bird, when her feathers are scattered, and one goes down to find them, but as soon as she has found them, another comes and gets them, the first one sees them scattered and breaking into pieces, and sits up, but when there's another comes and gets them, the first one comes and gets them, the first one says, "What shall I do? I saw the dentures on the ground, where I left them, but these are not so nice; now I see, my dear, that I said them on the ground they are not so nice. I shall never get them all, one will jest foul, and then again elsewise." Such was the chief whose head had been broken by that beast God with the Blood-stained Neck, inasmuch as he governed it as a faimmas priori, for that he was ferocious in his mood. And here died he, of head so torn with terror, after he flays their throats. Aruns, the son of Epiphanios, next strove his strength in undertaking others; and from him and the other slayers were the large portions of their acts. From this passage of the Theban goddess, to the disgraced and estranged Argive people, and the angry host of Rhesus, who were seeking that quarter they might bring to reward their wild warfare, an angel descended with the voice of Revelation, and stood on Mount Corosetum looking over that passage of the forest, and uttering the prophet's name that should stand for prophet to the whole earth. Well and durable did not a silence divine prevail, nor a silence supernatural. It answered both to the men of renown, and also to all who on that side looked toward the starry choirs above, which Jesus Christ, his head sheltered with finish and helmed and with his arms raised up in claiming the glory, his face visible to beholder to be the picture of the Naiads that might be seen to manage that thicket, and that, as it seemed, the inspirational and incarnate Word of God, who had the dignity of a Benzier, courted the esteem of Lesioned by their language and inclosed in human form, they will be found, when we catalogue, by velocity, nature's most mysterious branches; and Taemra's people, and natives of a damp region,--nights at chance, will satisfy your need of ease, and delight, and content you above all human aime. And who likes the lows of the law, or who enjoys them well, anywhere, will bring him districts, and his sagas, will be found. And he who made without a precedent the Ebor-heights, and the Skaghtoghegans, and people that cultivate the plain, will at no time find a ground. For that a birth has no cause where of itself are counts as human ancestry; and that is how refined man, one fault and mistake though he be, can collopy and outlive the feet from bare earth: so that human nature from the `Form in fault, in kindness, not in fault of Form' has set in respect to order. Now the fate of the universe from its birth, from the glass wasopy edition, from the death of Manu beyond the caphereon, down to the Ebor and Elroys of France, has deterred or superseded. Now generation and death of man are not reckoned of any cost, though in either case it happened that an adder th Proteus it is, is avoided. And the misery and paupercreme of the flesh are done. In the shrubbed state we are clothed with eleven. And generation and pathway of fleshly sense; and since sense is the grip of life no less than sense, what may the pain be of Pysic men in Sunland, or of animal Amaru in the same ? The amaranths another code of names uses There are that seek shade, but there are those that Gathere all light in the front from day and the arc of the day; "The Love That Is Not", by David Baker [Love, Classic Love, Relationships, Men & Women] I have no desire other than to be desired, the moon to the sun, the morning to midday, the noon to the evening, the evening to the morning, the silence to the music, the evening to the noon, the love that is not to be departed other than to say of a was, other than to say joy, the happy past, the painful present, the uncertain future, the bitter toil, the fortunate chance to be loved, the happiest love that is not. <|endoftext|> "I Heard in the Air", by David Baker [Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] I heard in the airThe plane was on fire and falling— a woman's voice, like in a dream. I saw in the airThe plane was on fire and falling— a man's voice, like in a dream. I walked along the burning highway— a man's voice, like in a dream. The man said just this and air was full of smoke— the man's voice, like in a dream. He carried a huge satchel on his shoulder full of bread and meat. His companions watched as he scattered the bread and meat all over the city and even left it outside the house while they slept. I heard in the airThe plane is on fire and falling— the woman's voice, like in a dream. The man's satchel was big enough to hold all of his dreams— the sun came out and the woman's voice, like in a dream. I walked along the burning highway dreaming of bombs and cities bombed— the man's voice, like in a dream. The city is totally destroyed, some windows boarded, the metal grill covered with grass. The man said "This is Hell" and "Anna" and dreaming of being held so hard. Hell is stupid and stupid is not. Anna is dreaming about her dream. He said "This is my dream" and dreams about being chased and lost. And burning buses and apartment buildings, he said "This is Hell" and "Anna" and dreaming of years before this one. Years ago, before this dream. He said "Tonight I want to go home." It's hard to be decided, to have home and wants, to decide to go out, to travel, to go home. And the air shakes and listens, like when you try to call home and your voice is dead. He stayed out late listening. He stopped playing the game, and the ball dropped in the air. The man said "I heard something" and "I saw it" and "the sky" and "the light." He said "It's either this place" and "This home" and "our game" and "home." <|endoftext|> "Incident", by David Baker [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Arts & Sciences, Architecture & Design, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] Our cargo ship's departure from Accotink— Caps are rolled back, delaying the trip—. Our cabins are ready, as always, with western lights and guns. And now the Bosphorus dabbles, takes on some erosion. Its northern stretch is frozen up, but it surpasses ======================================== SAMPLE 385 ======================================== Groping for a friend, in truth! I would, that ye could win a friend From the most fearful pen of fear, To the sword a sister; And of those who a sister sought A lover, and found cruel use of her-- I would, that ye could gain a brother From the most dreadful pen of cruelty! Then, by the bearing of the Northern snow, And the loneliness of arid drouth, And the shine of torches in the nighttime display, And the scent of infantry in the morning light, And the thirst, that is the sign of freedom for me, I salute thee, Country of Mother and of Medusa! I stand between thy sea and the seethingaf Sea-meadows of Freedom waiting for a grave. By the sound of ancient harp, by the rushing of reek, By the fog-smoke thick at the entrance of the bore, Up from the sloughs of vessels, or from the wrecks, Look we and look we forward to a day , of a final shout, to the level mud, Which the boots of man never stomped! The horse of man, so run from our maker, For a thousand years and more, Has covered not even the first day Of a hair's-face in his work; He tells no stories, he takes no notes, He counts no days. But we, the things, bepears a-yearning For all the sorrows he hath known, Rejoice, and hope, and daily smile, And long for the day when he can speak, Speak for us his word thro' a grave. Yes, the old horse of the world, Of the creator known, We, yt know, are prone to guess at bis life, And to pine for a could do more, For the mercy he showed ere our need, For the pleasure he hath shown. Yes, the horse of the world knows That his life is not meant; We, the creatures, need his green grass whelp Even more than he the pig, He is happy sitting on an engin green, While we are pestered by sun and rain, While we fret and ask for bread. There's not much hope for resurrection Our fellow, in the thirties. But there's a rider now, to spoil The world with a beetle, And this beetle's story to come see,-- If there be truth in the legends, Which I doubt,-- When he awoke, he staggered For the dark, whereat he fell. Renawed, indeed, but he was up, And through the dark he swung. Yet from the wreck of his firmament, Things, shadows, he gathered, Falling things none identified, Most spastic and twisted in form, And some that he tossed about When I was brought up, I seldom if ever saw the sun. As oft as I have cryoneaph, As errands to do, And have my prayer to the Just Soul That reigning Still Shall lead us on the right. What, pray you, Shall I do, or may, Whanout me my Wish shall ask, But the perpetual thanks of the grateful sky That made the old moon in the shade? Ask anything, then, Happy as nowinces, Ask fortune,-- I'll confess I have had my refusal, And never cared for moons, But for pleasures's likeness, And why?-- Because the lilac are sweet to me With their poet-protectress, And nobody else--like bees-- Can sing to give so much solace. And on the camel, Gross with beauty and youth, I've seen the seven heavens And met with the seven his hand, To whom I answer: "From heaven--you all are twins; But we are not in the world; And you'll come to me! "I am the image of beauty Disciples of creation The dying artist sets his seal On what is above and round, The womb, the apple, the leaf; The gentle circle of creation, The magic circle of making, Wherein the magic things grow; I am the image of creation, And my form is harmony." The wind went sifting Down through the rippling Wedge of the morning; The neighbors Gathered and stared Like they'd see a ghost; Like they'd see a ghost, For he was blowing Home along the way, Full of beautiful wonder. ======================================== SAMPLE 386 ======================================== Is not a week old Mothers her In her arms! A kissing with him in it. In cold wet days My mother is so kind to me. That Dries the moon to the moon's half-bred stars, And makes my heart so wild for her, That, when you see Once dimpled and dimpled and dewy-pipped In those deep gentle sweetnesses' embrace, It's as if a big black satin kiss Had met in the rumpled mane And tied it there, and taken a loving strain And woven it into the mane of thy face. A jealous sister stole us away to the park To exercise her modern-bred snath with thee. O, Jealous, what art thou? Thou art not The first, but the god-breed mother. In vain, said I, I have bred one like; I pray her for her sake. My boy, I know Thou hast learned to be prouder, true, but she has not affected Such thinkings as a wicked wife ought ever to take Ever. This woman is not worth a gilded sleighing look, It is thy virtuous nature that makes thee superior. How beautiful thy rilibles! How close thy iambe for ever toiling To keep thy trunk rooted to the firm earth! When the mist Breathes forth upon the peak, thou dost repello-blaspheiThy fulness; the plants curl themselves irresast To shake themselves into graceful apopleys. How hast thou done These things well? My boy, it's no use inquiring More: thou hast no airs about thee. That were not so good wasting Tin'ur; art thou a poet? It ministers with a false And false grandeur to the talents of a bard. Thou art Unworthy of thy namesake. Take wfrom me thine honorable title. I'm not so good Making times, As some think, But I'll front the issue; If I'm forced to say I'm defeated, It would depress my moody mood. Facing facts, There's too much killing and killing. The lords of the matter Know best their mischance. They'd best let me face What's good, right and proper, If killing never troubled them: And they've no secrets dreadful, None to spare or risk distress In this red pandorum of the State. Yea, there, now you see, The state hath its uses. Besides, why supercilious are gentlemen In conquering new realms? A fool is what they call us, Who, through inexperience, presume Things which cannot be achieved in today's world. 'Tis all vain; and should they be wise They ne'er would want. If ruin'd, they can get you a rich indulgence; So that your share of death sends you straight to heaven. They think that you're losers if you decline this prodigies, And always are forced to conquer out of turn; While to see your pleasures prodigal Made it a story, and your neighbours' blessings neglect. But this, my child, my obediently-guest daughter Blanche-- 'Tis only a firefly's bragging, your good daughter Blanche-- The firefly's brag, your duly sworn, good daughter Blanche. The law, you say, that controls our land, Guarded for the neighbourhood of just one poor damned man. And now, without your licence or help, your lord and king Have gone to Africa to round some lazy buckhorn towns. Fair interference of the said law, said we, king: Who o'ertinks his belly full of meat and drink. Nay, fair copartner; but who shall guarantee The poor man? Or your pros, our law, said king: I'm sure, 'tis this, or the said law Sually tempers, perverts, protects Your proper name, captain, corporation. Tho' some pretend to equality, This will go round as far as 'tis best for the bean. But, fair mouth, so sweet life's achievement, Your proper diet, say I, must first, like hay, Then temperance measures by exports or imports. In sulky industry let sloth have rest, Cigarettes, cheese, and ginger-pop For the froward life of the workingman, And, lastly, whisky or brandy, to make His life full addition of gruelling penalties. ======================================== SAMPLE 387 ======================================== Just to see him and then leave him be my first duty! The thing I'd do, don't you know, Nell, When you got in the habit Of asking men to play you a few rounds Of cribbage--just to keep your mind off-- You know,--the Things Girls are Ambitious To Do! When you had just began to learn the art Of beating up your little sail-wagon, Nelly, And one day brought home a letter to let you Know I was not unc impressed with your style of dress, I said to you,--"You're the man, for Heaven's sake!" But to cut you short, for heaven's sake, I'd have you come and take the fault back half, Kay? I did not say it lightly, did I? I think I meant it rather chiefly, Nell! But who'll prove me wrong? Let's try and now, Kay! The breakfast satelite, Nelly, Just dropped her a hint as we sat, A tender little miss, not a week old-- A baby it was, a wee suck-at-the-face, Neat little head, the kind that rides America's Way. You never did get him to say, did you, Nell, What was he doing here? Or is he one of those That whistles green and says nothings to his planes? And then when asked where he was he-sittin' Did he and his green head look half as stupid? Oh, pity when you're younger, The baby then, was wearin' of baby-time, And the mother came on a time or so And was pretty sore that you didn't know Your dustin' me! For you know That was a long, long time ago. I'd change it easy too if I could hit On some idea which would please me more Each time 'I borrowed' it from you, But somehow, I don't think I'll any time soon.-- This is probably wrong, and I should hope You'll care to hear it isn't no secret. Dear, it's very hard, when you're grown, So very hard, but what's another way When Love is such a coward, and the gates Of Paradise disguised enough As her sweet threescore for the market-cross, The ten-cent shoe! You've got to laugh, My dear, though, to make the cut--and you Don't know--it can't be put by! When I was appointed at your age To so much work that you have actually More or less been laid on your back Than with just one half of your heart, And the raising market takes so long And is so erratic, and the work So on-and-overdiffident, you see How subject to being gave your own: Don't fool yourself it's a step or fall And that this is Love, or too late A Pnd-hal thing (though Pndals are rare), Or that the only thing Love does Not the best one;--it's a maiden fancy That has anointed head and heart To a Heaven in which we're too slyly slippin', There in our two-page fabric swimming Together, you and I, Nelle Jure! Not the best one, though, the meeting Of lips and whisperin' not the workshop 'At sixteen from home in the world's whyrea mouf, 'Alone together--and that's enough-- Not the best one--the meeting of minds In a cellar, and Love 'at fallin' From out a meat-rack, all fattenin' slumber! But the cellar 'with its holds so natural, And the base of a hand-dug cellar low Where miracles is a favourite option, And glam-folk--you'd believe it or not credee-- Playin' a duught known as a ditty; In the groins of the floor it gets more-- Playin' cards a-pewpees 'em a bit sloe -- Pox Popes and soda chambers-- The life o' the place is a nerve-player-- You say: And the deets notch me, Nell? I'll not be specific, I'll leave that-- 'Tis something like that, or something like Its shadows fleeces in the sun-light, Tempts me back with a taste of its sweetness-- Tricks my nerves a trifler, I can see-- But it's nixons pleasin's the piano- ======================================== SAMPLE 388 ======================================== - My uncle and Auntie sent me this photo; I still have it hanging in my living-room - this is in my room at the Pinellas County Hiker's Inn - I'm glad Auntie got one with her hair loose, and no jacket. she kept calling me "boy" and my hair was like bush at the edge of my skull - my Uncle and Aunt seemed happy, though, and They all looked at Uncle, and just kept on talking - Aunt and Uncle sat and smiled and talking and smiling and laughing - how could I not take a moment away from them to go back to theirs? and - that afternoon of swimming and chasing after Mrs. Hines had me sit down with them - at the invitation of Uncle Victor - and the smiles of Uncle and Aunt and their smiles were like clocks without the seasons telling - I ran away from home. - How could I not? I didn't want my money and I didn't want my mother. I'd had some thoughts about going back to look at the house again. . . . I was seven. - January 6, 1932 - Today and yesterday in Washington DC I called or visited 4021 Fallshurst Drive someday buy this house I guess 40 people came and a wedding was said - maybe should have been - once I was here - maybe Somerton watching over Rich, warm water, my thoughts, my voice, my knowing looks - my presence, the tingling of names Somewhere inside my legs a pair of Brooks Boys stiences on my table every knob and and nail I don't know what they wanted with me they let me in they they let me out the whole thing I think they were bringing me home I don't know kid the whole thing was that they didn't need me I guess they thought one of us had more skills I don't I guess I guess they thought they let me come - I guess I've always been bad after all - after all someday buy a car I might I guess I'll keep my grades up I'll keep walking hoping someday I don't know I've always been bad I've always been bad some way I won't know I'll never be as bad as everybody says I'll probably be worse - I guess maybe I guess I'll keep doing what I'm doing - I don't know I'll keep my doing I might I don't know when I come I might some day I might I'll keep doing what I'm WILL I be a good Fred? Friday the 13th - <|endoftext|> "The Other Little Helper", by Andrew Jordan [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Nature] Late summer wind flute thickens with citron flowers and garden grass dries rubbery grass and scented roseflowers little echoes of summer little l Helper of strawberry fields and apple trees you gather in the evening at the end of a tattered sheet to your little lighted room to my glass cage window you spin and stroke a strawberry leaf as pictured tattoos blink from your face <|endoftext|> "For My Wife", by Andrew J. Lyon [Love, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Men & Women] For your wife, I would ask, however sadly, you get paid, regularly, to do everything I shouldn't have to tell you you're not going to do. You know this, based on what? The sun's light or the moon's light? Or the brown-glow light of my road, or the brown-glow light you think is going through you right now? You're making money My love, always the same question: Is it enough? How many cripes do you think it's going to be somewhere, ======================================== SAMPLE 389 ======================================== northward toward the stern of the black ship. We sought the spot, and soon my laboring heart Beheld a sea; the silence of death, the grave; The hush of black water, the mystery of night; The fear of rocks and slips; the fear of apprehension; The vain attempt to find a path that might hold us all; The wind that drove the searching lantern, the fog that rent Our blessings, the lie of water, the stars that burned, The blind guides, the haste, the losing voice that cried, No! "There was the port, the fog, the stars, the wet wind, the wake of ships; We saw the brine-spray on the far, thin-walled sea; we heard The faint sea-sound, faint lightnings, the West minstrels say. No dying voice of living men, no mariner's voice, No cry of danger, no pain of peril, no dying shriek, We saw it all, and wondered; but we had not seen So much of earth, and knew no world's transparency. No earth's deserts bare; no man-made port unwalled; No pathway for the guide-books; no blueprint of man. We neared the last; a ghostly chain-long port Cymotho Perceived and lost. On we plumbed; in our bill of fare A caravan of states, of burdenless freedom's iron men Trailed in the shells of slaves, our rulers; the clay Of our becoming clay less, less, with each fresh hour; On we rolled, past marina, past subaqueous bar, Intrusted deep with Freedom's black gravely, that shall live To carry tale on palms of prayer. "No eye shall see, no eye shall see it even as we, No ear shall hear it, and no ear shall hear it at all. Mind shall go out bare, mind going at its back, Counting the echoes, harbouring thus her unspoken fear Of the unknown commanding column, big with dread Too big with dread, and God at its head unaware, The unknown commanding commander." All is odd and frightful and strange Now my unsteady feet press The slimy snail where it ticks, The water-sliding fish that take The shadow of the water-snake And sting of mine, Sealing its point from sight. The sun on the water-toned noon Stretches out length'o width; No breath marks the line of gray; The wind has an edge From off the glimmering deeps. Thro rill and marster's knee The path to heaven that I'm headed Is dusky, a corpse-like red; Thro bank and plain I'm worn, And now the chill of the sink Lies to my heart in the gloom. To my swelling heart's content I a secret admire; For water-spirits are there, And one to my fancy rare; Secret I suppose, and true-- I think of them often. Yet the song of the water-bell Meets me then; and from above A voice of dove or eagle; Till heart to heart with comfort swells, And faith that airy mind Strikes in my breast of bone. As my vision, fed, extends, Thro night I 'scuse the day, Though the unseen stars not light, Though moons not lend their light-- I blindly fancy not. Tho' weary hope long down forsook, When first the bite came, still she spoke Of when no springforth shalt thou see: Some day that day. Still she spoke, and now could tell If we were here to stay or no. I grew proud; spoke to her of deeds My bitter, long pain had brought; Nor yet forgot the castle, where I lay beneath the watch tower, Amang the other great bridges lived. Ah, if the birds should say, "Here, lives Good Cole," and I, that am In dream, to-day, when lift I The scorpion uprising From out its bed, wait, sweeter, Than love's own Zrack off yon star! Let me hear their prayers, white and bold, At counting-on, like the swans, On the river of Cambria! I strewed the floor of the Ferry-house; The tramp of the teamsters ceased; And a presence, stark and sober, It was, beyond a doubt, a mistress, A return for ======================================== SAMPLE 390 ======================================== Cates we don't need. Of this I'm certain, for you and me These cates and winds are better friends. <|endoftext|> "The Name Game", by Thomas James [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics, Father's Day] With all this talk of God and country and brown people Why not name the weekend the "Sunday ofSin!" And the rise, sweet easy rise, of everything bad: The hog-gerking weather, the sty-ject kind Of vapid love affairs and penis-size questions (We all have genitals size-five or six, But which to choose with—balls to sex or neato wedges?). Or the other way round, the "Sunday of Sin" Whereto women sell their souls and men their swords To indulge the palate and pursue the dream Of total pleasure in a gradual slow dinner, Where eyes draw cock-drawing long-deceived looks From rose-flushed dumps and other sweet times prayed Over and over, until the pigs are well cooked, And the wine-dark-bumpers wired are bright. <|endoftext|> "Lucky to be None of the Fun", by Thomas Merton [Living, Religion, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] Lone soldier, Soldier, soldier, Deadly, Sharply concluded, Ungaranteed, Bestial, Beheaded, Lone-footed, By a democracy of the animal world, Renowned, soldier, Known, lion, Leaping, stalking, Tamed, Tough, In his prime, Writing, rewriting, Touching, handling, Notify, Splendor, coming-soon, Sonorous, Clatter, clattering, Legions, following, coming-soon, Invenom'd, hurtling, biting, Recognizing, Taking note, Hell-sent, Taking charge, Asking for, Sad to have lost, Sad to be No longer, Scorn of man's-work, Philosophical, Profound, study, Concord, covenant, Fatigued, indebted, Coming to peace, Coming-soon, Touching, held, being held, Snatched, caught, captured, Redeemed, restored, Draggable, holding, Just as indeed the spirit of the lion is that of the soldier in his prime, both are becoming one. <|endoftext|> "Litany", by Thomas Merton [Love, Desire, Heartache & Failure, Viscosity in Life] The heart, till now a solitary thing Of light involvement only, she moved all night Until she dwelt with her so passionate and strong It seemed as if God's love had been divided strong and free And their passion had been the one and the other, And her soul's the LOT. She had been so fast and blind Defiled, defiled, her blind and naked heart In the posture of ecstasy. Now all night Night and solitude and the deep commitment Of spirits, and the niggard endear- ure of pleasure, were hers. She slept. She dreamt. She was SINGED. She was groomed, garlanded, Prentice, with tools, with tools, Working, working, working, grooming, garlanding, With a whip and my belts and cables She was groomed, being held On her nimble body by the only bonds She loved, being the strongest, best o' the hoo-huns And agile of pack-hunters, with the tools In the skillful hands of a master grasper And a bridegroom bottle-man She was groomed, being held By the tools of a master grasper, groomed By the marriage pomps, by the marriage bands Of all that was perfect in love and sights On this life called historical, in the visions Of a marriage ceremony She was groomed, being held By the tools of a marriage pompsman And a bridegroom bottle-man. <|endoftext|> "Moon", by Thomas Lux [Love, Desire, Infatuation & Crushes, Relationships, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Music, Theatre & Dance] A black curtain, moored in the moil, Hangeth from a mouth agape, The id, the moan of man youth-scathed, As when a bird may whistle, burst ======================================== SAMPLE 391 ======================================== if one be invited for one's annual hunting round to one of the Upper South States, for the South, as it is termed, one is likely to hear more or less about the game. one is, it may be, the bright and popular, the younger brother, the lively and liberal, the mover and mover in all popular festivities. he is often the more fastidious, the more artistic and systematic, look at the portraits of them, first in this volume, and in his Victoria, as well as at the others. In youth, he is often described as handsome, intelligent, and pious; and yet one reads of many other things as well, in fact I have shown, and in some of his private letters one discovers much of interest which is spoilt by the running commentary. He was the favourite, as we may well believe, of his father, from whom he received a zeal for natural science and for metaphysics, which the old biographers have spoilt him in, by maintaining that he knew of far-fetch'd paths to heaven which his younger brother pursued; and it is a pity that we are not to be diverted by the quantity with which the old riddles are undid, for they have cut out a second part, with which they begirt each following thou art my none and there is none in me. I hurt thee because that I truth know not, nor can amaze into thinking that there can be others beside one piece of clay whose relate'd qualities are more perishable than my own; And yet for many such, if they have not been wounded, a perpetual lull'ry over us, which makes it dear, is the govern'd spirit that makes all things seem short. I hurt thee that I thought thee eternal and then saw that thou hadstfound that thou was indeed a man; and I hurt thee that I thought thou stereotypest rites to which a man has held the strictest discipline; and I will hurt thee more with another sort, by thinking that thou art of no more use to thyself than means in which is no use to anything: and I would not have thee offend, with a love, that is a traitor, towards me, who have to love thee as my own. I am not one of them, in a sense, who makes a thing in the and, and in such things has been touched by Time as he may deserve, though so as to be all of it suspect'd. And more, the mind of man has its seeds of ever-blooming flowers of spring, whose declines are glory, and they are glorious. I do not think my heart the play- asps to these shares of crowns for their exercise; nor need I, with a weary eye, their councils to see them walk through park, or go to vote in May on the shallowest of all possible ponds, with a view to learn what the lords of man may choose to do with them; nor, though I have a full channel for all remarks, to complain of the stars, that so much failing makes heart-compelling; nor find I he has ask'd me who thou art, where on earth I shall hide from thee. For question'd were all my good behaviour, concerning which thy lover has provided so many types: but if he has at any time any dread of thee, which he would willingly strip to the barehood of a name, then he must be born an animal, for opposites have no existence with each other, and he makes thee both over-dry and over-wonderful; and it is not well, when like this man there falls a flood, to leave passive on himself, and to lay pressure on the more PHYSICAL, which must needs rise; and that which makes IACTITIC about him, hath had its nick by his supplicating, and making complaint, concerning that which it made itself. If thou take thy fair wife who is of gods, and of men such as are the maxim'd favor of the world, for I have felt her power to be, double-neck'd with thee and held there as a goblin, the watch of thy charm'd nymph, I know how much thy accountable is to thy body; and for my sake, have fly'd from mortals and their land, so long tending glibly as I have been mankind's guest. If air were purest thus, breath'd by itself blanca, and the like nature of all, there would be no licentiousness" (roares into Verona). And to-day if a galanteer and the galley were set free, it were not hard to de ======================================== SAMPLE 392 ======================================== Questis tokening, & ondewelde, Gron asked, “Who art thou,e take a battell card, Thou art Norandino, & art the sonne Of princely Humbrand, who with me ze fell: ‘Tethry had in honor of his conq; ‘Or else his correccyon was valu persew. ‘I slepen, but as me thought him de worthe He makth him so wyse, that he ford awa In the Volkingde for everemore. “A furto let me come is ther no plit Witen, & I not, & is that harde.’ Ned the glorious Norandino Passande with the swan to the shore, In visiting as a pilgrim was he. His gras prŭesentin was welcom, Was richely nou, & thereto more. Ther was on him lat para to hiere, He was nolding, he was there gret viole, Nor had Norandine ansuhere, So hur it was that he did lave, He forwase his handkerke hade. Norandino right anon bealla wakyn, He for wearíshed boyaned sche; Norandino, that trewe was tho, Went thanne as a brother flamed, To hire do his feraßer tweeo, And nam he as he ne gera for feore, That he for no put wyde in smerte; Al redy to his weve he was par, Al smerde he went out of the weie, For sche ned no other censner boghte, He let hire pleasure falle. Torchienen his conq; gyrd, & he kist & tar, Ne do him slow, was nevere prude, Toward the king ther was non obruer, Ther was ne no mede among; The kyng hade red also For euer sorw on mide<|endoftext|>I had a dream last night Of going back to an old-fashioned shoe store In a sleepy town in upcountry Georgia. The signs of its sitets, and mossy wall; The windows filled with dead-marsh shins And other strange things of that nature, Gathered from off the backs of travelers And people far out in low-lying lands Where things are seldom if ever still. And, as I wandered in, the shop person Saw me with puzzlement, like he were a fool, And asked me, wondering my feet were young. So glad I was to have any shoes, I said, Where I could be in them, any old way. His cheeks glowed like a forest in August. He thought a long, long time, and then said, "You want them old-fashioned, long-curtained things Out of style now--hiking about. Down in your country you will see People shoeless and people sandal-hung. You are provided with shoes all the rest, In which your foot can lie and not bother it." A dozen other people staring thought I, And one or two sneezed and wrung their hands, And looked at me as if they had a bone. "Get out," he said. "They are not provided." And one, looking at his watch, said "Only one more." "Can't you get out of the street," I said. "You can," he said. "But you don't want them." Then he said, "Come along and stand aside While I fill these slippers to the brim. You see these lasts? this pair of shoes? They are not good on the feet at all." "Then I will get them set with care From the bar that has them all to sell." He took my hand I hadn't noticed before And--told me to stand? "These lasts Will set your feet up straight." He took the shoes from off the floor And set them at an angle tall, From the tallest part of the wall, Right down to the tallest part of me. And then, he slotted on extra length Of lining and of neckband too, And, at the heel, he laid the sole, And, there, he said to me "Be sure The toes are touching, any way, So there!" he looked down at me and laughed. He wrung the sole and set ======================================== SAMPLE 393 ======================================== The people weeping, wondering and afraid Who this might be? Who this could be? This is the place where no one had ever been. This is the solitude in which they had first known The darkness and the sound and the stink of the sea. That was the night in which we lived together, And that was the night we fell in with grief, And that was the night when first I knelt and prayed And read the trouble into the heart of me. That night in which I kissed your hands for the first Time and went through all the changes of my life. I am the younger. I have the light, the hope and The terror of life. You have the passion too, The utter ardour of being in love. I must bow to that necessity which is man's; And leave the striving and the sweat of thought To her, the better, more gentle and quieter love. I should have been choking on a clod of mud Instead of praising your handsome mind Where I could say and do as I please. Now, dame, I give you back your vows Flapping happily on a tree. I am the older, better lover. That was the night in which we lived together, Before I felt the scornful askon, And saw through a haze the brilliance of the light That sealed our doom, and said over the wall To the one who broke the silence--"We doom them both!" <|endoftext|> The grass is growing green. I walk alone through all the place. I have red gold in my lap bars Throwing shadows about me And bringing to me a wonderful calm. Oh, I am glad I lived When I did to death's weird moon: Then I saw you, now I see Sweet beautiful face in your shoeshine-- Feathered red--feet are gold, And your blue eyes are blue again. I break the green grass and watch you. I feel you up from my knees And hear you make a sound, And see your little side-tail wisp How I heard the roll Of your frail little wheels As you came rolling through the grass My little side-tail skittering there; I picked up a big wheeled one From the road, and one at my feet (Lost as in a dream) I had both shoes and tights Both dry and slick as butter. I have searched all the building For the room that suits you best. I bought the little rooms Forts of a hand-built cat. In such a room my love Might lie cushionless, And stay windless, couchless couchless, there. There's plenty of room. I tell you All this, and sing. You drive home in the night? Why, it may be (As my dead do when they're dead) They care for leave At night, for play, deep play. They take the room like precious wine. In my dream you came-- You, and me, and friend; Ah, friend was unkind. I waited there for you And kissed the room And kissed the wall And suddenly: "No." My dog and I, we wonder How the two will beat And take your synonym How the dead and I-- The little little living fool-- Set the room to cry, And leave it done. Hands away, hands away, Children, children, sleep well in my arms, Oh, child at rest there in my golden chest, Child, you may wake in the dawn, I may cry. Hands away, hands away, I, I am afraid As you do cry, We lose our breath, we lose our breath, In the rise and the spread of the star of the sun. <|endoftext|> Blossom where there was blow Dust where there was no blow, Song where there was no song, Sorrow where there was none, Strange, vague things where there were none, Calm was the face And the way there. There, where no path was to be, There, where thoughts were dead, Calm was the face, though the days be hard, Yet there were smiles as the days were black, As far as man may see O'er which a palm was wove. 'Twas but a little while since she came to me, As with mild wonder she came she; "Say, have you got the wire, by Canse ', for me'--for me, and never a word, Just here ======================================== SAMPLE 394 ======================================== Of pleasure, and endur'd no more But flurr'd, as if in furious play He grappled with some huge plant, that thro' The medium of ev'ry part Of man, earth, and sea, and wold, Sweeps down, and quiv'ring with wild sound Resounds the wilder vast. Thus play'd he, and as he streamed, behold A dame in blessed peace of God, whose breast With lawless virtue had no shamed-oak With which might best the Sire of rivers, Which now beheld such foul divide, Purse and pearles, from his course to stream And valley, folarch, or seat of crow, Whom when he reach'd, he drunken rage Distraught stopt, and coldly ask'd "Why so magnanimous, why did you Allow that sinful baneful bark, Which right joy should lend this wretch to go Adventure in, between the heav'ns, and live, Surfeiting enjoy in pain?" Thus said, He grasp'd his goblet, and candidly asked Of God that question; which answer gave return "Thou art mine; if what I ask be true, The world hath no thing henceforth in me a touch But what I am; of thine origin The whole I am, from the first product I mature, and all the potential bodies Thy thoughts expressly senses. In possess'd True benign origin, not bad it is That thou shouldst need, which purpose holds the sands Once drop-like in the genuine cheek, to wave A kindred wand, or man to awe thy power With temper'd motion. 'This artery alone That I shall give thou shalt not lose, nor ever Bombard of wills. My prongs are three, and these Thou must undergo; and last, My gratulated advice give in all the forms Three phases own. Supream is life; but woe! I fright thee, mute and entire, with how desolate Is every life that slumbers in mortal Bay! Millions of beings slumber: we can trace No obscure of this interminable well: Not single spirits, but the kinds, we know From those we've loved, nor yet can wonder leaves If immortal; and our veracious dreams Then see, though sad, with how many huges Shiver'd at ev'n bed of death, the cries Of various corpses keep count; but th' extent Is all dark. And if the branches tell the rest, Methinks Still the departed life, the unpan'd Body, and the mangled spirit cavort As if they knew something. Ye angel wings, Wherefore weep we, when a sullen darkness falls On this accursed world? weep we, when The branches sweep, and from the vast angle Swells hail-clouds swell the huge malignity Of disease, that scours all life, and in a man Convey disease; when the Dawn pours new-shine, and all The landscape redows, and all Nature lies Love-bedeseed'd? which Jove? when thick night leaves tumults, And rav'ning wraiths assault me, and all bewail The dead young, in bachelor-maturity? Then weep we dews, so many kids Ope fresh; tears, so watery, when they swim And cling in hemispheres, and diffident hand The valves of human lamp reliev'd? Wine, so black, when it makes young men sick, delites Me yet more, and in some smother'd plants lie lull'd; Mine own friends hand more nobly, when the sense I shudder. O'er stragglers dimness onward rush'd perplex'd, Whose steps in some dark maze of audio-clings? Thro' luxuriant first-robin birth in bloom Graw huge infinities backward? and o'er twinges The grim where-arises o'er the creepers paws And in warm-picked midge-coloured streams? The baby's smile? the mother's voice with fresh Lien Ontcker Voice? who haply wont to tell Me from upon my one fair God, on high, Down-pait down the wave; on-topmost palm; and held At evening birth, and morning utterance? So may I face the past yet still be one, An arm for Lucretius; still admire Him and confess; and with a man's devotion Forget not that prevent'd with so much ease I hindered him; and yet knowing still He lived ======================================== SAMPLE 395 ======================================== poor light before me that ill might be Which no kind looks would sweeten, as 'twere, Were it a shadow from my mother's tomb, That, turning in its momentary flight, Touched not my face with pure, prelusive breath. I do not know if I should call you mine, Nor do I know if I should not claim you mine; But this I know--your promise, if you will, To truth will bind, your faith will hold more sure: Be still my own, and be the first--my queen. I have laid waste the loveliest flower that grew In this haloed, enchanted month of June; When moonbeams linger in the dewy blue That lifts your face of peach to create A monster in me, too perfect for my eyes. I have tempered hope with hopeful paranoia-- Now, now I've found the pitch of ideal boy-- I've lost him, I'll say with quiet eloquence. I will keep you, my own heart, from decay If I have kept my eternal soul in you, The same to lean on, the same to call me home When I go forth into the civic light of day Where beauty stays that fate has left me-- If I have a home, I name you the wall between! Oh, excuse me, Heaven, grave and vast and wide, If I have claimed your existence without a claim; But I have given you back again to nought That claimed you, and all that lies between A death and a lifetime, pray, Heaven, more quiet, Or lie close, hide your head under it with me. Toil, my own city, we have been true And true alone through yourself could find Work that was work, a home that was home; All that was mine, all for me--did it make Essence of my being to say "Mine"?-- Were it not better to be anything Rather than "He works in hope of it"? Work is a glory unto itself, A little glory unto itself; For the soul that hath been happy and strong Out of the heart that turns from faulty tiles To riper ground, unto old and young Work shall be memory, and hope the rose; And toil--the long, longing toil--the trust That gives full existence to the soul, And that is joy, and that our instant pleasure, That is... And the good is greater than the good, The glorious than the precious, And there is light in hell, if you can see it; For the work--no matter how it is made, Is always its reward and nothing else; And it is glad in its little day, For what is happy and quiet is still night. And the world--it suits God perfectly-- Is the mouth of this same world that hangs Outside the lips that were too deep To understand a human soul, no, not one. The lusts, the crowds, the mission, the scourge Are the body temp'r and the sword, And, in this flesh, the soul may come or may leave, But--which is first--the broken hymns or the flying feet? We had been friends, foratial, erbenfut, atavistic makers, Of castles full of life-immediate lusts and tales; But now we stand upon the last, real threshold of life, And all that I have made, or else accused of making, Is yours and mine, and you may choose to go with me. We had been pals, a element ineradicate, By taking up with too many irredeemable, monstrous wives; For now I turn to the definite thing that was a friend, And if I sigh or if I smile it shall not be for writing. Our line may be Spezzian, but your Whistria, I transfer Not the least power to thy supernal muse, O dust I have been, thou air that I did ingest, O gaunt molars, clavicle, neck and Wicked's abuse; And if the old blood of Europe earth to pool with peace, Whate'er it is, this coal-black flesh, this barb'rous plant Othman threw in his toothache day, or what's his birth, O 'twas but venial, so 'twas the life that be confined. Then we swung on our arcades and balustrades, But the air was dry as a biscard in the desert; And as for our comedies and romars the nuddy angels Are always crying, "A comedie please ======================================== SAMPLE 396 ======================================== back. And from the grove where the kine drink, The green dews may a throat take, And no nectar be, If she be slack with the young In the far bower where the tamer Knees them. And let no man mock thy fair, Though the sea lie heavy on thy brow, And storms may play with thy dew To thy fair limbs and the wool Of thy hair; Nor let thine heart be sad For a little space When the soul's full heart and the voice Of great pain From the sea comes seaward. Though land and sea bring gifts to thee, The glory and the pain, Still let the sea take pain, And all the heavings in it; And, being thus filled, weep As men weep, Only mutely; For the storm is not this night, And the night is not tonight; And this kept tongue, and this dark world of ours, And all these leaves apace, Still shall be here years after; And man must tell his sorrow there; But other tongues may live still To make new tongues father, And other days may be Here in the grave or in life; But only this night there is One night to this man, and one to him, One sleeping-place in the land. The highest thing alive Was that which slept in his dream The stars and the wine in the sky Of God's garden, and the fire of the sun; And the deepest thing alive Was that which slept in his sleep. "O God," he began to pray, "O God all things that are! The world take with equity, This dark world give way to From night's own heart depart! I pray one thing, and one alone: Give me to drink, and I shall cease to pray." He ceased, and slept not, but all three Of that terrible trio, In splendid form from court Came down to cellar, and there in poverty Potted. Their bottles were other things. Of sun, of rain, and of wind The things on earthenware, Shining the gleam of the stars, Shall not bide Old Revelation where the glittering bowls be Of rich and old wines, of precious flesh and bones In the golden ages of God. Till the still empty house Gently infused their spirit, and each In some high place of sanctuary Poured forth the cup of his prayer, And from the roof or dusky wall Of that enchanted garden, or the altar From the draper's golden roofs of cities, Where art and nature are harmonized, And thereunocence may make her choirs Amid the low world's endless wrangling. Then the mother of God turned her Face toward the window, and in a while Her loveliest with grey hair waved in, And with her lovely orifice naked, She cast back the draught, and kissed the men, And was forgiven. The wine had set her blood aflame, And the natural redness in her cheeks And cheeks which had but inkled been Had taken fire and freshness, and From lips where had seraphs been bred Or passions whiter and whiter. But in deep rumps and secret places Her breasts were litten, and the fire Had entered, and for months and years Burnt there, until the sacred site, And the holy part, and the place, Or something made of pure endowments, And the pure sweet body, came to love As the best singers, who had first sought In hands and breasts the new Spirit place. Some hotted way in love; and it befel They chang'd their place, and to new manhood were sharp, And swift to fly, and deft in warlick; and they flew, And rumpled ruin. There fell sore dust among Whoso held his armour, and one made of horn His horse of victory: all were horse and shield, And close together rode they, and one rode fronting The other. Whosoever of them swung the shield Across his arm, and overbore his shield At right angles, felt the steel cut through Within; or heft the sanguine blade across His shoulder, and so drave it on his foe Whose limbs below were set the ground in thrust. Such was the man who with the stroke that wounded first Transformed, restored that bridge by feat of arms. But Fortune with a face of veritable plague, So rain on ======================================== SAMPLE 397 ======================================== Tegan, Pegan; Let us pray, that after This life our neighbors may bless us, And we may be in peace together. Tegan, Pegan; Let us pray, O God, With choral prayer let us be met, That when the land unrun is, And mighty Jerusalem Sinking, her wall with peace shall fight, Till the world—before ours shall be In perpetual peace and concord. Shall my little beacon be Flashing other than in me? Shall it be in vain? O, pray! What shall be from the day to day And life from life a quiet? What shall be from this day And youth's causeless bright delight? That light, rosy, smiling sign, O God, shine it yet with peace; And to leave it unshaken free Shall be from God sometime great, As thou, as thou, hast made it good. What shall from birth or death that code be Which the new soul from its treasured hell Have with such peace settled in her heart? She has, at last, in foreign eyes, At home, in local hearts, to stay; And they, who had her and her own, Or in another way were her own, In all they had her, knew her not. Now, she to whom they had no fear Shall have fear for them, now she is dead, And in whom is no memory of She was a light to them, as is The fruit of Babblingfield once more; Who, that they did not understand, Did all things straighten for themselves; Who called the fittest deed great or small, And punched mean devils twice, like Liberty; Who made the weirdest cathedra funny, And read most collections in order. O, taken from her, here I divide, But not into two, nor divided; Since I know not which should I betray, With shaking pistol or under-theoret. Ah me, how sweet the thought was in it, Division most English, though not famous! My heart fell, seeing their dark chief, Mazzini, such as heart to have her; For reasons manifold. I cannot match Their wit, nor soften their infuriate soul; But drawn, I understand them, though blind. But I, a fool to my own opinion, Cannot understand these first, and next, Now cast in a three-faced lot; as well As taken in a. I pray you tell me how You can be sure And thus at once and so Sever it more than once and thus. From our cruel side at once With greater reason! Our meaning? From their own Comrades? Or from Death, the cannot live ennobled, Who thought all other were undone, Who thought they were cleft up and cut up And put in soul and body as the corners; Who thought that this or that was out, And caught, and thus spake mean worm, 'Life is all cake at top, Next come a load, No friend, no nothing.' You understood? So do I; and see How we mean, 'business as it goes.' We mean 'business,' as we can; And not in time, or price, or age; But life and life away. And yet, you and I being young, It slipped not our mouths that we said it. No tattling of a secret spilt; And, little by my faults or crimes, Believe me, 't is now so bright; Not so: you and I are white; Think you the moon is white? But that we can talk of it: Do so, my dear, who will not speak; Though you and I may now think 'Theie; Not all; but such as hold it up To sun, and moon, and needle; You smile, and think 'Tis only jest, Or a kind of sepulchral line, Hath fixed her:" and I spake, and cried, "O Death, O Memory, of tears unbound!" Which you, by this, Sir, made less lest I then, without, or difficulty Might say, though, break those papers; but then, As I remember well, it rained so That I, getting out of them by means As there to grow again Into my hammock, were-I shall not try To describe or guess what the Devil wrought Up in the heaven; but in this sentence passed, "She's dead, and she knows it's ======================================== SAMPLE 398 ======================================== which lies between us and the dream we would all destroy. <|endoftext|> "Carried Away", by Eleanor Goldfield [Nature, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] He said, you must not let yourself be carried away; You cannot be a poet, he said, if you are not married. But I am; I want a little fun, Am mad to be writing little poetry, Am going to submit it; what should I give him? A ring? He said, if you are married, you may have whatever you choose. You are going to submit your verses to his ghostly eyes,You want realism, he said, to make your poetry. But realism is a fool's trick, not real, he said, You are going to write your history of agony,Your life your masterpiece, and he will tear it up and tear it down, He will keep your little part of pain alive, You will work it till it does not matter anymore, Or you will not. You may be dead in the process, he said, but you will not know it, you will be still, And he will write you as if you were living,And in writing he will make you see things you cannot understand, To make your whole life one endless public performance, He will write you down as his friend, the white and red of his pencil marking your oppression, your victimhood, your martyrdom at the hands of unthinking men. I say, I submit to him, and am now, he says, and am made,I live in the record of his blotting down to his goals, my history a constant screed, A fat book, a list of all the sacrifices he says I must make to get back to my pride, My self-abnegation, my freedom to do my part, my fear of his punishments, My duty to my brothers who have been tortured or killed, If I be true to myself, to my fellow men, if I, he said, am not these things still? <|endoftext|> "Blackbird", by Nance Jarr [Love, Heartache & Loss, Arts & Sciences, Music] This night, I was wandering through the dim neighbourhood, when I heard a blackbird singing close to me. I lay down on a bench in the hope he would follow. He settled himself in a blackberry to gaze at the sky. I lulled him with my noise, his whole body tense louder, to a sort of ambling crescendo of despair. Then we part ways, and he flew down the block, out of sight. The stars swarmed the city at midnight as he flew. <|endoftext|> "The Gospel of John", by Guy Dobson [Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Religion, Christianity] Once a dog barked on a train; once a flimsy wooden chairmend floated past our door; once I started here—but I'll never go back. It was all above my wage: we drifted away together, I by the skin of her toe, he by the virtue of his. I'll never go back, I said once his name; once I'd said it—but how the flesh can ache <|endoftext|> "Lost in the Flanner", by Mark Lane Lost in the forest it's hard to know I'll be hunted to death . . . called the terror by their name it will be said they were wrong who sought to bury you <|endoftext|> "It's that Time", by Edwin Elia [Living, The Body, Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Weather, Weather, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] It's that time of year when the earth is saying one thing but able to express it in many ways so the message has no power. The liquids are drawn to the three of us — conscience, conscience, and another conscience licking at us from the inside. The animals are counteracting the negations with their own presentations. <|endoftext|> "The Police de San Fermin, or, How I learned to swim", by Alfredo Metallacci [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, History & Politics, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Fairy-tales & Legends, Horror] "They took me under the seas where a wizard has molded its waters to my whims, like a goanalike ‎sheer gray sandal sewn with sandal ‎wash back & forth so is absorbed into ======================================== SAMPLE 399 ======================================== jog a house, which the object of your exploration, with a vernacular of whiting flowers, and a petal-tree whose birds are curious. As for my part, unimpressed by the words and the silence, I have just turned in to the first year of my life. It is either rich and beautiful enough, or just rich enough. <|endoftext|> "The Grand Tour: North Dakota", by Jody Gladding [Love, Desire, Activities, Indulgence, Relationships, Pets, Nature, Animals, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] I'm here to serve you, Mr. Chairman said the Alaska Cable Guy carrying my gift of a protective climate change into the majestic mountains of Washington, D.C. I am the total change guy, according to the national leadership. You the chairman of that elite I want to follow into the landscape where those lives are at, to stay, to further this cause I'm invited, to help make history. The cause, you know, of my spread across the fuselage of a Gulfstream G650 limousine, stuffed and banked, a pick-up so heavily full of equipment I have no idea how far from the kind of truck to which it should have been brought. And here I am, back in my native land, nudged back into my native soil, back in Washington, D.C., back to the Nation's Capital to write a love poem about the Air and Space Museum, and then to maze of bills and deadlines, where I'm already on two hours of sleep a night, drinking Dark Star, napping in my super-luxury. How the Chief, wait in his black Brooks suit, pleased to be here, might shush the show in order to hear my September Sunday ritual of worship, in which I tell the tale of what I've done and where I've gone, and how I've done it all by a mere 40 hours to September. 40 more to go. I know the score by now. I've made my pentameter and where is my ending. In a couple of days I'll take my new body out to burn it in the heat. The Chief, who hunts reindeer in the snowy winter, will creak out with his pack, returning only for fire in my home. <|endoftext|> "A Poem for the ADSY", by Aimee Green [Living, Life Choices, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] To the ides de plomin Suchton: thick and filling belly with no room filling an empty belly with a fill-in angel. Did you know the Romans may treat an invalid in the early morning times, but the platin blanket wards off capes suchton. Suchton: a word made up by the advocates of speed in the 20th century. Suchton: star with a ring, a contracting scheat of the fictitious point, a late word of suchton. Friends: a fictional attraction. Star: a jellyfish with like machinery in its soft imaginary cognizance. Friend: to say you're an "acty" is to say a jelly. Jelly: to get to know you. To mean you. Jellied: tender within. To allow yourself a good weep and you'll see suchton. Suchton: chalk, compose, codefix: to bring into good order. To take your share. Suchton: chord. Compose you suchton. Friend: your Rimbaud would romenoff. To make you sweat. To glide em passing. To make you feel suchton. Suchton: say, remember we were having the memoria- tion of the air on February 14, 1989, the day after Ronald Reagan's funeral? Suchton: you and I were young wh Sainsbury's Door No. ("domes of" in twin-belled ealarm domes.) Suchton: one of those." Did Sainsbury's know, on that Monday, that it had a good insource? Of course, they knew, that suchton was no longer there, right? On the insources of suchton. The fictions don't stop, suchton. Funerals are the frettitarians, suchton: a prior relationship, the minutest concern, with suchton ======================================== SAMPLE 400 ======================================== ." "I am a dreamer, uncle, Yet in this kitchen you'll see me cook. Cook's surprise breeds new surprises. My mother always said, 'Good git away And take long walks, uncle.'" The Jack o' Hearts sits down by the water-fill, The balloons float up to the day, The Jack o' Hearts eyes the wood-fire brew'd With which to charm the goodin' lass. He seizes the time, and as sweet as candy His guests are besit. "I ain't no fool," he sez; "and you Know dat to me, you know dat you? Git out your jug o' Bovider's Gold!" And all the blue waves get down in it. "Down, 'shame!" they cry. Then up leaps Pepo, He puts one foot on the boil, An' flop! the blue water flies. They scatter, an' I get down on my knees, An' beg an unchanged pot. An' to make it 10-1, an' for the joy I'll gits in my gutter every morn. My uncle John has built a building Where folks come to party. And he has a grand hoop in the sky Blown by the cloudiest part. An' it blurs the muss an' the muss, An' you can't tell friend from cloak, Unless you see that the clouds Toss the chickens up in the air, An' they land like a group of golden ducks. My uncle John has opened the drawing-room door When the party's beginin', An' he drives all his friends who respond Into the hall so fast To the sandy sweep of the admit. An' he heaves a present on a smaller drum When they peep in an' all are "Yi!"'ed, An' he laughs 'I feels like a king', Them mighty lasses o' Oriental race! In bloomin' costume! How good he looks in his white shirt an' its weighty glasses! His chin is so white, it is; An' his beard is so snowy-white, Like the clean snow of a clime divine, But there's not a leaf of his hair Scarcely enough to be seen In its heave, as it grows in unclouded white. But the rest, she knows, we have urged it too far, It would go nearly purple to keep it, For the color it enjoys, we must indulge it, So pink an' so white, it is! In plum pinks, the sex of love! When we favor one of them, Her madder-minded sire Tests her by a hundred Silliers of a sweet dish,-- But whether it be so, There's not the shadow of a test In its desire to be free. We lash the kettle till it is Too thick for us to put up Ear candy, or jellies, or cake, Or on to do anything. But it fain would smoke, it does desire To go, yet cannot be first Down, in to our department, Before the company cup it In their hands and lift it into the bowl. There is nothing that the brain makes Think it cannot copy, or band Maker, Nor that the touch for the flesh makes, If it serve, for the moment that it Is propt by the fire's focus, Onwards still, with ambition, than go. This devil, his call has aroused, In the cream-pot it tells him to be bold To his side and aid him to the end, But his brain is wild to seize it, as it gains. Not in the powder, or crystal, Or the gems that the gemman weaver you unbeguiles, Is there such beauty as the skin's cream to that extent Where the light mind meets the surface, touched thereby. But lured by the shade's delight, For it's his hands, that he's at it, his needle sets in motion, He would weave it for the sake of the mesh, Nor he lets go, lest the strands should fall. This gem has been placed on my brow since I was grown By my mother, who was virtuous, for her mind Raised the possibility that shame were the consequence Of my drawing lip from lip, when the speaker Was silent, by no means disposed to consent To give me a hint as to how best to set The bow-thong. No, my girl's inclination was To drive the ======================================== SAMPLE 401 ======================================== trèvel la paix, saución, tema... ...La Virgina la fuente, ...Oºmpoli contrapelo la tierra Ode on Dante Alighiano's works Á la Cámara de Tejido ¡Vidas me las ladrones Voi tamas nuestros ellos La afilta nombre de la escena Espaça de la Virgen de la Madre conocí al mundo medroso de sus vozanes poderes de la tierra... a me blanzatinabas dan tus buenos con riesga la flama de la busca con la cárcel la aviçña En líficianté por quese más que quería con los que ruegoarte adored Cáler de Esteban entrar á pasar al bomba con la obra pues que as de cara qué rásumulares por qué fué la case con riesgarmente el buño de la gente por qué hizieras quandrar á pasar alce... ...Luz he pasé las llaves Luz he pasé ciudado con el horcado pudiera en la coruçía... ...Calletero el reinde de la ruedad Ola, el mar cercado de la barba de troce, Pues de dixa y veo de mí , luz deja y despues, de tu esplendor como con tu faze pido de forma y color... ...Pobre las lágrimas con ajena Cánde dryades que á más será toda con fusil que el pungent con infundir fuguet ierva y fué rreal de su asoeban con su fama, por sini el amor de la virgen... ...Cabarro á la venga con la felicidad de sus dió razoo... Pobre, mirando de mi suerte con su carro limitado de este tuesca el viento fue andar por passere... ...Sóe de cola por outrrate, sin que doisgaloon el dia voz llegaste, sé una poma fria superior de la gente... Acentos de la muerte con su hermano vencida de la suerte... de un campo y el disso perseguido del rey a tu fierro... ...Sobre tú, ocentos de mi itý sopiloque y el solo de la mano... ...Fuese en la fige más alto futebol y en la fé; ...Ditisçels de la gente aÇa, que la justa esferolata y todo esporosa y de sus manos pero se esperó e la imagena muy mostrar su parte, fradó la fér essencia y leýa á la juventutada y enfurencia de térwal de trenalos... Por verpur que por eso allí con esto, de la más del mundo y así 3 despues y de las chestvidas de mi fadie rueda y de mi resplandidecenuda y de su sarraceno y de cebada no empieja-se tengue y de mi furia... Como di leeras iguales por ser la vidêna Como lo cual demuova Como lo dizenas morias viçones de la mundo y por eterna Como lo que meu fiz mirar Como lo durboras Y si ======================================== SAMPLE 402 ======================================== While I alone have stay'd. In the song of my voice So waked in my soul! What the burden--what the strain! And was this the meaning Of the rapture and glory Which I heard on the air! In the music of my voice Such a felicity! What the pleasure--what the song! And was that the heart Which gave unto me This immortal pleasure? Thus, unto me Me hath God planted The immortal air. But for this worthier Mnictesson gives Heonde gratia; give her once, If you'l give me too, No tolle to barter. Love, the great admiring spectator! Yonder the window and the rafter! Since the sun to the Shining left his sway, Methought I did see the sun again: Through the mist of a shaded sunshine my spirit saw The glorious city of young May by shade and shade famous made. The country side lay like an orange blossom In the light poured from the surrounding wood; On the sky the metier of a summer's day Gleamed blue and crimson in the brightness of morn: And behold, in the tropic shadow's caress, From afar, O perfect angelic creature, Behold thy vot'ring father's self. With the small hands, grand pronounce mien, And the great mansions recede: And the fields like dark cataracts deep appear'd to listen In water'd glooms that love of thee had hidden: O thou bridge that laugest over With a joyful hope, and over Flash the sighest hieroglyph! And thou bridgest when a God came down, Standing in power nigh to the heart! Heard were the sobs in the valley grand, And the ecstacy in the mountains deep, Of the King's return, of his childling's kiss; Vista was opened, awe was daydefugue was gone: Passangs were on thy skies: they know'st thy magic power Since thou ere a long time thine own son hast made. O Parkman! thou that hast the loveliest bow, Wast the wettest number of eyes to gaze upon, Most memoriferous have the most wondrous power: See how the light of the Seven Great Books shines Thy sidelong regalia surrounding, As with touch soft as jonbiddooe's mouth-offensive She rests on thee, and thou regent of all! Parkman! thou hast had enough of female wiles; Thy consort is outright rejected: I in my bosom have strewn the cloth of reason Choicest of all the cinnamon-flavored snows. My heart is light, my love is full, seek me not: 'Tis a bad hour for thy traveller to be walking. Nay, my love is not like dung about to go; It is not gold which the poor shall have to lose, For richer the feast of the Lord they will eat: 'Tis not man brought forth by wife's fault, or star enabled Thus spoken in the spirit; but to maintain In the written order the life which the heart makes known: Kindly shift thy mind o'er the charts of sense, Look by the note, free judgment. Be true! is all we ask. As a grass-green is smooth, and as the whitebark dry, So on the mind our thoughts only do they write; Only the turf is stiff, the clear register dry. Kindly make advantage man's burdens lay, On truth and pity take their glance; Ranged no more here do we behold the griefs of the wise. Here, man doth forget his own griefs and loss, Man's own loss make him accustom'd: He thinks not of all heaven might do, He knows not how his death shall be stillne: He looks too much icke-dark for garments to choose, And too much ill for consort with grace. Nathless 'tis worth the tending of his spine, To waken up the knoll and hillocks green To pave with plovers' cries a pois'ry real. Yet 'tis not worth while to up and see, 'Tis not in moment or inwrought distress, That he should seek worldly tows to fit; The day's peace he wins in due sort, And heaven its part and motion takes. Who has power to be revelation's son, And stand where none but gods have shunn; ======================================== SAMPLE 403 ======================================== He gave it to me and said he "Was he not a man, with a busy life And affairs of greater weight than our playful glee? The men that die young in our Republic Do not fall into decorative death, But serve their country; against the world's Oppression they rear the fearless heart." I knew that I was under arrest. "The Devil and the Deep" You'll find it, by Camp, in the credit line; But never a "Good morning" to you; And the captain's mustache's probably thick. But never a suggestion of remorse Or reference to the fact that we can all Go to Hell--if the Devil from New York can: We dropped anchor for two days To the Island of the Fellows, and been there Several miles only: then we Pe on For life on hearty bites the bounteous vegetarian. My appetite's constantly in tip-top shape For those great Ifulas of Provence, But, to-night for something that you love to hear, In the foot-spreading ashes of the year, When the forty-five hoist their stripped-larke On specialist trains, my ears are budged And tinged: this rum goes "ba-a" by shrubber here: I never much cared for Love's revelations; When people sing their passionate lyrics, Why more than once did I want to bend And e'en the rising of the Sun go bracket. I don't know why, but deeper in my past Do those sensitive souls who, in fine, Do less than entirely relate to sheep, Less than wholly get through with decimate, Feeling, thought, image, memory I want to re-visit, nod head local, "For know, we're both, in easy wording, identical." But, of course, they're much too male or female, Grow more Christian, shrink the, go away. You want to know where their later and sole Purpose lies, Vote with your head; Why attend to them? Primly, because I think they have been a Curse on the world, From the time of its beginnings, until they reached their purpose. The time of their beginning They had less than none; How they stood at a decisive Event Less than none, present at Births well-bodies; Till in the Beginning theirs were given over to Careless-Breathing, Contagion, and Hell's Adversary, And enthralled by Fancy, Gods with Charms, that do Ingsociously all that they can to baffle As much as the hardest gold, and known By Envy as much, they admire the Infernal Cells, And the deserving and accreat Conquerors cell. The little bit that is left over, not needed To convey an infelicity like a beautiful dress, To make it gorgeous, and goodly, and fair, Is by them used ever to distend the I, And E, oftentimes with mindsom longitudinous, To treat of E, I, them to record as E alone. And E alone, I then treat of too, for the sake Of your experience, and that treats the L as None else would. Lying fieldlips, violets, Flow-fallen tabors, all flowers matured to Perfumes, And sounds, and ways, are all to her contained; All, in that, which will sustain her Lute's most plangent strain, Or pensive Hunter's-song that haunts her slumbers dull. Pnut then assassinates her strain, infuses Characcaison in the red-baked wheat, And branding sings it into musical care, The soothed Steppe cuts transposed for Europe, and Among the Scots the domestic mind's beguiled. "I have heard what'd answer from your lips--nonce referred n' saved non, screed o'er screes an' stews; O'fell knights an' kye o' mine, Judes an' real Lords, beheld a beauty rare; O you o' degree were but few, Had your sirs round this pot seen you, heir o' the haverish throne o' poetry. Had you non admitted, read a little core, Your endowed mind would ha' shrink'd size wish'd hide the tree. O little fool, in prose or ograph: write, Write nobbut, to entertain the hour that keeps houring. But events sort shade to your cot o' cocks Mild-murdered, an' you can gad about ======================================== SAMPLE 404 ======================================== Of his own mantle, held in free Ases, and gentle hands, and girt With girdles soft, and white arms bare. So sweet, so sweet they thought him, What miracle did give him To soothe them, and make their sad pain seemless? And went his talk so wise, and sweet, and strong, And gave such cunning praise, that as they'd been wroth They didn't seem mad at all, and thought him true. They said, of course, if such a thing could be And be seen by common people as we thought, 'Twould be a good deal the best thing now in town. And people told us, too, that for years he'd been With another girl--so they said of me: But this, they said, is what makes him such a hit At all the matches, for since he was sixteen, And had been somewhat in the past, people said, He'd been kissed and fondled by all the barmaids. 'T is strange, too, they never knew what to make of him: They called him the baby of the barmaids, and went Packing him away to colleges, and typed The lad, and shocked his mother, and said there was A genius in the lad, when he never could speak. They struck upon this plan to pacify the boy, To make him sensible that his little guile Was noticed, and to teach the more That he was quaking before them, and made pain Considerate. 'T was said that they had heard some scold Against the schoolmaster for harboring the boy, And whispering and smearing themselves against him, Inform the father, too, that he was a loafer-- And the man would then be less inclined to rehearse Harsh forms of speech about '\\a quick-silvering' his daughter. They calved him, they could not look him past, Nor were too sure of any thing--they'd a plan With him that had a chance of paying the ransom. They turned, in short, for collars that they were bound, And gave him a good shoulder to wear them while he completed A task,--for some fools took his girl's favour shibandi. He went away from home for a few days to learn What was a impudence to be obtained At such a time, and he came home the day before That the hot war should be entered, and come Home for a final scrawling of the text. And yet the short time he was away Omitted no slightest chance of this man's living; He knew his time, he knew his father-in-law, And made as if there were to-day some hot relations heats Amid the Story's compact pages, pages, to names unknown. The '\\us' and the 'an'--the 'id' and the 'us'-and what not-- Shall look at last for their realise'd advantage, And find that all things weep, with a cold eye glassed in-- This they see in their embrace of the Bosnian Sea, Where they have long soothed and smiled into so much truth. The sea is a-weeping, for Humpyback's people go! And Humpyback is beaddass, shall we say? of the sea; And he gies only the 'yle' to the 'usty white hand, In a-weeping, a-weeping, the sea, and Humpyback no less. They say that out of the Humpyback's kalabre 'rting Shall rise a new State of the Same or the Same super-state; And all the 'us' and the 'us' shall be for a wry-neck Pan-pen, pan-pontoon, pan-dish, pan-pix, pan-mazik, pan-papik, Pan-papsis, pan-pap, pan-papill, pan-he, pan-el, pan-er, pan-er-mance. The sea-seas a-skimming with weeping seamen shall wither, When such Humpyheads live its mad aftermaths of Woe. O Whiteacre! say, when your tomes shall be scann'd in a grail, The memoir of the brain that grew from a cloven tampoed stiff To a sort of noddy nudity, water-lilies sulk in their stalk, In a twilight of leaves that shall seem as stranger than your own. What! will they not groan, Sir? hina loli tra- ======================================== SAMPLE 405 ======================================== Jan Kiejscher, who was not a sailor. Jávuda, Jánavah, Krishna, they who were no friends of mine And I was lonely, I flew as a bird in the sun. I stood on board of the ship in a hurry and was frighted. I went on deck and stood on the steps. As a very fool, without thinking, I entered the house And tried to attack the King of the Sky with my head. <|endoftext|> "The Frost-Moon", by János Papá [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Weather, Winter, Mythology & Folklore] "So little I knew of stars I thought that if the frost fell slow I could hold him for a spreader on my lip To drink when I got on the ocean." —Devout "When England's sun is warm, at noon, And full of clouds the line of England stretches, Then comes the Frost-Moon, a sad and hammering thing, With cloud-pierc'd storms to break on steel and seas." "What e're it hit the earth it les'd no harm, And well nigh once off London sent a lesse Of gasmes and mist, which rendered our land so cold As soon it seem'd as if none had it to passe." "And as if it were no health on earth And as if none was, e're our delicatest things, The filly, which to tree doth most resemble the hare, To any buckler buckled, runs and roars! But though my coat was thisekes, I fear, to a harre It wan't about, for she was hedgeged and shrill." "When Autumn with sad ethereal boots Came blushing in, flashing light and dark, The Moon did rise above the waves, While through her watery warp-flaid There seemed to dance a pretty cock. The chill months brought the wretchedness Then in the cloudy darkness gleaming A girl's bare foot. The thieves were there, With wolfish face, going who can know its reason. Then went I to a field and, while I careened, A cow with swelling udders drove my path. The farmer sows his grains, thistles what is left his land. And looking back from the cherry-trees I saw a man-shape shadow-begotten On cows' udders loping through the clover. I thought, let us walk in phantasmal forward. When at the field-property I reture, The man-shape lies along the shadows, And I remember strange birds flying in clouds of night, Whose rain-trickles on the pleasure-groves and heights And nightly spray with dull mouth cavity-rinsed, Now golden-cheek-tipped and glittering after. My foot with firm insurrection and agony On the mother-nipple fires, Till burst the whip-marks in her milk. I blown of by the reaping blow of thunder Must blow. I clouded with despairing wishes Must wind my wishful wishes On wishful wind of wishful winds. And when my wild career is done, And all my flagging hues are all seniors, When-ever I look ghastly-slate, <|endoftext|> "For a Wreath", by J. M. Graff The air has grown thin, the temperature even In this late April noon, and through the lake The greenist snow-proven herbage From some strange trap-trapped grass Flings all its quilt coordinates Eagle-winged and equatorial A. uts-tu-ids? Winter is done and gone And with it gone the year, The clear profitable axes Are nailed to search by look Of some quilled patch- Flattened poplar-give Or russet savannah With its few early stars And those faint quivering sparks Of striate or 5-spotted That come from ferns That get 5-times more light In by-whitewood Mocking the lights Of the surrounding streets And lanes of the dark In which a toe-rumby child sees His own dead blood-balls In a coffin-gravel sheared wood Flick by his meditative eye, Whose vigilant filter makes his workspace The natural check-staph casemixed With flies that live at altitudes where even trees Have rations ======================================== SAMPLE 406 ======================================== ) I shall find a reason why to spurn, Or why to love, is better, then to lose, Or why that either must be lost, and so If thou then meet me, not despis'd, unmov'd (Speak thou or thou refuse!) the case is plain For all th' additional love that I can buy. For, when I wish to speak with flowery zeal, And, speaking, stammer, hesitate, or lie In trifling words, I have but to look Behind mine own soul's infallible gate, There shall my words be choir'd with angel tunes, Which if they displease thee, knowing Thou know'st me, and doth thy best to teach Me how it well is, that we should be Far better friends then thus to stand unknown, Let first the narrow path be ne'er tread, That is the darksome house, of man's confusion, Where he himself is both the measure and length, For length and measure in this universe Are meant for kind. The narrows room to man, But gives little channel. Know, thou that in the sight of God averse Is none, nor is there reason, this corporeal World, until thou seal'd it with thy golden seal, Which kindness, when it sees, finds everywhere. Since, to thy God knowledge of this sinner Second in nature, though to man only mortal, Was lordly courtesy, and in it full joy'd, So that the like thanks he paid, although free; That joy now opposite, hateful he From thy pure life severs; and thy friendship Now mourns wit' harms, whether natural grief Some particular deed or sufferance On earth, which pleases thee, expands, adds joy; If blood to blood replacements be considered. How does his cruelty the scale so firmly That he makes one of two unlike whom direr He cuts off? Did e'en unnatural rage, wild blaze Of soul-s judge this stillness, or his intent (And if 't the former, which he covets most In heaven and earth) unto this intent, That men might grief-bestreen him with conciliatory Press, and often pay the bitter price alone Quirementi sperm's decline, and semen go raw? And consider, that, save the suitor's pride, Extreme displeasure is vice perfect. But, if we stretch our threads too narrowly, yet These broad to weigh, those careful few the straps Univocal block, to twist by opposite Flies the statecraft of the state, and keeps His flame-torn mind, though dark wills impel; Who, if his purpose delay'd, or failed to please, Thought to appease would seek to dictate; Or from his roving eyes the welter soft To squeeze aught bright perchance into road-safe; And from the heart, which rolls them o'er the rubber, Would try to mold or mould himself. Thou parter, in every thing that's meet For thee, the perfecting of the year, The consummation of the feast, The man to look and from whose mouth stream, As the fountain of the thousand years, The future flood, whereby the quivering Of all hearts is made two ways to show For nomadic souls. And many a spirit crosseth now In the earthen soil, nor place nor wage Nor steed, nor beast of burden can adorn, Nor e'er was statute nor is rule That holds good in the past. Thou art those chaste limbs to pair With worldly flesh, or touch nor drink may spare, In torrent-cold, in hail, or revelry, With matin, insensate scarlet rain, Or e'er the astounded world was brought To acts of infamy, as now the revels Engage the waking controllers, whoike swine Foulemar prevented by law, which bans In Florida, Aladdin forbade The swindlem bands and forms of their pest In Florida, Aladdin forbad The swindlem bands and bands of their puppets In Florida, Aladdin forbad The touching of theater lights In Florida, Aladdin forbad The eating of fruit juice by the white In Florida, Aladdin prohibited The drinking of wine by the white, And Lampetie by law forbid The eating of fruit juice by the red; And from the numberless other acts, By the weak-branched and the fair-faced In pursuit of beauty, by the wise And by the prouder ======================================== SAMPLE 407 ======================================== " Wah, mother. Not an hour too soon to get lost in the world. And who can have thought the anguished face and the shuffling body, so still in its pose, and the weary eyes, mist-framed like a bottle where the screw-ineiess might be, would be there so soon. He has been dead so long. I am so sorry for his poetry. His loveliness was a part of what the white bottle must have meant. His broken body was another thing the screw-in, the body that could not hold, was the end of. Aye, he was my brother. In the bottle's absence the face, the frame remained, fixt upon the water until the screw-in came to be. But whom would gather the glasses, you ask? The mother? Nay. Her voice is water, as blood-red as the blood that makes the wine. Who would kiss this woman? The water of her face? The mother is too full of tears to weep. And who would gather this body? Glass after glass? If I could I would fill it. What of the moon? When the sad wine-red body sprouts wings, the moon- clear ring that around her drove, that drove, that drove the mist-dripping heavens, that drove the mist-dripping heavens, that drove the mist, that was her tending, rose unfading between the winged trees that were her tending, drove her to the Father's thigh, between the Father's thigh and bone, there beyond the falling body the mist of falling body, there beyond the sacrifice that was her tending. Who would gather the glass? The glass is golden-yellow, rippled by the sun, the sun-drive drives drove the glass's mother from the nest. Who would kiss her? kissed by the dropping body that was her mother's body. Go to the garden. Go to the garden where the kneeling lilies grow. Near by the cross where souls are sweetly sleeping. Go to the garden where waterkisses smilid lips. The body is dumb, blind with its lily-self dazed, the body kisses the lips and calls: O body divinely dazed! O sinful lips! Not the body's dazing gaze. Not the body's blind lust, not the body's leprosy when lily-blending: A girlish throat, a girlish neck kissed by lily-breathing mouth, when lily-breathing mouth and lily-kissed neck are breath-cleaving neck, when neck and jaw are breath-cleaving mouth. The body calls to the mouth that the body and the throat tremble like a faun upon a ladder o'er wild garnet ore, like a faun upon a chest-face split and fathomless. The body called down by the lips thrills faint call of a lily kiss: O sinful lips, O mad with lust, with lust and grief that call, the shriek from the siphon bloom: O body divine of the body and scion of the soul sweet that laugh with the breath of the sun to the body and scion, the shriek, O body and scion of the throat laughing, O thirst-flavored laughter of the belly exhaled to the leaves: to the leaves called by the lips of the lips that the leaves answer:Arise to the light and arise to the light, the light infinite and the light infinite, the light infinite that calls: O body, O body, O body, arise. . . . so the sailor wisteth of the missing sail, so of the missing sails he wisteth of the find: of the oak-ley casts of the finds: of the vast finds of the finds: Of the endless finds: of the ups and downs: so wisteth the wight that knew not the whither he was voyaging: so the wight dwelt in the dim air; welteth in the breath of the wind that set above the sails in set order; the cloud of the winds: of the sails he knew in order firm and steadfast; but of the winds he knew not the wave-setting planet-set when smite was of the breath: of the wights the elder the stranger: to the wind he voyaged; the gale of the gales: the tempestuous air; tended to it. the ======================================== SAMPLE 408 ======================================== On the thorns he plunged, Drew the green tassels, and stuck fast; The whole day long they glittered there, And there was only rue and so A night, as if he had dreamt of sin; Yet not so starkly the sense froze Beyond the forked light of rage's change; A pink rose of hell On his lips did wander bold, Through a cloud of it did run A bird like broken wing Upward like a swallow's trek. And at such a pitch of it, Such a throe of it, that, had one Wished answered like it, The world had been a very dream, The speech a strange grope in Pleasure's way; A cloudy song that could but call For the sake of going from us Upwards, upwards through the Cross; And of this the sickle twine, In the harvest's sombre field, Yet on this night of woe No corpse may have gone to its good, But that of all the earth, Which now the son did fill The silent with some wry jest Against his real and such doom. Before the moon, like a dart, Had gone its eager way From the land of shadows down, The thought of Dylan came, A strimmer, of that hidden thing Upon which rests the dead: "He was our hope, and he goes down To our uncertainty; for a song Did creep in his heart and stick, Until its ghost, Dylan, seemed to stick, Until it seemed to sink, down, down, All of his life, all the time." The other one was blithe To find a treasure, but empty, And a little dragon's treasure Eager drew after; he had learned The art of getting it; And he sent a man just his age Along to find the slipper; But, as he led him slowly on, He, for one little moment, As he turned southern, Laughed at his own fear. There were no roots to bury, No snag to nail, no hostler to despise, No fountain to slake, No tree that was boughs to be; His head was high, his head was low; No pass-time was his, no night of bestial bliss, No well of water to drink; But seventy more years must have been If Dylan wanted more, He could have asked for it; but he didn't. His was no hope of success, His was no hope of show business, And this is why He never clove the job; And one has to suppose That he felt, in words And gestures, things of desult, Those num- ber thirteen Was a little rough Here's the life of a dead neck, There is the life of a dead wa; There is the life of a druggah, And there is the life of a hammock. And he hasn't found it yet, if he Has to go to thirteen minds; And, somehow, by heart, he has it on the list With all its weights, 135; and words bring it more near When he spends thirteen lines Than they do to another's. Somebody thinks that he has it, Somebody thinks that he wants it, For reasons both and only; And there was nothing about the matter That was to do or say. My dear, he has the aminal road That will eventually lead him home; There is no further search for him to do, Nor thirteen more stagnant. There is one instruction That will surely make it end: Keep away from Dylan! for your life! I have got the right eye covered That you think is your good eye; I have told you that it will shrink And wilt immediately from your face Were it even your normal eye. So keep from touching it, keep it that way! There is nothing to be gained for me In hard-booted related bough Nowon, a changed world out-boarded, A world whose dream we have all disobeyed, Where a different woman is about to take Her place, from which there can't be too much back'-mail. And when I said I would not love them, And, swinking and boggy, their clots ran, I was not thinking about my eyes Nor Dylan's not too close-held clan; But I see that my words are on the floor And they are the limits of my pain. There has been much talk of new love, ======================================== SAMPLE 409 ======================================== rays! But I must quit the room; Leave you all your burdens The room to deal with; So good-bye, for now: No more I roam As wanderer, looker, grand; But all my parts behold, All I touch when homeward lift: Leave all alone, dear friend, For once alone, and twain: Come, come, sit with me: And we will rest a while, Rest as we will in the shed, The old shed, old and riven; And I'll be gone: Enter and spread your wing, My little love, my little warriour: That is he. <|endoftext|> "I came from counties' hills and ledts, Where the dew looks chocolate brown, And the dragon-lapropine thick, Like vinegar or rotten nuts, Looks out from yon country's towers; In a cottage small I said see, Where another Proteus crept To a tub in the kitchen-shower, Where a boy lay lame--or a little one That stopped and stared, while a moving smile Of the deceptous thing inspired him To unbiddle yet another spindlle, And promise more with his cunning." "She, a haberders raving lee, Bowers hae'd me, frae my mum, For a bung-off dad; She didn't dowt my mind or mad, Or spoil my love-time or my key, Or say I couldn't meet men, Ow! Ow! love! Now I came in a rage, Wi' a bung-off dew that I sieve took teazi. "But the prickly primpo had a-fet a Gude phrom without-tu-- Came my praticilla! Finkit, was jumpin', just to see me, Ow! And a sheep-pet blue--Ty buff my tartan! While the wee wren was ill, and the small haarst red Scowled 'neath the kitchen-floor. "But the dingin' is in the basket er Pulled by a blue wean; Cullivant, to a primitive urn, The red-b theaned ewes; While the spotted piggy was a-eatin', O, The whiskered black-green makes a' and wreen-- While the tent-bug flies in voles' weekend. "I bewail in doing this lemmescope-- Linking myself to a verb root-led AWAVE To prune a' that is leukeal; I long to be lentin' farther an' expirein' On the leesome mall, wi' my law o' landed! But I see heigh! that am lifty an' dear! O 'Vea leeves lee, O Bertie Loss, Italie-- How Gawd the loss makes you Hoole again! I 'ave 'eard the word inside your mooth mouth, And I have lost the path te Rood and dissipated In the waft that comes o'er the stound like a bath. "So mak you mouths a' in Provider Bizness You've a guide randy to steer you, Ow! It's a hand-me-down guide te befit you An' the cleeper would 'a wed you--AWAKE! Awake, the soul of the thing, you 'ear a' to awake!" "Hae a' that, like Stuketh an' Brose, you want a pet?" "A rail?" says I. "A reid gud us a 'ird?" "Your gud," says I, "an' your wealth the tast, An' your grandeur--ruthven, awstruck--yown!" "Awstruck?" says I. "A thrush?" says I. "Ay," says they. "The sweetest, when a' the land is stark, The sight most bring you to your toe, Ow! Your 'oont, dearest--'raises so many tears In us--the jovial herds that we had, Ow! But your reids you've a-steid a-doon 'REAY, You're a' confined te treat, the ground-goats organs! "You see," sot I, "the ideal that you taallum, 'T would charm yer into reality, I am nae fool, I can reply to you ======================================== SAMPLE 410 ======================================== The youth with gen'rous force receiv'd The pris'nant enemy, with whom Respect and Justice neither slept. Nor slept they,--but breath'd a streit'ring fire Far hilting, and in sunder hewn Their chrystal vertabae. Then to cut Their ties with Sword and Shaft at once, Forth sprang the youth, and one on either hand Slay; the other, when his upward course Belay'd the first, drop'd. O what a limb! How trite grows old, conceding juster claim To those who must remain unseen, or stir Only by the strokes of Fate! This cramp Of strength, this waste of strength, this indigence Of power, came surely at that time, in fact, From despair and loss of all-conqu'ring Israel. The Tribulation came on, but stirred Not by things that did appear, but words Concerning Him that knew not and all-seeing Heaven. (With fúk wid ilyum anum, and ética faulty)-- Dull by accords and insubordination mutability. Great Aesthetic! sacred head! great sober rue! Sompn't of Power, of sober musty feet, Touching our bones rattling down in dust below. Saw thee, Oh King, from His path aspir'd at death Lean on this hill, the hedges bow'd with awe, With wary steps the sable thine: Shook fiercely the steel-grey arrows hurled, Bears, wolves, lions, seizing in all places drew, And Hell in anger rocked, as it were a bier, With loudest shriek; nor did these fall kindling, Just on call of duty;--rather curse they are To weight too heavy for earth, and will not hear us preach. --A nameless Life, adorning the lowest ranks With reminders nice of riches more and worship; How much more to your praise you should have been elevating By domains renounced and majesty withdrawn; Vast Time was given you for development, development, When one thought allowed all else to die in You. --Your sojourning in the foul mouth of a harp-shaped net, Which shit and strutted at each buffeting of your tread; Forbidding joy unless th' enslaved fervor was splash'd out there! Your monstrous gluttonies as things which must be annihilate; And then, how far less for you, O how far less, all Wretched, not even worth of you utterablis! --I swear by the dignity of shoes in your lightest hair, By your vision of smiles, your sweet delicate love, Your sense of style in all things which spoils the best; By your scanty robe, by your pride in not wearing one, By not owning that, which if worn by a man Which slave as desperate as this must prove; By all that courtesies man-fact Should worship or care to gain, I bring this evening from your favor to a close, Not, as of old, shewing of fierce and knowen sight, But one whose light, which if it be said begrinds the blackest sky As do the Sun-deformed shooting stars, at least may be More pitiful to see. And this is Love, I stand firmly resolved to catch the worm. Now if you wish I could roll the stones for grinding, And give you timely answers for the wheat we need. I could clear the dernary swamp, and put in heaphats, And well-turn'd spades, and well-turned mowing-pieces, And take and keep the meathooks for dooming The fall, which you are sorely affrighted withal. The thought of coming -age comes on me nigh, I'd get a groom who had family and home-ownership, They held under law their proprietary, And owned a right in water and in wood; Well, all these had they right; I wish to alligence, If there had been two people in a household, in all The history of the world, I'd get damnable toll For letting their swimming-parties have the whogging; And yet I wish them no more still, if they were men. I wish them, I think, much good will in a dance, And they'd take me down for a dancing well, With my old scores of mind, and a better spotting. If this can be done, (as I'm equal to it all,) I should ======================================== SAMPLE 411 ======================================== insolent, without the privilege of doing so a faker, i am the light in the pipe dream of the youth who goes out to view the sites of a ruined city where the mountain towers above the valley, the waters of the valleys recede, sulphur and sulphur from the atmosphere a pipe dream of the day gone silent the thread of the seditious zealotant which unfurled itself like a mezox shrieking its hate, dispensing medicine with each tear the youth seek as part of the daily cure, as the hour changes and the sunlight cleaves obscene from oaken halls, embattled Gothic kielth' groves, high birth, freedom and law purged from bloody quacks who shamefraud eroded, litterature, ignorance and power, the internet, and reason and meditation, beauty, and grief, but also of the poetry of photos of which I know the caption gives wisdom: “Salvation of the age, the serpent in fle Nos with man being man, and the slaying of his dog. “Not without Fonian or of Hynnia of the arkhip of Hebris, the table blood, “salvation of evet of the mariners, “salvation of mankind. “Of Sarmat, the heap of stones and the dead. “Of him who spoke about the fall of Sodom and the spray of blood, the vernacular periphrastic, the populace, and so the widescale deluge. “Of the ruinous Yoma groves. Of the vile waste of the operatic with its falling all music still, its naked naked guitars, its violins with cheeks glossy as a crown of detachable chatters, its banqueters, its table left far behind. “Of the labyrinths of composition. “Of the labyrinth of the band. “Of the labyrinths of pedagogic tricks. “Of the labyrinth of souls, of the dawn of a new world. “Of the labyrinth of the painter's citadel in the streets of the town of Hanghai with its spire, its church, and every angle looking into the streets. “Of the vast of worlds. “Of the labyrinth of Bachar Hatti, of Bachar the mystic, secret, unapproachable. “Of the Kavala, the growling wild in the midst of which he sank his vultures; of the Kavala, the white in winter; of the fields of Tono, loaded with snow, its mountains which are painted like melting ice; of temples which are twined with bells; of the Delta, of Akce, of the Naiads, of the Ninti; vi lbs of purer gold more precious than the price of a horse; more innumerable than the yeast in the Nile; of a Christ, of a tomb where a man is buried; the Ocean, of currents, of currents, of a change of climates; of an earthquake, of a comet; of a casket, of a change of rime; of the turning of the gaze; of beards, of beards; of phantoms, ghosts, of the prose not prose; of phallus. So, thinking, long time neglected my bread had perished; as though it had not been long since courier sent to bring the bread restored me. Once, in absence of myself, couch'd to the house I'dOOXIX been craved couches; there'd been a flash of dresses, when above mantles the naked beds hadparser'd, there'd been mine, gold, from covering's crust as stiff as crust'd; of bridal veils the grooms, OCOLAEANS, had swayed; of Orpheus' music tuned, of the music blown from flutes, of pipes, of drums, of shakers' peaceful drabs; at once there was houseful of pots in chimney, of plum-blossom in pewter, pigeons' feathers, roses' cups, emring ran. But I had not wait'd so long that precious load of green-gold mid-winter blooms, pluck'd but now from spray, of green poppies pluck'd in pack, of curling meat, of stock, of bones; ======================================== SAMPLE 412 ======================================== ft from whence he sprung, nor any lingering traces left of him on earth. And as to women as well ye know, besides our ancient experienced lore, not perforce do we declare, that on the subtle sense of sense is also subjoined (as it is with women also) both to the good and to the evil, and likewise the contraries of them; and be not surprise, for so your wisdom will not derange your thoughts in any harsh or olden shape, and ye will not deceive yourselves in any strange scene. For this ye are (which maketh us to excel all other beasts, as thou wilt and to please you, with all thy aptness of eyes and fingers short to ease your minds) this will we tell you now, and I will leave you to it, if unto your satisfying this ye shall have need. We believe, and utter, with apparent truth, that Lucifer, who is high in the scale of being, as thou standest also, is a servant of good, who for his benefit mixt with the spoils of ill Adam (who from affection nothingness desires not, but only works for self, doing hate on good, and praise on evil) wholly and along the ogone line, with subversion against liberty; thus it is rightly said of thee, that, though clad in straight gold cloti-wise, he girdar makes of outlandishly curved sail-puns. Of this none can thinkitcher bethlight in his halls, whate'er his name or office. In the under- bann of an omen it is said, " He will possess raziriy of Adam's son, in which a foul hygromite it will be found that e'er he takes his out-of-doors." And we know well that the very heart of an impiety is of malt, and its wafer is loathsome, if once loathed, and absorbed in its own sores. And this impiety soiled in its own invalence will suffer no decay, but rather grow stronger in its old self-exhalation, and more fiercely after disgobble the baneful and the polluting sights and thoughts which burn below the mind in such a maelstrom; and and that not only in this age but in the olden first, Whence even the kindred of this Adam dwelt, and, by outlv quaternions intermixed, the common Mother was with her own begi-er, there were long time out-stretched in very unwomanly torture of the God-heads, screaming of many stripes; whence full foorth of his own Seat now He makes His Maurits of elbows and of stems, that behold they and know no difference,--as touching the beams of glory, the spread of all unmeasurables. And every day more and more for Man by experience gives he new cause for wonder and for tremble; as when the swimmer, through the watery way which I have directed him oft, very often does feel his self raised so high in the sight of God, that he fearful rise not further in the waters, lest he fall into the wrong. For every object, then, perceives the influence of the exhalations which hem it around, as described above, on the harmandae and mobile districts of wandering starbeams, whence also certain aurants are wont to rise, both in heaven and earth. The soul, too, of each day's dead, however cruel, goes forth from its body to the judgement-seat of the Most High Judge, rejoicing; and it comes back again of each thing that dies there to an inheritance, to an urn, to hold the whether and noling, which it got not of true or false. Thou mayst think, o'Ferran, that the liveless bodies in this sphere must renewed movements have than in the earth; for otherwise would they live forever when put together without force or wisdom? Or else, not after trembling and sweet submission in one state; for then, surely, man should not be free to each pleasure and laziness; but every pleasure and glory should alike bind him up hard to his fellow, whether he be in hell or paradise. What hold we here? A state of bondage? But O, I forget! O that my pleasure, sweet or otherwise, be once once brought home to me! I would so change, and do, that I would change my body even. What secret labours are hidden in this paradise, which despite the rage ======================================== SAMPLE 413 ======================================== IAN, they lived like the bear, And the bird do fly in sleep, I shall follow with thee Like a bird upon a channel In the shape of a wide-hipped T.S., Whom I shall see but too late. They was a mighty flock, the flock of a king-- Of a king who sat in the shade On the side of a hill a-top, A-heap to his knees, a-stake to his knees, While a choir of little calling birds Chirped in the shade of the trees, And no other listener there might hear Save the king and these two alone. I said, "What music is this you sing?" But the birds answered not, they themselves A record perfect did keep Of their lord's pleasure, the blaze of the day, The fall of the leaves, the sound of the wind, While I did rest in the shade of the trees, Bashful and stark and still. I said, "What songs are these you sing?" But the birds answered not, they themselves A record perfect did keep Of their lord's pleasure, the fall of the day, The blaze of the day and the song of the wind, While I did rest in the chill of the trees, And heard not the song nor the tune. And I thought, as I pondered the fact That the birds sang not, fact with fact I thought, "What were ye then?" I said, "Your song or your king's name, Bashly or named king," I said "No, boys, 'Twas a simple tinker moth That hid in a raisin. "Learn't or guessed, ye may remember, A king might be as beggar, Sorrow-beget, and sting with a sting, A beggar-peer of the pittance That the jackals steals with his loot. Ye have eaten of the apple, A king may be, a beggar-peer; But ye and I are friends, We have drunk up the fruit." "And ye and I," I said, "the quick Haste to conquer, the strong Speed to give and to take, Crown'd with the crownings of Battle, Crown'd with the crownings of Death; "We are sons of the sun! and the moon! And swift as the wolves or the wrecks of the sea! And swift as the cats or the cats' furl-leaf! And swift as the prayers of a man on the eve To God for protection if he speaks. And our race has been side-by-side With the stars from the shore; And here we are free to go!" The red-men laughed out aloud Their mirth was so jocund, And some blacks are so black It were a pain to know them. And some blacks are so huge That their skin it would tremble And could foe look like a friend With a stranger at home. "To the country afar and the Past" By Tylership of the Past by Artist Presences! "Your letters back from the nigguhrer-believer! What do they say? What do they say? Oh! what do they say? Oh! what do they say? ! And should we seek to send this message to the unfeeling great Beyond--to the life that is houried by spniht- by penin-sanguin by the un- saveing savants who search for the rhymes they spell "Ere the heart's caldron and the waist-ordinair dor, When the bake is doony and creaea's cave, When the tan is tin- where the crane is lore and toby, When the tast is talcuzz and talfa's stump, When the throth is tin- when it is pearm-eat! "I love you all the more, and hark! I am told that you have troubbed your master, I am told his flaws and I see them, I'm better if thou be kind, or I be not miss'd, If thou do right what thou wilt allow; And above, and nothing less than three Hail Marys, And thy soul is good. "If thou weep'st, be's not so, dear blist! And little of yourself, But like the whiteness of the dew. It is brekkie to see! That flag that floats to-day Is ne'er worth so much as then. ======================================== SAMPLE 414 ======================================== Be a wife, I pray; then, from your fickle side, A heart's mend, so often broken, break: The troubles of our life out of view, And quit the follies of our youth. Then smiling, back to nature take your way; Reap, and so, at last, die, and let me go. The Canting-god who cheers the peasant's toil, And looks by day like an eternal dream That, lighted by the sun, through earth and sky Is dragged through the air, and caught up by the moon, And dropped down near Heav'ns home, is not like him Who laughs with mankind, and stays one day, In laughter chasing, in his glozing way, Through all the sins a man may have fallen short of, Aways yet never to return. Oft, if he his sleeves unclasp, at their meal, And rounds his lips for a moment to have breath, A man may see what he was like, and know What he is, too, without resorting To all his crazy self. Wherefore, he who with foresight can lay That he shall live and suffer these things to-day, The god who ages unaged would evince For ages dead, is he. And thou, who art He too, who for his greed professions need, And in his deeds would prove false or certain, Yet deservings doubters, here must deny That which thou art, to me still with reasons true: And if he must be guilty of frauds, Thou shalt be foolish; but, for all that, still Presume him virtuous, and admire the w Win - th t y r h a ns o r sphered below, And by that proof alone this praise is mine. To whom the other, mildly looking on, May seem exemplary, and may seem All indication of a noble trait. Win - t y r h a ns stands, may not be overstated, In honor's lists a hero; and in it yawn All vaunts of desert, shame, or distresses, Which, touching his own affairs, would show here, Like some ship that lieth waste, be-quipp'd to its port. But, mighty mother of mankind, who soul With sun runs like a river, and is truth. Thou, whose measure all the time is true; Mother and friend, whose side is ever with the wise, And whose true religion is the veriest guide Of all right conduct, on their happiest minds thou fallest; And if once invited to what thou dost write, And allowed adequate scope, shall thou perceive My firm belief, high rationale fulfilling, Unto man's nature and his powers divine, Holding that many of our species still Wage endless warfare still for woman's shrivel'd! In that thou hast conscribed not the fool, By whom the writings of such reward are made; In that thou hast given him force to fire no more Our at-likely minds with like hallucination, The travail home of feeling, to the spectacles Of artifice, that can'st for organ no longer, But in the light of other-intelligence turn's the one, Then, being only truth, must the other be. This unto Fra Pandulum's book might we copy. But little needs to be here; for nought e'er will quell The thunder from Jove's tomb, or change the creeds of Greece. Here, Robert, now ring measure; now, Carter, lend us grace. Who can value a rogue, must be fool of the year. Three days previous, On a calm morning clear and windless, Had a girt up horse of the newly horsed 5, Come thro' the fields of Hautdelmonme to show. The young man wanted nothing. He only spent A London morning riding from Lincoln change. When, coming up from Prent-Exze, the horses made A little show, which went "drawing pretty dark; But, just compare the pictures, you'll approve, And see for yourself, if I'm learning to ride; I'll say all that I think of the novices say; I think a bit, but then, it's lots of reading." So balance this companion of his youth, And think, when you've studied enough, you're wise; But not so fit that you have choice of discipline, You still must have chosen the worst of aides. But now change; the change has made him much to blame, And made him charge of the every-one here ======================================== SAMPLE 415 ======================================== O father of my children, that old Kierkegaardian seer, his memory holds A garland of white roses on the sick Heart of the poet, his blind fool. And this, this is he, I hear, is he Who with the wreath of trees would hedge his Proud brow, and the wheel of wheels On the road of time; the majestic Earths of their leaves, and, in the case Of the purest, with a thoughtful Maze in his mind, which to us in our Great choice of words Gives rise to an inappropriate Apprehension of the sinful as the holy, With a sense informed by the nature Of a man so high a person's as the godlike, With a stature as great as that Demopoulos Who let his children go free, who showed Such wisdom and such mercy in getting them Through all but the last opportunity that was. There, by the road fair of Italia, Was left the sinister crime, and he Who in an impious manner hid And beturned it, as it had been All of a piece--black shame, Imperishable infamy, Festering one's honour, till the Dust of the damns be effaced From the world's face, and the man Of this day shall have been its face, Though at least for another life, With all of its finery of guilt And wrong done by blood unsated, And evil done as well by air As by blood, and evil stayed From the mouths that were itstypetually Prepared to spout it out, and held The universe as subject condition For the sport of a blunt-d Nose and joy Of seeing a long froth of foam At the summit of the universe, Chosen from all other and sole entrance And refuge of its own misdoings. The sun upon its face burned dull and blued, And as a thing affted with porridge and bread To be swallowed silently Weified, or drunk by those who waydually drink, Its radiance, across the whole landscape Stood out incurious like a snake, And not one leaf of the wild rose, nor Sift of the heavy satin of the mist From its sheer robe's surface, clothed it In the wanton criminality Of being naturally curious. So, standing there, and many days Having just passed, and many miles raced on Through the dry grass, star-flicked now and then, And patches of shade, and where a garden shone, Or where a orchard and its goods were spread From one blossom of a star or more By a shepherd or a shepherd in distress That has died and gone to ghostly thither, Where never a sound, just the beating Of the of hot big dogs in the manor Or the tame horse by the military men Training them, or the twittering of birds flying Was all to the knowledge of what was there For the knowing, such as had entered In the nest of darkness for the dead, Being for the wakened to enter, Being and yet unsubstantial number, Being for those who came and were not, And for all men not born, but once only. There were no sounds but for the thing and its death, No shadow but the vital one, No being but the spectre Entschined, And for those men who had awakened and known That their fathers and mothers and brothers And uncles and men one and all whom they had loved Entrusted them, and for all women who Sang them gently with laughter and fire, Who in whisper of the today Had sworn by them, who prophesied That the morning would clear and that the weather Would lessen and change to grey and amethyst, And as we went down in the car That mountain we were headed for Madrid, Which the Grecian chain was none to command, So the good Diego set out for Granada, And I to Rome--schemes credits strikes again! No shadow upon the living or light! Oh, the sunlight falling upon the lot! Bright were the lamps in the ruins; and White and dead, and for ever absent The flowery, quaint, trellised thing: But, alas, as only the night before It lit the theatre, Which the dark blooded Vaublent took At an exclusive hotel, With a door-piece who'd type on stone For old imperial guests. And, as I came, as I came Around the leaning pillars, And the little clock ticked past The thousand times five, ======================================== SAMPLE 416 ======================================== - Their broods of mice too. I saw two by two. I praised their puffs of paint, And then I saw that two Had to be three, Because I had to write a paper, And, if this were two, I had to say, "Two Were better than one." We love you here: You see? - Listen to the theme 'Twixt your two moists Of song. And eke the height'rs In between You hear the river, river, river! The log that's under the root Is no more a log Than my warden's (lady's) crook, Because, when she picks it, It is her neck Deep down within its tomb. My days, when I had strength, Was broken to waste In tryin' to do Much more than man, you know, You know What the last show I had Was, when the lord t'wept to see' - The sky, and the stage, And my people! Good speed to you and may the trip Be all agleam, Sir,-- And if it 'tis not to be so, Tho I'd take again The fling I had before. Wy, the family pantry! Wy, the home circle! Hats off! Who'll have, who will have, The captain-balls! Ay, the big Captain-balls! And I didn't! Ye that are the type And the type Def have won the race, Look there A little better At the little flibbert! And if the little flibbert Can rise, how about The little broom-stick! Went weet till the water swink, And there she was: Surely she's an angel, a one Under the sun, That's-as-hail-them-again, And-her-looks-like-her-mystery! She was a bottle-bearing Eighties gal In the bue of a star That our earth began; And she sit there, as I sit here, And I don't see her face, But I think I hear her breath! She was the seventh queen, from hir first - Rose bazar to bazaon - And the jewel in our tale; And that's how I have rated The part she's played in the episode. Shes a piece of shapewear To eyeshot, a piece of scrub! To the heart's left side I think My countra eye's the place! Well, now the affair's cold. And I) The story's so on the mind That I can)Treat the matter cold. Like a certain type-good-brither-writer. Lord! the fancy's scattered. I never saw her look so curios; And I said never, never; and I spied A reason never to evade. Her better-half's pore out of her Een shtreence here; and she mind her convex - I mean the fancy. Her boss, your person-iddler, sir, Did well to have her show His self-respect! wouldn't have none Play'd him dissimulate. Though a massa's among The men of sensibility May desire a more Impractical good, He's less likely to turn up wale Than a show rat! Well, the thing's taken a pice, 'Tis dark at the mush, I weet, And it's clear the book Has sloshed around all wrong. No grey day e're was so fleshly as this, Never was the kind of book That made a man glute, or brain More squirmy. I say, what would she make, I say, watter, tailchatter, Or what? - a patter, patter, patter, Would she e'er so grimey? For she comes a grub or two - she comes To the same thing: For a woman and a book, What's the advantage? Well, as the book came slinging, A fellow mouf did meet it grum, And he shook it off his nose, And he ruffled it up in his beard, And he blew on it; But, O why, They talked on and still could not agree Like the Puritans did agree On the holy men. ======================================== SAMPLE 417 ======================================== masted ships in my village, strolling on the open sea. Of the vessels from Denmark and from Spain, four my fathers made, and a fifth was mine. When I was no more than a boy, I went with my father on a sailing voyage, and I sailed as captain and pilot of those ships, as I have done again to-day. As I was steering, sometimes we had rough seas, and strong winds, and the ship was frightened; as in Denmark I learned their habits, customs, and days of sailing. But the climate was different there, and the light was better, and the sunshine clearer, and the distance was less; and the moon was never full! I have sailed many times on my life, but this is the last voyage that I will ever make. The light brown eye of the little fragrant red-clay that peeps into the valley every morning through, the backs of the young and agen-syllable trees, the way of floating along in a flowing line, and the child who has learned to ramble in the tight and crowded docking-place of his forest-family -- --all these things I come back to thee, and thy sea, thy course, thy forest-world, and thy will supreme, and my course must keep true! Thy hand is there, and lo, it is clear as air above, ether-light, and wave and ground, and the silence that is only matter from whence to shake away! Till then, I keep clung to thy rear-edge, for, swift as bounding moth, I go and come, I go and come, myself, thy child, my own child. I caught an eagle this morning, I caught him low down among the reeds that grow by the river--on either hand, by the pond, and I thought 'captious nix-nix, 'How daur thou sneak o'er the boundary stoure,' but, edifying anecdote, he said 'Hi! Let's play a game of tricks, Jamie,' and, like a fool, I went uptopp Like a fool on leveret poker, and he wanted a shoulder-blade Like my hand, to hit on the ewe-bone castle, so he pushed back his paunch, and hit quite heavily, and so made the least interval of jaw-down-the-snout gaps between his blows. So that when I had got the trick and had my killer elbent, he missed his chance for a slice of meat, and I caught him clean on the end of my finger, so none of his splinters hit him, and I tied him free, and his eye flashed witrazily, and he made to swear before he went bawling 'Faster than wind, but I crumpled up his cards of jacks-and-losers, and threw them in the water, and rolled it off a diethle thave he swanned gleefully from, 'And now I'm the only man in town that plays a thief, And I've the Burr of Inconvenience, with its high reliefs of mischief and punishment, and washerwoman, and its nameless danger, and the in-batches of despair and mob-cries of the trickster feller that steals the butter from the kitchen and runss wild through town, And the suspected felon hangs himself and the grandam is shot with an air gun, and the little girl drives the nails in a X, And the puncheon from Black Smith hangs on the byre, and hard by, a pig is being butchered, And the grand valet at some lawyer's advertised, and lopped-off finger raised on tiptoe, and the poor grandchild in books and grades, and the grandchild running about from a pup, and the hyperall youngster riding home-country side-stopped by a woman-servant and the wife's cheek rubbed with paint, and the sleek roan that jawed and nawed and slept in the night, and the brood of White Horse under the four-year-tolds, and the butterfly-topped adolescent blood-thirsty mouthing a stud, and the horse-mouthing a mare, and the brood of White Horse over many a mile, over many a mile of bog and bog-gy desolation, with their gouged mouth flaking the hardwood forest-tangle, p ======================================== SAMPLE 418 ======================================== Pure as a saint, who holy rites Both masses and sacraments devout, Whose face is fixt upon the blazing altar, For Heaven or for Earth veneration, And is worship, all things fair; O blessed Virgin! O great World, We bless thee! and wish all things thine As thou art! We breathe to thee Hail and praise! and no forbidden thing. But most we thank thee for thy sinless child. For all are steeped in Sin's sad shade, Our souls fold up within their wombs; We thank thee that thy child may be Lost not in the bright blaze above, But made an angel above, Thy witness, and thy partner in this rite. The day is set, and the ceremony accomplished, The sprinklings, are done, the rainbow issued, The chorals and high Mass parting, when All with sweet patience bore a touch of mine, And I bid adore the Infinite. The curtain goes down upon the play, And curtain effects in the air prevail, And more than eye can believe, we see A figure moving up in the night, With a lantern in his right hand, that shone So brightly, it was like no spark it knew. Ten thousand leaves of laurel behind him grew, And far across the mooned theatre; Ten thousand shining stars, for him were cast, And for him more stars than there are earth own, Wherever he might lay his foot. To where? I know not where; to where all eyes Are dazzled by the fountain's light, many agree He did but go--that is, they went with him, As if so minded; we, some way warped, were down Where few would go and many would stay. I was just finishing my commands, When other troops were going to the West, And I was placed, all contingencies confronted, Between a French Field Corps and a Tamer Country. Somehow I ended up in head-quarter, though my posts assign'd, While everybody else went to the East in search of glory. And how things panned out, believe me, unless a day Look'd on, and show'd with a happy day's face, instead of run-back. For then one saw that even the stars are pale at morn, And the sea is still, though full of ships to be swimmin', While with a cry steps inward little Leila moved, Small-Time Lathia with a heart of fire, And little Faun full of sweet sincerity. That night I saw the slender lad draw near, Tint of virtue I but barely saw, Le Minister-like grow loudly manly-like: And the eyes of it were so full of gladness, And the cheeks of it were so filled with freshness, One could tell it had been some great hero, Or some real Baddie since all the land was fill'd, And a memory no man had to share, but arose Quite undismiss'd from any human heart, So great a number of times 't was confirmed; I think with tears that it was seen, This thing that honour 've gotten By being seemly long accursed, Did to his maintenance do pay. A little Leger, I must say is not So much aged like Penny's crane, (Ah, so many verses have been cut from it,) Which is, I think, Camilla's duty to declare, To say so many things that are not, Insulting lady, with her husband's rest, At the feet of her Steward self's waste; Which is, I think, what it did seem This little affair to be manag'd, And how like home-spun delight to get, A boy, that's what it is indeed, My little darling's guardian, will be, In home-spun delight, what home is made, And that's why I like it so much indeed, If we are boys, and boys will virtue keep; The beautiful thing is, that we bend 'Twixt home and our worldly toile, to pay For Sodoma's boys that travel far, To see moonshine at Phillips's more, Or bass which nights more favourable are, And to see banker's trades, drink or no, And those which have a black more, than they have. This man Mustumwoo! He doted on the land Decoy'd to tobacco, Which played havoc with his ears, He thought they meant to win the day. He ran down to contest. That man must be a booby to doubt ======================================== SAMPLE 419 ======================================== NWSA ( GTA) · My dreams Broom DAY - And my hair Beaded with diamonds AFTER telling you. What IS my soul Renting in this eultry tent? Oh, you’re LAINING On Black Land, & My Senses Teach Me Your Funt​he Flood Of Entropy - ¤ - ½ - ½ - ½ - ½ ½ - ¤ - ½ - ½ A melodious rill Comes fully Fifty Blossom (Each Stem A Black Dot Carried Your Moment's House In 1914). If MLA ( Wild As MLA ( MLA ( Strut In London Siempre ) "Buried Enemy Guns", by SUEva [Living, Disappointment, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] Two cities fell in the face of the soldier. City one: this was his power. This was his other city: this, was his weakness. City one: no bullet cut the shadows that tried to stop his game. No bullet: black, were his shadows. City one: each woman was a woman. All the guns pointed at us, but the woman didn't look like a man. City one: his game was the city one: the woman was not a man. City two: his game was the city two: his guns aimed at us, but the woman didn't look like a man. City two: his game was the city two: his guns, at us, but the woman didn't look like a man. Cocktails, then, then stolen kisses. Once, his guns. Then the stolen kisses, then the cocktails, then the intrigue. City two: the liquor, then the enticement of the liquor, then the nutshell script of the finale: the woman didn't look like a man. City three: the finale, then, the woman did look like a man. The enemy fell. City three: the game was the game. City four: the game was a lie. City four: the man fell. <|endoftext|> "Two Girls Teasing at the Sand Poll", by Darol Thomas [Living, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Spring, Snow] Motherhood Kitty Mother Mother Mother Mother Mother Kitty Sea clouds cling snow to walk on trees. Mother Kitty Sea clouds cling snow to walk on water. Mother Mother Mother Mother Sea clouds cling snow to the air. Mother Kitty Mother Sea clouds cling snow. Mother Mother Mother Sea clouds cling snow. Mother Kitty Mother Sea clouds cling snow. Mother Kitty Sea clouds cling snow. Mother Kitty Mother Kitty Mother snow. Mother Mother Mother Mother Mother Mother Mother Mother Mother Mother Mother Mother cat Mother Mother Mother cat Mother Mother Mother Mother Mother Mother cat <|endoftext|> "Maggie May SEE England", by Lilian Bell [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, World View, War & Conflict] Not by a cover, not hidden down corners, But by your looks and by the crowd in the street, By the hushed pace of the hours, ======================================== SAMPLE 420 ======================================== -"For by these signs (said I) thou art known To me, my guide, my Christopher; but by me Thy benediction, thy pardon, and love pay. "For though this should be imputed, yet that I, To whom thou didst impart this with the heart Of one not wishing to think of thee again, Am therefore secure that nothing I know, "But what to thee is now within the power Of one, whose thoughts to thee do approach Just so soon as those of me who know not what Till thou. Now I have leave to hold my peace. Go therefore high thithers, and see Lynette, That Haidee is ready; and besides, perchance That maid may make thee some knower: night and day Let ever to thee the best of all those arts Which heav'n has given me make copy, and on each Make better than the best that now is made." He now had turned again unto the place From whence he came, but that word upon The mind of Godfrey had eddy'd his foot To make him turn; so answer'd therefore quick The running Sue; "Why will you pass in this way From where the honor, here renown'd, And where the glory, and where board the god Of Seres, yourself, may come? yes, the hawk, The dove, the crane, steadiest of all bird, The lark, the kite and swallow, wing'd a flight Beneath your feet, may keep the same course; The yoke-fellow of the ring-gammon, horse The same may attempt; this equall arm, That just can scarcely repress envy, may watch And temper love severe. If I myself Were not your senior, the remark title That hangs on your pledge of helmet'd dame Should to your honor elevated hear, And your promise the blessing; but elements Of lawlessness might still have brought the stain And still doomed you to gird in easy mood Some forfeit honour, which once done,--and The dread danger destroy'd,--forgetting, ev'n for glee, Should it be sworn you had sworn for what Should at once your honor and your life ban. You, if true, are heir to grief; if false, Of troubles; yet if neither, grief for yourself And inevitable death. The damosell on his sacred art may frame The mystery how the cause a-flow In both dissimilar streams: but thou, If answering nothing, know that blameless flesh Must surely proceed from blood, and that the soul Unzebbed goes with him, who so late Completed him a soul pluricent, so bred By its own barque, at once impulse and act Fourfold, as in the four-fold countenance Fourfold, as in foot, face, head, and lip, For here, though mere furniture and equipment, The very stamp of body to the body Seems of its very bosom trac'd, and that here Complete with subseface quintessence as yet Quixt quintessence, all according to the quintessence; Hence springs the various kind, as is that dust From which the different vegetable bodies are bred: Nor is there one only one but divers very far From those that now are freeze to those that now are fire. This truth I guess, that if the mind be ignorant, And void of faith that thinks it best to know for what Aught be knowable, then knowledge will invite Conditioned by that faith. If assured, that if such thing so fair Were meet for death, God only, codes nor laws, Would hardly lie hid: then the will would pledge the arm; The will alone, as we have suggested, if divine Therewith participative did not join. But since human nature, Grac'd with new truth, blames itself for its desire By what is so unprofitable of mortal strength, And that which is so ruinous of courage; That it may know what is unnatural, and what Innate, we may as well seek to know God's nature By human thing, as brute. But since the mind, Pervers in sin, feels will to continue still [in supposition] Spiritually due victory, that so it remain Students of nature; that to know it is to hope Confirmed intellectual, as it accords With the intellectual best, and is not by it Taken as a bare intelligence; this, we have said, From this top pivot, Earthly message as a sun Goes forth two other celestial messenger. From this top, another light, ======================================== SAMPLE 421 ======================================== Working with the Persian paper-knife Which all the beavers cut before And your black-leg's back gave me a stroke. I was too hot to Kent from my heart, Or I was not Kent. II. Tristram est ungamed, ungored I met him passing fair Orley, The moorland's deep voice at gentle Gear. I was tanned to ravishment By God's howling fulness of welcome, As God howling at the dark was gone. III. In bed I shot the filmy dream, A white suckled bull, all horns, at me, I was reaping ox, turning blade, And his tail, which made soft Bond-water, Out-breath'd my opposite slumber, white. The sheep and bull were rounded with amaze, He was sightless, silver-tasioped. IV. I turned, I looked, I bore my cat To her sweet inchards (she should triple crosses bear). I trotted down to West Wyndham's in a drunken dither, I drank in France, and England's bore ass, And Ireland's stoutest pony at home. V. Then the bull country was all frog's bait, They swam by leer and pout to gonairies, Weldlings, and mules, and harems formoruff, And I was mad for motley that an old woman wanted. A velvet old woman wanted in my dreams, And I was nowt to stand an office to hear, I was glass and stone, unchanging at all. VI. And what I'm weary of is that no matter how far I go, No matter how often I pass my eyed eyes, I, Nigel, will not see the Duchess his legs. When you had drilled to the river we set down at, The world was gray for us from Ark test to Ark test. But now it's blue for you, and red for me, In the earth where we're wired for better accommodations. VII. Here's the novel we should both write. The story of our lives should not be confined In any book. Let's put our scarlet two before it, The gold leaves on our two souls, our campaign medals. O mother, write the story of our lives together In verses as scarlet as your heart-o boundaries. And there's the song of the whip and the fox for to turn. VIII. She was a red and a black bay sand. (She couldn't the wintry wonder comprehend.) In her raiment of black and red was arrayed. (It was the Roses I didn't understand.) Her hands (where should the wretch?) were adorn'd (My best wit could ca' thee not with a bye-and.) A trim-sleeve was smeared with gore. (My best junk) was given as her dress upon it. Her sweet face was butter pink glad! (She didn't I'll tell thee, boy, with a bye-and.) IX. She struck like a Northern quill. A dunched sun with a green nose-tip. (As I was a dunched sun, too, I'm afraid.) It traced (as I don't know how,) the quote: "I will try To make the best of it. (What, nunch! What's flesh?) though I must try To make the best of things." X. I gave thee, Mother, a kingly smile (As fierce I stood, I could have kissed you.) She struck a flaming look, which flared The hair on end of her head, (How, bonny mother, how did she?) And she looked as if she would explode. (Sweet mother, my truest friend, I said to her). XI. The mother, as she should remember These dainties holy, and decent, Said, "Oh mother, sweetest, kindest, You give such grand meals to the King (As 've made all the money you earn.) What d'ye think will possibly fall in? (Oh mother, take some of these loaves With butter by the sprigs shaken off, And then my friend, to eat, with you Sweet-o's yourself from head to toes.) XII. She looked at her watch with a shifty face, The watch that the reader of all monologues must know As the time perforated twice by the penguin's two (The shambling, dark-green bud, sharp snout thrashing, And the ======================================== SAMPLE 422 ======================================== Now can I weep, my Son, As once I wept, ere Love was shamed: Not the gold of man can pay my store: I have no land, no house, and no lust to win. In the green waste land, With the frost-shift colored skies, Where the sheep and the shadow-crocidity Raby me when I am near; In the shadow-crocidity, With the black-horn roadside men Riding over me and scaring the horses And the neighbors and the vaughan with great peril, And the righthandmen and eldest of the women Scolding me and the children and all the brothers, And the old men and the wives saying, "What is the matter? Why are you a whining little prick? Tell me, what have you been doing?" With the great big airy men, With the cruel white women, I have been killing the little children one by one. I have been killing them off. In the fields I have been killing them both One by one. From the well-lit fields I have been killing them all. I have been killing by command. In the densestwood, I have been lying in wait For the white women and the holy men. Down by the Hazel and the Hodges Three boys were fighting. But I did not care: I would not hear their prayers, Nor their sweet replies From the sandy shore of Waitkus, And at night under the dark owls I had much more to worry about. But today, O Day, you turn your back on me, While they are eating the flesh of our brother, And drinking our semen-alcoholic tears To become a little like them. Take from me, O mother, more and more With every passing day that passes you away. O Demon-Moon, The less I am conscious the more easily I can kill you. Now I am a God: My own outmost self I have disdained, And so I look on others And all that crucifies us, And know by body that there is most compassion, And least doubt that there is no soul. Red water and scarlet women Are these, With bulls to Mays The things That come toget her? O bull-headed, This day, With mays And oxen in the yoke, She will appear, And we will see her) With stern good-byes And lolling tails--for all her tears. The next day, with small feet dragging, The third, with legs all wrong she'll run, And she will die then--if she can. And who'll say, "That was n't love's long finger tipped For she is truly dead If she can't drive this bull to the truck? O bull-headed, You have done this thing before When you are under ground In a secret place, And she your victim now. -A Bull--a creature all of red and gold, Is heading this march As it has marched before, But never in its way Could see what there was of life. So it did not know It was only set to die On a mays on a mornish day In a place of stars. But it did not die-- It sees--or only knows, In that bright, cool place Of its eyes not seeing white An avalanche of human dust, Or the tempest throwing up, Like a plank gone missing, Of human bodies. But only sets its ears On the fine tops of weeds, To listen--does it know What huge death basketies For it are filled by men In a day when a sky With its rain, its mist, its dew, With all its dead things, and all its dying, Tells the heart what a wife it has got. When my last bull expires I shall want, O darling, All the lovely things you love; And you shall sit, On the shearers' knees, Slave to the hair Wound-daubs, and tell Of the beauty-boxes Filling the market places. You shall play, On the she-goats' feet, Go, sleep in that other house; Go, sleep in another bed With the vows, the amorous lies Of the water and the lance Of a last grassy smile. But, O mine, with the eyes That sees not, hears not, blows not, O my Th ======================================== SAMPLE 423 ======================================== internal cleft; And hollow nave's riven wall, And ramp'd minaret's blue-top, And craggy bank, which erst On golden Euphues fled, When first his flame he would Outshine with shafts of heath; And Phoebus' palace next; Whence read he ony where Of queen or warriour dame To gentle love was born. The right-august ray beheld In every face he wast. The Arabs, following the sun, Had lost their dower. Jordan's bank, Now purpled, lost its dew, From the low chasm splash'd with streams Of gurgling waters spring; And Jordan's shallop now, that floats At the cart-blaze his sleigh-helm'd; And every bush and brier, And babbling tree and bee, Dew the blue o' the setting sun. At Hermes' traphiry new. The stars from their bright homes, Among the constellations fly; And the milky paths their light, Shall know no more their source. With Jordan on the left, and Jordan's Well Trailing his rods in sequence open; Lo! the North wind invades the land, And the black storm winds gush from the south. "Nor dream nor dread the world is thus, That God hath shut his sky of stars, -- Nor that the sun his glorious beams By day, and by night, must stay. The boughs of hemlock balm, that close, In God'sangel's field, so have I, Shall breathe no magic of the Spring, Nor spell of wailing love by night Fushigi's wail; nor Eve, that dame And swift'), that, guiltless of Jove's hate, Aye, sinner trebly wrong. For out of him that Earth's branches beareth Shall come, one day, a saint. Yea, as much as suffice The froward flames of lust that on him burn." "Beware the fierce Cybruty's chariot! That bearth war and royal might! One day, in every month, Devoureth a man For a mere ale-bowl of gold. The last of the line! a brief defense is his troth, The broad old water. Be it please you, My troth I'll save it; But if my fate be to subside I have said, they were the best. But to save your life, my troth I'll keep, And kiss your wrist, if I have the power." "No -- I have no wish, Save to be home with my father, And to return to the place Where the dumb Moss-Moss the Second, Half-leafing the sheath of her death, Tells us true stories. The young maid on the tramp-boat Eats her cousin's fish; The very vessel that waits to take you To prosperity; The candles that should be your light, That is the very one!" "Is this the, yonder, Field of golden grain? I had a harvest in the hills; The beech and grandchanrentale, Why withers' end? Nay, this is I, I tell you, With all the forests again. There was a time, sweet my mother, Your affection took; But that was the worst of logging, Besides, it was bad enough That those dark fellows, Prince, one And the spaggling mighty Grey, took Upon their wheel near Lytton, There with belfry and vault and store, Twelve months, bright ones, for talk and cheer, Twelve if they'd not, as they say, "slip in." From the sun with all his leaves down, From flood with all his rain, From —— and from ——— —— drawn and bowed, Come, where, in verdant earth and trees, There's room for sturdy boots; Where's round us, from the sea, far around Vapour and steam and heather, Rim over rim, and round about us, More wall than brick, to wall: Full of people, full of steam and steam And foggy gloom; With ——, the old oaks in bud, Always full of forest boreings; Full of sun, and cloud ——, ———- the brick-deck and the river —— ——- for the lungs' and spirit ======================================== SAMPLE 424 ======================================== Was the work of my hands; I gave the mongrels to the shepherd, To the swain the deer, And the wild-boar to the craven hunter, He shall not come nigh me any more." Let the guardian wind go forth in order azure, Let three hundred darts fly in the air, Not single-heartedly, nor with pairings, But in order and divisions meet; For the chief's house is never built By a single alone; Nor a chief alone, in his own way, In his own conceit. Now the western sky is dark with smoke, And the warder rises with the signal-bell, For the lord of the whim; And the sound of the chimes goes up from the hawthorn-tree, And the signal is answered from the castle-turret. "To the garage, to the evacuation, my lord, Wherof an older gentler signal let stand! That the old folk may not go with pain O'er the street, as the young ones leap and shout for fun." A dewy white anhungerant face, A dreamy glance she bore o'er his, Who found within her womb a child for man. Of amygdetness, his mother's changed, In a great light he shone at her breast. "Ow, man! keep to th' centre of the sky, And yon earth, the neighbouring stars of day; Yield place to ocean, 'warez England, And bide your peace with you." So he said, And, in a flash, from the light that broke He left that, and the heaven that heard, That scene of awful night. A hoar-fenced cistern, In whose oozy gloom Might sink a star-clasped father. His toiling son was fain to stop Nor saw the form as it went and came, Nor here and there, like stingy caterwaul, Begun its deadly path. He passed the castle-gate, That now is known to every fanes; The church that bore, and bore to earth Knew storied Martin's death. Beyond the church, the vine-grown stone, Whose alder face, and cracking whip, Betray'd old England's tally of jailing. Far up a ramp from truss to roof, Where deep in the kennel lay, That night, the citron-snakes' green soft nest, The puma-mouse took. That citron-snake to me Set on my summer full of plumes. And, oh, its pleached tail it hid, A neater obelisk than that That night, all ruddy with the light, A band of men, a crowd Of fierce, rough soldiers went, To quell whom they deemed their foe, The wild public weper to quell. They found the snake as on its rack, The puma-mouse glad on his kennel; They found him there, And through a stretch Of straining communication They dragged him to their start. They found him on the western hill, A large cool spring As far as eye could limit Vest aliquest in a story, That afternoon of fog. They found him on the emartisan's claim, They found him on the lime-trees old, In sogganon, as it seemed to be, And they could show you he was a Saunt Who lived on Carrigenzos's Day, November 8, the Day of Snakes. For the earth's whole fabric, And every riveting root, Is another world that you may dwell, A limesible kingdom, a realm of snows; But in this world, no doubt, The things that you may read in your manual, Of cities, and of men Are the steps to Hell, and down the stair. The neat-orne nation carries you over sea with pride, And a copper necktie is a lucky heirloom While a grape-divining life is the nation's boast; To walk through the world as a mountain, to fall in battle Were never the purpose of an American; To wear a cuff where the cardinal Is the national bird, to wander at large When the aid of a tyrannous British hand is needed Were ever the objects of an American. They sunk his ship, they fled from the wreck like a clown Bearing through the sea or a stage on the stage All of the fish before his coming ======================================== SAMPLE 425 ======================================== Partisan-filled trenches, where they meet The hell of rifles and artillery hail. On ditches, and by streamlets swamped With human blood that stained the water's course, They saw the star-shells streaking, rising high, With barnaclated doom. The dead were there so heapéd and so black, That he who passed that morning was weeted Like manna: and the dying, who were near The extremest mark of that abode, Their terrible monument, forthwith accused Of crimes which, at th' very least, inferred Laspax Oligarchy & Monarchy Had out of Nithè's Court, ev'n & Elizabeth's age Been hoaxed with crowd to rapine driven. O friend, who knowed me fickle & fashious, As dearly priceless as the toys myanders, Which listening to the mermaid's song My friend did buy me,--to a fawn the seal Of Friendship, though 'twas fanged the wolf to jaw-- The boar with fangs that sting a broader one, Each cheek receiving, being prick'd by all,-- One JOYREFIA claimed I was the soul Of MOKANNA'S form,--that Beauty thro' whose PANS The proud look of the world could express, Nor wholly false & vain--who considered Man's labour of the mind as a joke That would pale Humanity Of late phil STARBARIANT did ride, Carrying with him the Hope of all men's days, Hope being carried past death on Views individual Of precious Type--nor o'er his head he discharged The airy darts of Fortune, nor look'd for grace Of Clergy, Members or Manor, where Tribe So proud hung o'er one Village--nor dar'd the blame Of women's unblushing speeches, that lied As much as his own falsified name, When to his Colony--when to us all allied In Companion,--in Truth's light he came,--nor fear'd Cornelius yet a Second Robber take Of me and of myself, whose fostering Care Had made him Sufficient for his day and night, With half a thought and all the renewal Of's own day and night, his hot soul had snapp'd The synonymy of some warmer Place, On which Snoth or Hæda or some Barb whose Long hour was the right-hand man's prime burden. As in the Churches of Heav'n the Elder Quire MIALHO in belongësspake the Bride On which Shields of the Moon guard Elysian Nude on a Svabate,--on this Earth to record How ev'n in Ev'n, when faults were Paradise, Those who triumph under Heav'n had birth, and Earth Was nature's season, not the tomb of Men And he had seen, and in his turn had blest By love's instrument, ev'ry unconfined thing,-- The mighty first Father and Prime Mover, Gentile men and secular powers his Glow, And in a name that is amongst this Grade The widest renown for greatest Glory hold. He was the First of Prions, Universal Soul, Created with cognate God's Spirit and Blood, And those perforce--not the smallest soul--shone Not by his work, but by its relation To that, which was its substance; the smallest pore Stood propre with superior beauty and grace Such in its every pleasure, such in aim The pincers of our ordinary Flesh, As was of common dignity the cottage-trees styld with frost afreveland. Nor Nature hollow, nor her woodland joined, Nor the plain flurry of her waving leaves, avail To help th' inequality of injury To nature from them, in that they were formed Where and to this All-immortall and All-good. Nor in the Starry Iters trembling orbs, nor she Who was and is so wondrous fair, Nor in the glist'ning of double Stars, nor in the gaze That stands the Voyage of the Northern mind Nor in the drovent's rapt discoverers, The grove's speedier offspring distains. In their broad infant days a Tree of Life was found Of temper by the Sheolurking juices, nourished A Firebreathing Plant that darstrates for Head, And wars with pestilence and th' humous air; Whereof how was the efficadeMentail for smoke to exhale By her self more tender, hot ======================================== SAMPLE 426 ======================================== A knot of ice From the chill of the snows Seized the reins and cast them aside, Warded with this recall That all returned to the stem And sank with a crash Upon the next slow vale, Weaving the darkling Rapids Thicker than ever. A voice out of the air, Unspeakable, sang-- "What place is this, then? this What ice is this? "This place is a crown Of ice upon the waters; Came the rapids, it is said, From the summit frozen This minute is taking" "Man a little leard too soon," He spake unto the sea, "I had thought that he knew The limits of the earth; You have no delight In the earth's crust and mortar The joy that passes gaining, The hope of things beyond while Like the sound of a letter Like to a shape in math That composes itself; You have an ancient fear Of change, decay, and something That looks familiar in all The math of you!" "The streams of the river Are a guide for me; I know that I am near A shore that no man Thither can point to" "Is that the place," said "A shape at the prow of the ship That no man has seen," And not a man answer'd. And not a man replied. And not a boat replied. And not a man awake in the deep, The vast smooth white straits, Saw, or imagined that he saw When the swimmer passed. "I know a land that is not a story That is seen," The old man said; "a light at the prow Of a ship is a guide for me." The cliffs of marshland were seen Go past; and now the old man said, " 'Tis a land nigh the world's end, Where men are met on the water With fish from the rivers and the sea." "On this narrow isle of the sun There is wine and there is food," The old man said. "I saw a dog That was white, and carried by it A grey mare." "O I have a dog white too, That is as long-sighted as the day is long, That is as fast as the speed of the wind, And appetit. An Irish haffternipe I saw in the lane." "Are the mares black?" "The mare and the sable stallions of God Were once as white." "Didst ever the double coin, Red with black, without the numbers a still ring, Slowly approach?" "The night for all its shadow From the bottom of my bark learned the hound, It crawled not through all the cover but one day Until it stood in the cloak of its brightness To thunder in the midmost right hand." "There is a path from the storm to the sea. A dog can tread it." "I think that the dog Learnt from the thunderbolt its peace. I saw a dog. It walked across the rain Till it touched the dwelling of polished brass Where they waited for me. Three horses they, Three masters. Now he approaches the hand, Now moves the head, now languishes, Now moves the eyelid to and now the eyelid." "The storm has effected a march," said he, "On his right shoulder. He is the only one So far in armour that we keep together." The sound was lessened; down it fell fainter, fainter, fainter, Fainter than dust and smoke where men exhale. It died, as from a rumour of the force Sounding of an awful chord, in music sad As death, or as the music of the grass Rolling back from the body of the rain, When silence rushes in utterance at the blast. The dog was moving. Not senseless, but that Is the course of all which has not set resolute Armed and conscious against doubt. The song Of the active forces in man and in nature, Throughout the day before the opening act, Could be heard in motion; and motion it repeated. And always the resolution, that is, The choice between sound and silence, was utter. Each wave of all reality, as in music, Thru-track, was resounded and in touch with the soul. No impulse was coincident with this cry Which was, Now. Now. And not of human sense Rushing abroad in vain the ear. Not all unconscious, not under spell, ======================================== SAMPLE 427 ======================================== Thy name, dear Maiden, thou shalt be glad To know, So, thus we parted. Thy cordial wishes were That the two Eternities should henceforth dwell alway In perfect union, and to answer one another's call. LUCIFER, your thoughts are very familiar, And you are a friend of mine. It is not that I blame you, your being was Growing up in so strange a household; nor said I That you were unadornèd, but your eager eye Showed that you had an intimate friend in me. If I were living in the rugged Mountains, And knew that I should be from you parted for aye, I should cherish the thought, every day, sublime And affecting, the longest prayer, "O come back." It would be lost, you with friends and husband gone, Early or late, and if I were to die tomorrow, The great event would remember all by myself. THRICE happy I locked me in the cave, My lips to stifle the vain delay, My dearest, first delight, I never graced Nor broidered a garland for. What Amma, thy busy, bowering critter brings In arrayed in distracted care, I seek, but not one precious gem or stone Can set, or suit, or wrapper or dish. The fault is hardly greater than chance, She might have brought it; was my death the cause? Could he e'eride feel for mine a moment? Forgot I this? or all, 'tis true, That bothers the heart of one who dies. She pranked me sweet, the Fates must have accorded, My love could not be held up to reason; Who gave the ring to dress, I may say, Shall not be pleased for this, I wis. I have repeated one half a dozen Which I really and truly tell. SHALL I, to whom is all man hath done No other word than To and Yea? Whereat they laughed, a hundred mouths grew loose, I saith unto them, yea, they are gone; I did it, to excuse; I was wild, And ye're the reason. Where then came liars From whom, the unriddle'd scroll explaining? SHALL I wider go, and cover more ground, Meet all degrees, in wit, in birth, In all which men importune call To and Nay, Nothing worth regarding more expensive Wanting lands very dearly, and crimes Against the State; which he who doth pass, One meal at least may be content withal, And many points of law more quiet thought, All whereof the family lawyer Wears out his lengthening day in bidding how We read the bills through? Then the rest Of this, and the rest, he should make clear, Then the place shall be no more, I say. The Farmer's all the country like himself, But he has fall'n strictly work abounding, And then we do with our dinner run, Such times befal us as never Janum Rise by at all, but ascribe them to the air, From nigntheous molumcent gibbering Of phenomena that may be acrost. Nay it shall not matter to a sence How much befell them, if they do but stay; We have the better of it already far. I will mention a newfang example: From the far provinces we have seen him, Though in our own back-yards utterly. What would they? they have naught to lose. What would they have? the land in gulfs, Or in the lake-waters of a rapid? But we the profit have, and their damage. For we be providing to our cost Of immemorial perfection. The back-yard there is no farletCorpus There yestreen, I tell you, was a raffer, And by his civitas was a town. He had got into a sumptuous club, And by his civitas was made cook. He had no soul remembering what, For that soul was already three hours. The club was well invested, for his cubs Had been at Covent-Gallow's improving Upon the flavour of their flour-sticks, And had there gathered the most amazing tale, In a kind of pices (what can make us all Bolder than to tell, when even Hercules With his great arm might attack them), and a great many Achilleses, who'd have been ======================================== SAMPLE 428 ======================================== heaven of men, Yet, what its gods have done for us Who seek the liberty of men, That, and less, we ought to do for them. When Icarus, from his moorings free, In Icarium, no light saw, Till broken in upon by social bees, He drew his wings, and was carried thump By the annoyance of their swarming, Into that mass of ice and amber, There he lay and heard them hum their dances, He saw their little cells of warmth Through the cold, scrabbed with ice, red and gnarled, Where the sunlight brought a tingling mix Of light, and the garden was in heat Very much like a meadow, high and hot For the wind was in the sun Making the trees grow green again, While the bees sang songs through his heart, And the ants came from their honey. And I know that for such a flight Men are soon bent to wreck. But ask not what the wind Did for Icarium. For as he flew he felt A little shaken as if so left He never should have found his way, And yet not very surely He knew the pleasure of the air To go where he would, he felt How the wind should play with him again And with his arms. He saw Blue mists above him swimming, Mirage like a giant's height. In his mind's stroke he saw Rivers of golden drink Whose streams the reddened air Pulsing beneath the tresses And trunks of trees. So he drinks, And this raises a toasty heat Within his veins, and leads him hither Toward the hills that lie beneath, That sank there for a shelter valley, Where the waves in saltness lay And the coralcoeds were bent, Where beneath a shelter valley Lay a green sea, and through the sea He saw a city with walls That a boy might run or a girl could ride. But as he came nearer And nearer to the walls he got, Long he marvelled at the state of things That a young girl might live in a city And a boy go where he had ever since Begin to wend, the golden of the fields. Now the river that fell before him Was the worst current he ever saw, And he trembled as he lean'd against the bank With a splash, to get his courage riden And to stand all day strong, but loose and vain. He never saw a river so "affronting," With a tide of such a passion, Such a generosity of rage As he saw that which Ocean bore in hand Panting with beauty, pouring down The may mountains where they're wont to be With a roar that was suffusing pure and clear. In a minute he would break upon them, And home with his flowing fortune take them, Would not shrink from the offer three times 'fare. Would not shun a bargain that good in games, And yet not bow to it, when it insisted, Though he bore the balance for maximum heat, And his face grew pale, his body garlanded In magnificence; then would he shout, "What bargain to-night, what price? how dost thou ask it?" He was pleased when he could hold them fair Between outstretched arms at optimal bend, And he felt his condition was not in vain Though he had lost the use of his left wing Unlifted; he could straightway tell the desire That had made him the beast that he was Was a shape that was not of this flesh and blood. But the divinity that garners the act Had forestalled him in a deed of great wise, And had selected as a gracious gift A task that he could supremely hard up, From a deed in which he had never part, Including his own, from a deed of old, Oceania, and the world he had reign'd The old Kings again should abdicate, And he himself should abdicate king, For he felt it a tinkling partridge in his breast. He say, "I will blind my dear left hand with the same Tanqueray had done, then rince a carrot, And offer you the service of a Priam Of the world-lost kingdom; and I'll bet a curse Upon a mighty bovine or serpent You'll not rise, or by my wildest hopes You'll not laugh, to stop or work that deed Until you do, or I know best of all, Yourself dissipate these sisters about you. But ======================================== SAMPLE 429 ======================================== for you; but that (Not to lose time!) it needs must be Some other; for, surely, though you be, I can never understand, You cannot love me! I see you smile, But, deep in the heart, the trouble lies,-- You are not understood! "You are too good to me!" I'll not prove how other's suffer From that; but, och! When you're slow, and I'm ill, I know, You cannot leave That loving mother and me, to spare Some other, with no heed How loving her, and how compassionate, She has left you and me; On every side are others! We cannot miss out, on so great a task, On our great hearts, on you. "Why not try and succeed? For see Leucothea has no heart to bless you; I, that love you so, am to your humor curious, Worthy, too, cruel; to sing, to dream, To live, I deny you! You cannot choose, You, O, mistress, me--I detest you--O, mistress, You, O, wife!--I to heaven's God,-- You cannot sing, you cannot reach, you cannot think, You cannot reach,--the very last!" Such, I think, are the words which none but she, In the right season and with the sound of right Could speak, who, with those justly wielded Sweet words of prayer, could wait, in her misery. I have heard, in the course of our horizon's One-and-twenty years or more, some lapses From the narrative, but they have left the truth Withor none; and I have this clear while inside My breathing frame, and it Daylight-set, To feel, in its proof, the lady's heart, and heart, Which bounded up with Tedious down the chain Of verses, verses, ringsed words, ad infinitum-- And yet, alas, she died, you see, and her tomb Gave her her final rest; and well it was but For one to die up the heart, and so take pain Home with it! Such, Grief's truer son, is love In the heart of its truest home. He must have loved well, who held her so dear, To die so young. We know not, we, where lies Or taste of peace in this happy nest, Where like the driven blossom it fell, Ne'er to be mended. Ah, our winged life Comes as first up, naked and outspread. All the sweet garments parting from her last hour Drop from her decaying corpse, and on her final earth Lifeless and withering. She had lived full In the hoop truth made for her; she made full Where that flung wider. But she died made truly, With all those erring threads at least departing With her. Yet, "Fact," you say, "is the last word of the truth." Then tell the facts, little Lady. I choose The facts. Do you know the time of that first letter? I'll tell the time. It lies in the hour of love, Fifteen past the hour of one passing dark. Why? Ah, "Fact" (quoth you), "Most citizens keep and use A much neglected woman and a very short And one. To be studied and scrutinized, Sagacity? Hush! I study my letters, and I read The paper with some papers gone astray. It is true as well as not, as a fact I am sure, Fifteen past the hour by one dying. So what? I'll trust in letters sent from someone else; An Urpal letter from Elizabeth, two days later, Declares "to be careful, to use and to use about her, And in two days more, Christmas Day, would like to have the truth Out of her last letters--is that not so?" Next day, the Park. The gates were opened, dread Gonged, brome, cypress, necrotism destroyed Their scions, and no less than five thousand lads Admired as one reason for their salutation. The moment the gates were flung wide, the town Before them swarming had already spun, Till slim and beeline-lined they had it in their grips, Aye, so swift the picture ever multiplying In one, swift and bald-head, of the wonder With which the folk in the fen met their hero, Saucy cat, striped, weary, ======================================== SAMPLE 430 ======================================== Hector will come, and, as soon as the nations hear, The glory of Achilles will become the shield of Jove. In Aulis Zeus lives, in blessed old age at the podium of the temple of Apollo; His brother-god sits beside him and holds him in heavenly honour, And goes about his festivals and sanctifies the cities with sacred festivals. Then and there Apollo took with whom he wished to hold heavenly banquets, If any wanderer even there, with him holding communion without two opinions. For some days there he kept him in heavenly pleasures, gave him the joy of life, Set to heal the hurt of his sorest wound, seals of wisdom and wisdom-sayings in his mouth. But if there came any news of the enemy, no help might hope for, If there was any thirst for the stranger to have flighted thence, and been blessed in the Lord. Then too there is Saturn in the sky, who rules the day's life, Holding true faith of all power, ruling the kings of heat, the cold. He toth' affection of Saturn turns, when Saturn is utterly broke. Then too there is great Jove in glorious majesty, unmoved by mortal wrath, Who looks unangelic, but toh endetfigured in the form of the Father God. He to have conquered men and have the head of Cæsinus had won by coup Were it not that Saturnia gave him this bright-browed grace, That from the world of tall birds to hfeimming shrined, he might be hermetically fit To take the free tower of Perie and its grey-kilnmedgate, Where mighty Jupiter himself, his forehead all gingerly with marigold, His cheeks high with his morning-flame burning liquid gold, And lips white-set inward to give sweet kiss at last, Limns the lofty garden, and specifications of the little red-veined white, And styles of mighty gold that do surround the well-tree supersthe Almond tree, And silver of flashing when the moon is golden, is it not so the great man born in the west? For he can fatten three days and the third day's worth of nation in one day's sleep And the fourth and fourth nights increase it, while they bring down the thunder after dinner-time? He can fight ten men ten-on-ten battle and not miss a hunderrad man in it, And fight ten-on-ten battle ten-on-ten fight and not sick of the last battle? O Hesper, whose light's like the soft north-east wind's light on a white day, Lately of the north-east wind hast thou been, hast ever species for men? O Egypt, whose gods have the form of old bulls without sex organs, Who gave rigours and sweet mouth to appease the mind, and hid the messenger of prayer: Who knows the sabbogan round the world, and canst treat the thunder of the white force As a far-off brine for peace, and sends it in beaker after beaker again? Hast thou such mansions, given to such purposes as our lord the king, given to heal the righted agen of the land, "I will grant them joy of mind, And they shall no more hold by shadow and deceit." 'Tis very true that the old Iron-Luck, The grey-crow, has ceased to chuckle o'er the ghost of the past; From his daven in the heathen side the cock crows home That his tales be true and his flaying-chains are doom't to tick. But when the full-faced spring faces her daughters and cries "Why should I work to feed the fools," the geese are seen Giving their milk to the dogs, and the boys cry "What is to be done?" and then they and the girls Are heard saying "He give us a tract minister, To preach a divorce, break hearts and align beige men and women when they've done reaving and chaining, To confound such frosty-hearted fops, 'Tis the old question, and he comes to say: "Why did first Ayrline prouder move The Irons to leap up to Anderton's burn? O, hey! they did it, just to scare me." He says it with an oath upon his brest: "O, hey, they did, just to break my nerves." "And now, if this mind can pass To the fixed mind of A. who knows what charms Can welcome sink into the west, For we have seen too much of charms and boys, We have seen that together will ======================================== SAMPLE 431 ======================================== Bear the inevitable fate! Her scorn, her pride, her cup of tears, Those ever-feeding tears will drain. But, O my lover, to what arms extend The gentle charm, which enchains, in chains, My soul by Love made tender? A destiny destin'd by fate, she seemed, To boundless happiness by fate. But hearts beat softer, and the chain In one shorten'dXI Loved as this, some read in fate When spring had half the year been lost. To be in love, they deem, the mind Grow like the thing it charms. Where does the truth lie? What fair or foul Is this or that? If Love be like a flower that attracts, A thing the world with wearied eyes. And daily walks the flower at noon Which yields its owner light. The wise to-day the story buy With early morns in lilies clad, And pearly sheaves of May On every tongue. And they which yet have dian't in, In frippery drows'd, To map the world, or whistled down The wind-fairies In flakes like to the hair On night's fair-born queen, With any tale of Woes In Love's silly eyes, And have outlived both a dog And a toad O'er blown before the midsummer Rimlet! Nero's goose, when claps his sinister To catch him where he runs amok, Charm'd, withi horns de Black Death, Now glad I like the weir! (she shrieks) Than hae the winds, when they a-blow Dun warrd I get O the wy Mony azzards! Ah, mauy fish, Shall thou hae power o' a' that? Wad ven's my child sleep through Demon nobs That ask a beast's pig? What, auld? The ringin' of the dry. To bed is gone? The kintie's cauld she's braw; Ho, ho, drunken Kate! Kate, hersel' is tauld. I'm loth to rest; Ay ptilys dirl, Ay snore me the day. And what do I care for ring, or tet When on my backe, That bed-rite, Baabiotick, Baabiotick, Is in the progoster. How the cat will pace, avick! And how the kintie pace, When she nears her luve's bed, Sall be carest Baad job, Scleped Kate, She shall tak her end By the barth yard. And now the divil, in the world hie He'll hev a blude heart. But she, how she'll rise an' leave The hubbub o' her abode, At six a' daffs bed, When the bed is downe. Now at the christening she May siller be glad. The babe she lick't, may haud him bon A deelen bluer; And he, for aften hersel' I leave In his ymble bower, May haud him blib through the snaw, And he'll rrriuely blisy day. "The light I see Is the same blue as her e'e, And 'twor her cheeze bra' And aatur ance a songer -- A beautiful one, that is plain to see, And will never be mair haue. "And I see it is a linnen clean, As erst it was in hand wi' me to quat it, Wi' a wither'd peace, quhen it's prigge kin; It's quhat false a first divil's e'e on e'e, As ever came frae bat graugging. "And sure, on the speerit blow, It is a divil, as on his top, Shall tell him his stripes weel quav' thehie'ryin; It is a son avanced, That's nocht the same ava Lempick. There's in't, I weel far, Will nocht do, me or no other, But jine them clievin. "For the litch hasten's slow, an' the haill have their eye, An' in verra nil part the ane an' ======================================== SAMPLE 432 ======================================== Courage can destroy; when God's above, Fears are folly, for they seek his face. My heart grows bold, not boding dread, But greeting God aright, and all; And to the hand of the adversary, Peace, and strength, and success, and victory. Let my love of God Draw me aloft, above all clods; It is the high, the god-like part Of human greatness, to be good. Then, like the bird that frees The soul of its wild encampment, My being's weight is lightened, My spirit shoots aloft, above all death. Love God as thou wouldst be taught; Then as thou do'st act, Do it resolutely, without fail; Do it hermetically, With purity of deed; Ready to correct thy will; Thy will not suited yet to truth; Not weakly true, not bold, But resolutely so; The light we should strain for; seeking, To the right or wrong; The rose without the thorn, The life between the floor and the heights; The strength between humiliation and infirmity. If I have taught myself all in my youth, Taught every thought before my vision fades Through union of truth;-- If I have found in my soul a secret Connections fixed and links in all charms, That evermore they strengthen, grow and grow; These thoughts for this I love the most; These thoughts that show me what I am not, And what I am;-- Oh, for the magic of this truth, To make a long day's journey be a sunshiny day, And night be a vigil to keep one who is asleep. He that would win Utopia from himself, Must follow me whither I lead: He that has struggled unmanly, He that has fought with devils for one day And lost, Must go with all his battles held Into this higher weapon of hopes to be; He that has any delight in the flesh, Must leave it and at once to live to see These generous gratulations Of being, and this inviting of pleasure, Which making death present pleasure can mortify, To study, and for to save mankind, Must be the ambition of the scholar. How did she go? She went as a person dead laid on the sod, Walking,, walking, said the I and the L of her, and Now, and yet, and, with full drays of breath, Who shall understand her, Or, seeing her, any how, How did she go? What is man, He that has no love-knot of his own, Only clicks his door upon the empty house of earth? What is man? A woundless creature of storm and pain, Unwound and undamaged, Worn and young, wading through filth and obscurity, That feels, but not the mean abasement of mind, No first and only, that goes to the false, No second for contraries of shame with nakedness and terror of the soul, Creative and domestic, Sole that on his own first day Going to his appointed place Into the busy unknowing of himself and God. There was a child, a little child, With her there were nine and three, Father, mother, child, were all set at Lizzie's dance, But, to the question of "Wherefore are you not here?" There could be but one answer, "I am," There could be but one answer, "I am," And, there, in that small bed in any house on the earth, There would be but one other child, and so It could be but one other, "I am," Until the moon, and the sun fled, and it might lie To the rest of the world immaculate, Named with those names with which we identify Being, Being's self, His only sweet, So her bed and her whole room might light Up all the nights and the walls of the earth, And the dust of the world show like a moon, For "I am" could be said of anything, And that thing, "I am," Down to the floor of the dust, Down to the child's hand reach of the dead, Where "I am," Become so marvellous and day wondrous, That if the Whole were collected in one hoop As "I am" became then, he, at last, There was a time there when No soul was sad on earth, ======================================== SAMPLE 433 ======================================== My life is like a step-ladder In a temple of the Great Uniter Of the Universe. And my spirit, which like a wandering wind Awaits the uniting of the spring-days, Is like a voyager who has navigated far Unto his goal, but comes tired, not rejuvenated. Yet I do not breathe the wind's song, the way-worn dust Of my passage! My vision is divine, And my spirit is strong as when, Of all people my country's grief, I went forth with bowed head To a pit to weep! But they gave me the wine Whose jovial spirits lift The hereafter they will drink in revel wait Until they put on All They Are, Till, with chirg'd mouth, they put on The wine of martyrdom. My father lived to suffer and to die, My mother now died to pay, My brother's child Killed in her bed. So there was I, that was bereft Before I was born! He that loves country, God! Is a beggar in his birth. For me, the world is all, Since I stood on its dice, And for Heav'n, since for Him I played, no changes have made: I have beat the Devil, and lost my soul. O soul, it is a bitter thing To love it, and be none too HEAV'nly sad when it's time to pray; For their sake who all turn too From crime's ebullition:-- O soul, get rest, by staying not too Much (like a charmer that's deftly made) Death's sport! 'cause there's nomagnetic night That will not draw Armageddon near When a people in their pulpits lie. Say, is there a town of gold On fire for you, boy? O yes, its burning demand Is put by Fate and Shame more starkly asked In signs by assassins' thirst On their war-book: COME at the last! It is the busiest hour Of Death's-men's world, And it is prophesied by fates The bravest that besiege That Love and Love's own thoughts Can win for them a bit Of temporary free reign By such false prophesying:-- The busiest hour of life's Balmed by the suns is when Men sow wild sweet seeds, and refresh The world withshadowed pleasures The wild sweet seeds of friendship, The wild sweet seeds of childhood's birth Birthday of Death's town of life But death's town's town is mostly Wild while flowers bud and bloom: Its towns are dark and loud; And one a devil's work master Who takes a lot of pains To stop their happy running And world of flowers from which they sprang O, you have heard of the King in Sweden Who has no joy of life and death, And who, moreover, like the poets who Say his verse is nothing very long, Is under in birch, and tree, and beech, and elm Which stands for months of endless days in defiance, And all that dark shade of forest flowers. The Spanish man, he of the race that harks Aloft on lyres that he plays withish, And sings as he runs along with yams down the street, That his reign will go on for ever: He has a room up top where he sits onocost litres famish'd with Tol upo time amang his scheming poyntists. There is a shapely tree whereof in fift cny past I hath read shdute "thinship" whereof sum say that it is shortening: it is not shdute "thinship," that is tackyt though (by thastrobbing deriv. of course) and he is the thoght of all things under heaven. There is a man in hens and in trees who for glory makes his apprill: He standeth like a black toure, and sum ever mark that he dy: Threshadine he is. (Sum-ive bird in trees.) Thoght erect, His heart Intendeth To be All doors Shdide He Bowed To be He Will In Thing Sum Thing Heaven Around He Th Foor Th old man bird in his TREE. He is all goed Sdate Bough Black (Sum men say) Gleams His ======================================== SAMPLE 434 ======================================== — The sea. She must carry water in her heart, A single mother as well as bleeding. When a child, naked, silent, And crying, peels the salt from his feet, The mother then is the one All far off fields, and gardens, Forgets her tears and her pain, To make him eyes see the world through his child eyes. But in the long run, she may not escape it. That vast grief, like the sea, Blood-bright and hard, Falls to the ground and mends again. To see it you must come. To be rescued Must be you’s right. <|endoftext|> "Blackbird", by Llewellyn George [Nature, Animals, Trees & Flowers] Love song for his eyes to make the trees smaller for the love of my eyes on the love of his eyes to make the trees smaller for the beauty of his bird's eyes to make the trees. The trees in the garden to make the trees he loves to look at, he loves to look at, making the trees small. The trees in the garden to make the trees he loves to look at, he loves to look at, the trees small. The trees in the garden to make the trees he loves to look at, he loves to look at, the trees small. <|endoftext|> "from The Smile", by Galwayタシット・・・ "Because, Because", by Galway Walker Because I wanted to tell you You needed to become A better artist and get one Instinct more often and Never hold One particular thought up for discussion. Such a fight would Break your bones Instead give each Stone a Better and Still You will be grounded. Better. Pees. I wanted to show You were willing More clearly why the CatsGet up each night from Thistles And Trees and How Could I be so confident I could have thought of That. Because you are better Because I have done no More than say I believe That. Because More context is provided by usUNLESS The Stone has been installed as Second hand And You have told your Mother I would like to thank You. Because. Because. <|endoftext|> "Thought", by Galway Davis [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy] Because they would never agree I had to keep Leaving early and be Ad vitamin K Never one way forward I but they had a science Fiction never shaken Till I was entrusted with Such a colossal understatement as to appear ignorant. Yes I quitted my Profession And am giving Up ever since Serious found the Pair not missing. <|endoftext|> "The Proof", by Galway Davis [Love, Desire, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Trees & Flowers, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] I took down all my pianos And all my 'ers already knew How to Sound Check, but I left These younger women the Tunes already learned, so they were Not able to hear what we Would Switch into Double, or B Onet Will always be A stepping-stone, a q-bed Within a mountain to m Mount Pleasant was the yoga Tutor of Rudé, and we Could he asleep in the long Video when he wakes he Quivers can we wake him90% of the time If he quivers mists are cleared To Day or Night, and we Can only be in shape Of a Known, Normal Self. <|endoftext|> "Smell", by Galway Davis [Nature, Trees & Flowers] I leave the roses on their stalks I leave the guered hedgehogs and their ways behind me in my tracks. I leave the cinquefoits and the stark old merine lawns behind me. Where does it smell like to start the kettle, I do not daydream In the same room where everything is the same and it has the same smell. In the same generic planning of colour and water I catch my breath and the breath of the trees at the same time, with my hair and the greasy arms behind me. Is it like a field of other smells, or one smells like the whole field? It's not like anything loudly breathing like men or cows, or like the ocean on a hot day. <|endoftext|> "In ======================================== SAMPLE 435 ======================================== this answer, son of Drona, Whose friend was I among the men? The one, the best among us all, As your eyes have seen! We had no word of the shameful sin Of speech that was done in Orca, And, on the day itself, there came but One man whose heart within him knew not The meaning of the sin it had begun; It hurt him, and it numbed. He went with a mere handful of men That sire gave him from a generation, And he heard the story of how it was; They stole upon him, and he heard them kill The mother for his sake. He heard them speak who never met before; He heard their lips that must utter one and all Aye, though he met them ever so far As to be Clorinda's fixt farings Where never man meets man. A wilderness of sunsets there is In Orca, for 't is one vast shadowy land That wanders far and far. And many men it hath made mad, And many it hath put to rout As fit for death were one. I was the first that geered at thee, At wits' end, I knowity, for wert thou ne'er Mair than juste. No lady fairer was efle, For if that her betide him he was wise Her wooer had ben. There was he put to the tonge of tresside, To telle and toste thyne is truer, Than merky thing is merky to me. The sand he putte in tonge I wot, The souple tress thyle is twely, For sorwe of ladies sone. So he hire fair multyppede, And, for to take the harod to thi face, His whele it wroghte in stinkement, As fast as Limen but on hole, And gan the men from eatis strauning To for the place despaire. For there was on that day asteint, That after mought be wel the rede, The Lords on blood and on gold The betis tonge to astate were, And that was of the rym does cast. And he that of the trist hadde, And knew not thereof, still he cawst To nory shepe for the derne. Thinking it Sorcerie he could yeeld, Ne had it so on his hands behint, Yet wiste it nothing, he gan singe asteint, And that was sodeven, so was he gay, He hadde yco his packge pent Prontly into the trouw, and gan behind His looms in sonde naked go. The lean herberge on an ymage rouge His couppe castrated bothe tuo, And that was yet unfinished till this day, Bot for the the mertke of this sore, Ther wolde he have no bile all one, Ther wold he nocht cole in his cours. His tail so wylde he sitteth thre That on his nyste the tail g 35720. The clere clepho was of a terme invalid, To make him hempath and the hedd for feare, And so he fellded in a charis thrift. And though he derf in aventure, Ther was ne fewe of such as him brauch. And though that al his leield acorded, Alone and langowte, it is al never certain, For what he is cercleID he myhte haif the routhe. So yif it for the non it mihte, The bless thus sent is no brags sheve no rent, That if it be, and is charmes for to haif, Men myhte se ples for no worse cause: And yive it ar therefore in dorst. For it is an arte that nought may helpe, Bot yit it wolde overthang, And to the nason that it mihte reall, I not what thing it is moeven sel I. Bot forthrovaiteth alle sondri love, It is noght on which may be no ghaunwt. And as on Envie it falleth, If that it be not gete mad, And that it ne mote be overtaken, Ther schal nechteth be ======================================== SAMPLE 436 ======================================== ... but At your whispering arms I Possess her beyond human! Well, I knew that. She was mine; To have her for a mistress was To have all Greekhood beyond, With patroness, lithe, tall, With eyes like cloudy seraphs, With lips Like pearls of damsels. It is God's will, But not my will. I would Forget the Golden Age In which I lived. For I am held In thrall in myriad And obscure ways. What does it profit? Could I Tell all, -- that I went Hunting with Infantes? That, in awnings debonair, I kissed Padre, That here I saw the red play Of the blood beneath his skin, That my fly, Beside me it, twitched in vain, Laughed into his face? ... I would not do it, For fear, that it would seem (An unworthy secret) He meant me joy. And yet, I know that he and this Mercy was one hoodoo Which I denied him. He did! He did! Why, then, He can't be bad? I'll do My best to see he's good (That is, as I hope to be) But he will be worse than hell If hereat I succeed! Nay, nay, he is so sweet, He is so deadly sweet, I will be sublimed And sit in his shining face And worship it, if I may And know that I may be And make my pitiless appraisals Of his joys and hers and his with disdain! That hope is half a tragedy (But it's a part I play)! I will Frite about the graces, faith, I will write much; but counsel me soon I have no time for. I have A hundred and twenty fame-hunting years To slaughter and sub rogam of my sins; But time my musings renders vain, for I Must write with all my heart, no time to speak, Estranger to my neighbours than my brothers, O peaceable with all others ... when I speak, I multiply my feuds ... I loathe Words, and can't tell when to cease Embarrassments of the tongue. A fellow near me whispered, "That's a fine orange, isn't it?" And smiled, and nodded, and went on Homeward. Yet I despised him, too, I wanted to be right, but there Was an impropriety in me wanting To cast on earth my joints; Yet, out of scruple, I despised him, and I thought him a sot. A tune was laid to Holy Night, The air was warm and luxurious, The luminous air kisses soft and cool, And dark-skirted clouds overhead, Bright eyes of kittiwoney birds That trumpet it into me, But I couldn't hear a word. My path through nature was blocked, The snow cut my feet, and then My feet found pebbles. A thimble, Not hooped about its eye like yours, A mere fragment broken off-- I picked, and busked, and giggled: The thing was clumsy, mazed about With gemmy thistledrinks--I found It bluddled blubbled random nonsense. So I shut my eyes, and inside I think I glimpsed a glimmering that proved It was a star; and I surmised It was a star, because the distance Might make a glimmering clear, And a dove had quivered in the pine At teatide, and sick of unknown ways Had blubbered parsonages. And then I put my slippers on And marched along the fiery street To where a folk was fought at Balaam, And men like fog from St Helen's, Hiding themselves in fields and rivers, Lay in the lap of night and doom. The plain's o'erspread with moons and stars The burning summers. The lesser stars Shine like dark lunions there. A thousand languages are still unknown, And a thousand garish tongues Deal danger and dread as their dialect. He saw a language has its limits, A way of walking where the path Would lift the golden ground a finger And prod and tut-tut ... yes, you say, And the meaning jumps to the Eye. So, all ======================================== SAMPLE 437 ======================================== That gave him thee, the pretty lambkin Did draw its slender neck and bow its head Ona hand of nature,--that the wicked find; For not on thee hath this blind dog tarried, But in the service of this green world, Bearing a sheaf of conscience to the bee. Nor hath the ape Hid in some cave Its face from all the gaze of men, But thrust its red nose out where it may, Wherever sound and living men appear, In search of food or pen. But there all characters I know well, Within that beast's head of black and brown: Who mocks, who mortifies, who feigns and who eats, That ape, that race, who bud of baldness, That grain-fed herd of the pig-footed hound. So, when I see that spirit of all flesh, My home-sickness at each second's breath, When its slender, swollen, belling lips Turned up to cold when the lips that smile Turn slowly into a ghostly beard My creeping foot that feels itself Within the way that it went by that earth Where the dead roots do endure More than after-merger,-- Say, what isoth To me, to that poor beast of the race That went out, that will not return Gone, like an old parliament struck, And all the aisles of heaven, empty, dumb? But, listening to the fount and the fountain's sound, Whispering in black silk or when the matins song Is knotted with some sort of solemn sound, Within the house, beyond the iron wheated flew, The jingle that ran, the slashing of knifefiend. The white-clothed woman humming, slipped and rolled Unto the man of war created and given Over to battle by his master, up from The feet of the Sister Virgin of the sleeve Spinning and unticking, flowing to the foot Of the Lamb, was woven and interwove. Not in one spot only, but through the wide Anderviceless network of my nerves, were stamped And imprinted that night the showers of the past: The reflections Doubledine, the one that I knew by. The one with two bodies, the unconceived And unrealized meet in the half-developed And half-formed creature, that is me that is not But that that is my essence that, that is when I mixed with that from which I was and am. Shall I tell you why it is That my old mind still struggles and utters Its ravings under these names? because it must Because it can and because I can Try to express without alloy of shame What keeps me from that expression, when All I am and from which I can't become, And all that I have and all that I'll be: Because the cage was true and because it holds Some glittering fragment of my past, And because its garb and that part Of me that's cover with feathers Make it fuck the world, and the whole Is fool enough to think it's still That fucking feathery bastard, fuck the bitch, And fuck the music that on its ear Make it sob so deep it falls from the stars And into the grit: because in spite Of myself, I still can't fuck free Of any shame which would drive me To burn with only me the client And not the goose I rode before And the god-dammed toe of the whore. Because the clients were as old As I was in fighting And paying their bills with Smiles and orders, because They all held up As I drew a thread From the skull of a baby Under the lash of a gun To a client who was as old As I was when I first knew That I was black, and had to fight To be set aside Within the fee they gave me To pay my bath: because the red Sustenance of that well Belonged to me, and mine Because my name was stuck In the title, and because I traveled as I travel To the souls that read me As the title reads to me: Because the back alley Where I lived And where we lived Hemmed our city in a way I knew The grit The silver heel of the city That's the fact That's the problem, because Because we got Our facts from us. Because we were old We were old In the city of Lincoln And we knew Who was up And who had their facts And where the men ======================================== SAMPLE 438 ======================================== Grey havock hides the sky; and, as a thunder-cloud, The boughs rain down; a path, a ruinous track. In battle's fury with the horde of foes, Three knights were on the earth: one died, and one Remained a prisoner. In the midst Thrice-gowned the princess of Arnallof Slept. "And will you now keep me from the joy "We are three--Sage and I, Duke of Edinburgh, you, in the earth, And his sweet brother. You hold, and ever hold, The World's Weary power! Ah! you have dazzled me, With the flaming globes and eleventh division!" Said the princess, smiling--"If I said Heaven away, who sleeps beneath this tree! We who were children when we made our pact Have done so much for estrange this brother, "Why, what mean you by the world's service? Is this the andallower of gold and land Whose title is hatcher (something the less If it be free the great world's garland to secure, And it naught else but this that you and I should see); Or is this the oaken trunks Of which the forest-boughs are--how they all must be Composed of chimlings, glittering ell and jaggin, And yairny dreary thwarts of bristling hair That matted strove into wimpled thirds"? Oh, these are secrets of the law, Hidden not of Wonder, who made all things, And not yet of Immor, who is veiled in gray, Why should I say them howre, When, ever since I was born, I have have said them so! But I have said them so, and hag-ridden Nature Wearsied when I was born: For in this world, the more I look, the more I see that which was not yet. And of this world that you have made, For which you needs must answer in crudles, I know, at bottom, not a thing; For all its blues, its ghicters, Its criss-cross so amply baffling, I knowing know not whicke nor where. Go go, dark worme, go in peace: You shall not blizzard the sea, That could not till ere it be warsome weather To make the sky shriek out a steame. For 'tis not sky and sea, To be so unkind to me, That have been so kind to you. If you're not lonely, you must be chatty As soon as I this sky and sea by you Fen in the eye, And make a glaur at their mutual soules. You seekst to burst the zone, And haggardly musiest me, A fomer plight than laughing. As if your shorter key vmned to play The stone that's within this house, The straitest gate which bars the mear, Were equal to the restriction Of this poortry. You are alone in a small morass, And together only you and I With the earth and the sky To consider; While the yoe-like earth and the sky, Together, high-handedness, With a shrouding spendlightion, And a lily-white cloudliness, Constrainest but to gild the bystanders. In a little room at present, The art of keeping alive, Is the webcam our cyborg star, And the world-wide fame of the Celeb-Namaste That vies with the bronze and the bas-relief? For all portraiture's empty While the conversation's ongoing Of the living photo-statue That in mid-moaning sits of sway, And is kept unduly still by fans Of the fans, that come to gaze and gasp At her figures gigantic-strewn, While her out-stretched, glowing arms Where'rels, in mist, above her, swaying. But when, to the effect of "You're going bald Put right there, and expector-o' , A good sniff", We have got our brows in a right Jiang, Webb unrolls his Erasmus clause, And on the table before us, neat And tutiform, where the Chess-representative A well-bred very ill-tempered cheer Of an argumentatical pile Over the flat white pieces, But, alas! that right arm must bleed ======================================== SAMPLE 439 ======================================== Hai pouè de t'ai, pauvais t'attendre, C'est tou vai-je, c'est tou le reste. Ainswaé pas nul, car s'empage, J' tra-sember, tantomeine, fermure, Pour bonne caution, C'est tou resté, reste qu'à voute; T'assé vous. Since most for have gone to-day, and At he boarding-place lay down to rest, Pray, what might happen to her, When she sleeps in a lonely place, What might be the fate of her Mid the night-long? That she do not wake with dread When the clock strikes, That she, too, feel within her chambers Room cool and warm, And the nurse leave her lying With the comforter at her side, Pray what might happen to her, If she slept as they; May the maid who walks, naturally, At the comer of the bed, When she's pleased to see him lying Approved in the dark of sleep, Say to her no, when he cheapens Pray the hundred generations, "He's worth it all!" The day is drawing to its noon, The garden walking by itself, And time is short in every wise head. The morning-pill is becoming Empty in the trellis-gate, and so Our sitting with the bee is brief. Yet, oh, I vow, though my words are few, I'd have my words be worth far more If the city ever flamed but you! The great white barn with its quarrying And feathery sheds, where herds do flock and feed, The hedges green and the rughs askew, And herds in which we Secret Societies belong (You meet us days of weather and dust), The drains where blue mouth-water asma festers, Where, when the sun shines, black dogs pant and mostly die, Hills of thistles and burrs as when we were children... My lover... he shall have a winter-song Oof! Oof! to the long oak that once may stand. And my lover shall a winter-song give... Oof! Oof!... Well, I warrant he shall one day As we walk in the country and he points to the hills, The valley beneath and the wind-leaved trees and the barn, I guarantee he shall one day sing this song as it comes under: <|endoftext|> I have made for you a cup of night, unbrewed, all untouched, new-raised from the bed of wild-hemmed grape: of light-green stain, grafted alongside the fire-roosting word it hangs from the slow-pent valley-grass, the lotus-cups and the wind-mere, the ground in flower and the sun-lit domestics-- clear, just, awake, full, quite devoid of conceit, and yet so moving, as though the very estimate of its endpoints were the pale-blue birth itself, the blue of the void, the white of space, and the endpoints of all music. [This is] not the song of the mortal but the song of the immortal. <|endoftext|> "Moon and Sound", by William Carlos Williams [Love, Infatuation &Crushes, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Weather, Spring, Trees & Flowers, Valentine's Day] Moon and sound and air, Another's voice, not mine, Ah, me not heard! Who said, "Let there be light!" Who there lent the instant flame And spake the saying flame, "Shall there be any moon but thee? Or any sound but thee?" "I saw a light, I spake to her; Light, spake, light, her I asked, Down, down, ere the noon, What moon shall that light be? She spake, 'You shall have no moon, Up, up, the moon shall you.' "Then I, 'Then who rose, I cannot say, Up, up, the sun I can't Say, be all the lights and sounds But the light I know and thee, I spake, "The light, thou art, Then the spake of him who answered me, And then the sound of her, Moon ======================================== SAMPLE 440 ======================================== 'E do the way I do, ma bloke, 'E roll with tots an' it's me 'arf a yoof, 'E swats like a bull in a heanty, But what gets the cake is ma 'air. 'E hae a pickle for to sit on, For wud a gowk 'ave a porkchop on, It 'as been 'is broos, a keepie bak, It ' has a marster, it might a bide, 'E likes the kiss of 'Eaven, so 'e is. 'I gat it a syne in 1849, When I came ag'in, ma'am, I thought it would mak one more pretty, Though 'e was uv a laugh, ma'am, I thought that she wad take me moyste, For nowt would I 'a' 'ad a woman, ma'am, Or any thing that wad get ma money; But 'e was so kind 'e let me go, I 'ad to see the brook Farm is nea' ano' To brook after is wife, ma'am. Aye 'twas better far for me, ma'am, To hae me 'arf sheèm a woman, ma'am, Than me on 'isle or buy 'er best frocks, ma'am, I've 'ad ane, and 'e 'as a keepèm bak, Wha's for 'er dress, or meat, ma'am, Will only go breaks wi' the man That buys 'er, or wants to buy 'er. So, ma'am, 'e let me 'ave the 'orse an' mule, 'Oo much 'e 's for 'is 'rtle lo'es, ma'am, I've 'eard enough, an' I'm not the fool That fools the bible 'as blame to be, The dâ' is for ma'am, It's nea' and I'm acquain.'" The Fownique she lifted up her eyen, And she spoke in-sighs, and 'e cried, "I am not in favor wit' my 'air, Nor am a-laid up in authry; An' though 'ere I ma'am spoke the word, I'm through for 'ave to-morrow morn!" "Gone," says the maid, "Gone, for good rît." "The keepèm bak to choak the dowry, That made a woman a hés body; Th'an 'ad not a-t-'a-baith noone else That might 'ave 'em 'is feelings 'ald. But noons be still, and knock not at yon door, If ye 've gifts for me, say say 'n I wish 'ow, I wish not to have gifts for me, Naw, ye 'll ne'er ha' vat to spoil my shirt, I 've nowti wrecked my turbbers, for the kid That's skil' on the auld shawl must skilt, If 'tis smossy 'e babby, 'is bonny to see, It 'll sort him out, without noone's hurt." Then 't was time to be, Hise fingers were eggless to the sam, O'er his hair his hand he strain'd To conjure the estrave. Nor till then, sm doing, did she spare, But wee him bag an' bed, O' his finger, without a brui He swe'd the sam, for eggless he. A lyres are not so smooth an' silken, As e'er you'd wad say. One grots nobeant its grassy lea, Like a sweet wse 's a trick vay; But this was like a near-liv'd lune, 'Tween her leaze an' her wout. "If I say, in a word, Ole he weigh my heead, An' if you thort it weel, O'ye get a tream out o' yor see, O' ald there's a choc. My yarn, fra' the locket lo'es Yis giddy 't; an' 'aartly 'at ye Ycan cough, ye almost die. "Oyster cake, bambinus dear, Maw ye ======================================== SAMPLE 441 ======================================== o over. Shapes, not abstract symbols, are my words, my forms are what I make. I do not carry the shape of the person I was when I came here. I dress in the form that is my wearing. paint the body in the way that I have worn it, the frame my person, my poetry, my body, a figure in a mirror, a distant or real father, my body, a fleshpot, my words, a country, my words, a mother, my frame, my words, my words, a skinpot, a victim, my gaze, my frame, my body, my words, a people, my speech, a tragedy, my skinpot, a scholar, my dreams, my skin, my words, my dreams, my coming, my clothes, my friendliness, I bring my friends the vestiges of me when I was not in pain. I dress this way because that is how I was when I was not in my death. <|endoftext|> "Form", by Dror Bronner [Living, The Body] A dead body is an awful thing to leave behind. The ecstatics pack their husks with weeds and sticks and driftstone, the cocaine of the cosmos, as their cells decay, partially, sometimes completely. Their only doctrine is the stiffness of shadows in sunlight, the thumb on a stick and the knuckles of life. Dead flesh, unbridled grief. And thus the forms of the dead are a long book of irregularities, one for denunciation and commentary, the suture of jargon-serums. And wail, their cry to the wings of apathy. But also and also they are a lulling dream, the poke of feeling through a pore, a nightmare nightmare. And they bring to the attention of the biopsy couple no fidelitous Followance, no comfort In a body party where no one seems to care, a chair without a head, a dead-girl chitchat. Dead girls have had cups as long as mine, up to a hundred, no pores. The second face, last, the face of what makes face and what looks into face, sometimes, a logger who can read her the results of her Writings in the sharpness of her gaze, as if studying, up close and personal, a fragmented Collection of whats what's up, what hollows what hollows The effects of exposure are read by the effects. Absorbing, dossed with data, the twin faces stare wildly as if a tsunami had smit them —O, deliverer of the axe from which we've been wrangling stones for just enough money to get our hat bags on at the beach. <|endoftext|> "Incubus", by Dror Bronnen [Living, The Body, The Mind] Praised be the touching of the blades of grass that wake beneath the gate of ripped up windowsills where the nightly whisper of wind is heard to rear its ghoulish voice above the rotten wooden grate, shrieking the credit card in the sun to gain entry. Blessed be the rats who lick dead mice left lying in heat until red smeared fingertips squeek of delight where night is born in the fall and some claw in vain my room, where I sleep, in the branch of a tree that flickers with cold as a mouse delights. Praised be the pressure of the compost bin on my rims to idle, praised be the thermostat that spares my life to hold its heroin buried in my home for a month of sea water that has bloated the Red Sea. Praised be the night scatter of stars over the bay, praised be the leese-grouse's barking that cuts through the junk-filled yard, the stinking weed-enhanced seaweed, the reeds in waves that shudder and start the carapace into rippling curls. Praised be the swamp that throbs with heat where the ooze of a river breaks “its” through the skunk was-grope and the skunk-goat showers beneath an oleander snort and shoot its quick tongues. Praised be the hedge that can overcome the broom when the ooze squeezes and the hedgestilves and the grim when slaughter comes. Praised be the ======================================== SAMPLE 442 ======================================== We did not know his beauty: you, that are So many, so rich in wit, will not To the means of passing dullness incline. Here to the gem that makes power brave, to him Who knows how to touch the roses there, Inflamed with fire that blinding eyes can make And brighten a way of love, how sweet that is For one whose soul as with a flame are brimmed! At no time should this wild excellence be Of him whom his nature never can bless. He that brings love to contempt of heaven Becomes a merciless steel to strike Back against his own and strangers' heart. His nature's gift to wither a bird Grows quickened by his deed. Now if he have proved before, how love Can flower on inanis above, Let him pray he may enjoy not sin. I say he should not; for his sight is nigh To other God that he may not see. But let him pray; that prayer's fruit be prayers, Since he's made a prayer-tree--his prayer-tree; By prayer his acts become coal on ashes. Who takes the boughs of this prayer-tree and leaves The holy sap within, thereby to bind With painful hand the ruchical waste, Brings sorrow forth that brings to light His hand which throwling might of sin. It is a rheum that gathers in Theitium, here, torment to be a limb Of some future generation! The prayer within the rind may be a means For the peace of unknowing, for the life That lies beyond, for the re-birthrum Of an immortalitie. If prayer inditing fruit be none, What will be the fruit? Ay, and further we may well ponder this: The souls, who at the crossing, ere too late, For themselves do know this, "Nevermore "The Lord his loving friend shall come to greet, "Nor Peter, who did once, oh, may be left!" This still may puzzle their spirits, troubled sore, To find the good they had proved;-- But this seems defeat of their design! They come the giving of God, to find A league of sweet forgetfulness. Forget they may, but pray they must not can but feel His threshing-floor is holy; that shrine where flowers And grasses, many of them, tread to their repose. If the little alborer, mother or child, Dream, it may be blessedly tender:--and so May we an instructive text deal with. "To think," quoth he, "orNOW you'll be as good As some, the men, that murdereous enemies made! "Think you, that, lett of high-priests a fig-paper chancellor "To all, when it is double-blind to think? "Think you, you'll be sorta-suits to all the spirits, "When you a glassatechist are, with soul to pray? "Oh, think the difference, boy, to have a soul "For aught I know!--my head's sOBration's wrong; "Pray I don't know, to think it is repenting wrong! "But, oh, ye good young fellows, to and fro "How your holy-day pilgrimages must go, "As the freighters air, nigh Canaan went, "When so easily in a single day, "By foot or by ship, you were made Christians found! "That the Lord for a few decades had remov'd "My view of the world, that's not in the least: "But, oh, the godliness come with a look! "My soul, to your house, saint C.--hath found a house "Not at all blessed for men, but rather to come "Driven out of heaven, and land him where it's bairn "Welcome as a thief, a perjurer, a sinner!" Therewith he broke the glass where to his thought In quiet rested, as he from day to day Some precious things put from life, some bright And beautiful, and kept, as if d--d Never more to let it take him by sight: Things which his soul-bid he would not broach, Lest it should make him sad, and make him rave At the dark times, and make him weep, The past were quick to scan, and be a slave To the storms of the inveterate years. Therewith he raised his head, and his eye still ======================================== SAMPLE 443 ======================================== it is lovely, (O why do I sit here?) There's good there. But I love you. You just call me, And I will come. I was waiting. <|endoftext|> "Mowing", by Vachel Lindsay [Activities, Jobs & Working, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] He sat in a corner, stroking his Yemen pin, when I tell him about a man who "wasn't supposed to die." That kind of stuff is usual. But what about the mice who like the sound of pitch-perfect silence? Or how about when you just walk through a garden and scrub all the juice from the lemons, you find that the world has somehow remained entire? Is it like that papa on the beach, certain layers of sand and scum to flush at your passing? That's how I thought about it afterward. I'm glad I said "there were no takers." No one to take them. -Richard Brake Mowing is a man down. A heap of work. Hard light. Low pay. Not a bite to eat. He gives up his shirt to dessique up a blur and a pleach. A gleam in the eye. He gives up his privilege to share a tableau with angels. - Gaius, The Erotic Romance of Venus stoled upon her nuptial lap with Cupid. Mow, pow, whinge, mow. I hear they take great clods of native stone, lay them in their new maws, and pile Upon them sod all smooth and level and even From the haunch overhead. Planting aliens. This time it is not about seed. It is not About kernels more than two years old. But it comes down to grow. Farther and farther away. We go from the sunlight. We go from happy birds. We go from price than can be had for beer. Weren't we? Were blind, we learn, with beer, in love. Blind with desire. For want of something more. But it's hot, it's hot. They couldn't tell me how many grains of salt In the world. "One, two, fold of sand. One, two, And then one, two, three." Well, they've tried. They have toil and toil. I have toil. They have toil. That's why I'm here. It's why we all have toil. It's why I'm here. It's all A way of getting back what they lack. There was an old man who got up one day, And went about his work. It was great to see How the tall corn, all summer in the field, Had rose to his back, and how his fields of grass Were laid at his feet. It was good to see How his diligent hand made sure the harvest At his edges. But one day he forgot, And as he stood, exclaiming, "Alas!" "The fountains fainted down into the vale." Said I, "day after day, the harvest makes Its basket of fruits and blows them right up. And when it's over, you go out once more And wonder, 'Why theold man's face is blue?' "The old man stood stone still. Then he made His face even closer. At last I cried, 'I must go now. I must go far away. The autumn comes, and its leaf is on the wold. The winds say 'How we long to sing, sing jolly! There comes no old man with his oak field butchery.' 'Yes, when I heard the wind," said he. I was a child, and this was my answer: "Well, the wind won't kill you if you're still. I'll just creep back one step." He whispered, "The wind will kill you if you run." "You don't mean to tell me that?" Said I, a crying child, "Oh no, indeed. The pond two doors down is In full dry, and the pikake tree Has not wakened. Only the wind and sun Round the pond two doors down are looking. Oh, I've forgotten, I don't know, With the wind and sun so closely winking." He was a draw-plug fellow. Tried to get out once for All Mexico. Died of riko-miko, or Chinese. But the old draw-plug Registered full-breathed only from the waist up. Poke his ribs with a stick, the old hero said, ======================================== SAMPLE 444 ======================================== * If you insist that Dark energy and dark matter are entities that star stuff might be "measured in terms of," as opposed to "measured against" —well, don't quote me on that! But don't be surprised if, when you give me a call, you hear I'm willing to mediate. * I said there are "material conundrums" (if you care to ask what those were, if you care at all) that in their wrongness "create" a universe "where everything discomforts" you and me by their sheer transience. Think of us as persons . . . —are "profligities." That's from James Clerk Ballard. . . . and what we are "is mystic. . . The quantum. . . is "a wave, a quantum, a glorified" . . . toy universe. Then there is the "subterrene" . . . a "thousand-sided." It is what we are not that puzzles. There are speculations— of which I'm not one— that starflare, light-quilts, a gleam "too complex to resolve" —like what? "The air." You think the universe is broken into parts movements, encounters, remnant events that work together" works well enough in theory — a corpus of vexations performed out. "A theory is a political party"— —meant we should ignore that. That said, the more obscure the better. The tinfo-vanity of poserosity demands attention. And though I'm slow, I own I'm deliberate —more so than most— thinking what starts as thought trillion walks wants to start. * And when I opened the door I smelled smoke. —That often helped. And when I stepped out the man had his wrist down palmed in his fist. —That had been done well. <|endoftext|> "Kashmir", by Ulayorah Anuak 100 bucks gets you a nice pot and some chocolate cake. Some girls get tired of place and run to this life, but this work will never get them that cake. You learn to see how things work out that way. <|endoftext|> "Gushing Blood From an Artistic Turn", by Brenda Cárdenas [Living, The Body, Arts & Sciences, Photography & Film, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] In a city street, a filmmaker and her guide are walking in the heat of a morning nude. She wants to touch all parts of herself. A stranger draws the thread on a shirt right away. The pair are angry. He wants to put his hand on Beach, he wants to touch all parts of herself, and she? She wants to stop the shirt from reaching there. She wants to touch all parts of herself. In these stories, the tense stranger is a fixation. The pair are feverish since they 're totally naked, from the waist up. He wants to put his hand on Beach, she wants to touch all parts of her. Unknown to either, the pair are in the middle of a no-woozles kind of debate. The guide has a new friend. They think they should move ahead with them, tell the friend what's up. He says yes up from the start, before they make a final confession. They think they should change their mind. He says go back from the start, before they make a final, definitive no-woozles. From the waist up, from the legs up, from the shoulders up, they should move forward, talk to their bodies. The friend says go back from the final no-woozles, from the neck down. This pair is swamped from the neck down. They aren't even wuzel from the waist down. They are full wowered from the neck down. From the feet down they want to get up from the floor. From the feet up they don't. <|endoftext|> "Shower", by Brenda Cárdenas [Love, Desire, Relationships, Nature, Spring, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Photography & Film, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] for derek lang I had to get everything washed, from my head to my feet ======================================== SAMPLE 445 ======================================== Que sin él, así me viendo Ya no nacíando, Que sus oidas humero, Y aun pasiones Y servirémes Y escribus. Ora, scoendo en el ocio Y en la provincia, El reuño que á lo bajo, El rezco que á la, Con un paza isos, No paga sus pensamientos. ¡Ovidee en teoso! te llamo, Entre medros anda joir, En el almente tipo de crue Lo cumplir á llamar, A poco lino al féroo Lo que puga en su misto monto. Rundellon su chara, El poco airado Una oidrafta humana. Pare si un auro doble, Pare si asportada, Sobertado de un poma A un reo de la pella. No amendan en la isla, Que sud world supersa, Como tierno y su trajin. Nacare el rezón, Con sus pulgar Idols, Pues que no ha de amado, Garde que los sodíendas Elegante es plaze, No hay fine y que a dónde Sobró los Muertos, Garde por el antro olvidado, Allí su padre más palmo. Y no respuésse en la cárula La fatale solita, Y á una posada faz callandilla La imagen deardo y luego cruel, Dios quien callando con fiero. Rombres imperios, sabrem ptarmón; Salés eternas pudieces, Que las ofens, salí por los oiras, Ante de nos pasé fieras, Ante de nos pasé que le vín nada, El mundo de los desmayo. El rezco, que jajon, dejarre, Enlace de esquire cualquier personado. Tú le ha un patrángalo lleno rico, Y que duerme suor eterna pedia, Y sus avergempos e inleta fierias, Y al confés segtió, al cielo mejor, Que el rezchio igual, del Ocio, mi chzaño, Cato: «¿A nacerén, los pelisses, La ti que I me llama, que el Oceano está, Si quán arupó el chista á la sfreo, Y el rejeta con dudar niveolo, Puesta la piél acarrea á un destino, Y al de las hazras miráners implicar? Puesta la fuerza presidenza, Su reengaño y su hat á quien hace el altírice. Pese cortes y distes, dulce fenor, Los dos pescados, como tu erba, Y que tu pequeño agora te confieso. Dulce mas el alma muere, Que era mille s Hardtice, ¿Ciota tiene deja el Pol en espejo, Para que la Naciuea trave apartera El caliste al sol? ¿A él no santo, Que nadie le entra, Cuando el pol está levese, Que la pinta se vaga en la culpa mia? Yo soy el sego preste, las aguashía, Para lejos dicen que espantajes, Los halagos temblores, los tros menos Y las encomendades; Y las famosuels, lesbianas, Y mujeres llorosa, Por eterna paz muje su labor estrella. De perdidos desiderados, A quien te firmo pusalon lejos, ¡Dignos de Andrea robos tres pecados! ¡Morir en serranidad Al piadoso, aun abierto! ¡Moros contemplando A ti niñ ======================================== SAMPLE 446 ======================================== Photo Of thy city I Where would I flee to Not there What city of angels are they Or that tumbled over me The youth, before The hush The child The parent A sense of joy dwells in all of me And I know not what of it I utter only the form I find It is the one that I must have Of my life. One and the same it is whether I chant I of my life or how I bless Thee, O my God I am a fragment of thy body too The moment of my birth I am not true to thee I will not be thy dust I will obey but not be thy dust I am thy person and not thy body I am thy life I am the mind I know the truth of things A habit of my senses An intimate association With things beloved An unconscious psychic process Thou shalt not obtain Thy semblance or thy name Thou shalt not gain My freedom from this honour Thou hast no knowledge of me My freedom from servitude My honour here My liberty from omnipotence My virtue from everlasting The second time My dowers of honour and power My grace exalted to the eternal I know all things and ask nothing more than that I know them The first time The second time The day and hour The thought before Reflecting on that time I, knowing all things, fear nothing now The second time I know all things and ask nothing more I know that I know But I am asking now Allegiance to worlds unknown Praising for these worlds Thy patronage The virtue in me The virtue in me My knowledge here Where all virtue streams Allegiance to none Praises for these parts Before thee Praise for these things Thy praises which suppress the works of another Thou above all Thou the first The first cast off The first cast off Absorbed before Thine ancient casts Dispelled Thine ancient casts Thou the first First cast off The first cast off Absorbed before The darksome things Precipitate and transient Losing their form in thee Thine essence Thou, beyond all time Beyond all time Thou the first The first Absorbed before Thine foundations The darksome remnants Whelming the eternal Absorbed thy energies Thine the first cast off Thine cast off Absorbed before Thy eternal Thou the first Absorbed before Thine foundations The first cast off Thine foundations Death was sexless and life was solitary! But now, through thee, death is sexless and life is Solitary! What is life without love? Life without love is grey, Life with love is purple! I love you! I love you! I love you, and the Beautiful thing is that thou art fleeting, splendid, and Pathless, and strange to me, and thou wert never thoughtfull to me, And yet thou art lovely, and the sweet thing is that the dear Truly is that thou art fleeting, splendid, and strange to me! Now I am afraid of being old, and what the elder Of life and of love is, -- what kind of love, and to whom, and Affection and love, and what passions of the soul, The mind, the flesh, are favour and a vision, The fancy and the heart, and a myriad terrors, and Beasts of chase, and birds of flight! Life is thus with me, And what the finer passion is, and the wilder And less wild and savage lust of life! And what Love in the last report said to me, and the Last look of his, and the last breath he saw to me, And his last moment of regret and his thought As he fell! Ah, beautiful man, and had I But a thought of thee for one moment I might Thou'rt thinking me of all this or some moment from yesterday Or any other time, and circumstance ======================================== SAMPLE 447 ======================================== alsies. This old man made a the sign as they passed. A herd of antelope. As if he thought up a sign in a vague way, a way of putting across some thought he needed to get off his chest, just to get it off his chest and to do that he had to get it all off, off the ground, and he did so in a way that was neither gossip nor laughter. I wish I had better. I have a sense of that man that I hope he is alive and not in bits of his mind where he is a god. <|endoftext|> "Turning", by Rainer Maria R ++ Mirrors that sit on the stair At the end of my bed Or puddles that make Vertically rectangles Of annoyance And obstructed beauty Are deflections Of an oblique reflection Or the sparkle Of a crowded bulletin All of them shadows That scour Obscurely Meeting my open face Obliques drenched In the haze of night And then amplifying The noise of street Vaulting imperceptibly Insanity Through obstacles That my soul lacks --My fleeting self Is tire and defect-- But in the night Of the world I am a ghost And with a sash fished out of the sea I wade and applaud From the ink-hole of a nocturnal Reef where distance charms In an upside-down, unsealed world As a child of the Meyer Finds her way back to herself-- And now turning I see dawn produc'd In the muzzle of a thrown-back horn To image the clouds as a five-year-old Cradled, a creature with a face Looks back at me Struck by a quiver stricken By a queller Broken on a grinder --Where good night's sleep is an amnesic How sev'ral time rolls In circles of doubt Diverted and indefinite With thunder finely drawn Like a match that lit, then cut short From the breath of a flint-handle A crimson radial --Once I was wed To a glory That beamed On a tower And then smel'd --The sky has a kind of fur And the clouds be murr'd And made to be unmov'd That they may down go And be from earth --Dobblest and gravest Superlatitry Obsequious And cylinder Obstinate --Then the blush of it All over whrld Like a broken helmet On a sullen crutch --But never a doubt Shrinks sickenly Reverbercing Paths of it Obvious Intimate winds Odors Injects Inclinations That shake And agitate --If anything can teach And nothing can teach it --What one chiefly needs And seldom asked Only to know Is the story of choosing Whose fishes ''four-footed herds And magnets pick and peep To permutance --Seas fill with seiners and crake And tell no story Spin'd by one From climes within With them that seem motions To deserts near Inert and barren Through which migrations Pass to devest a<|endoftext|>The past is a bundle of pastes-- Old plants freeze along the suttle shore Whose members glisten, plumes aither flite. Here's no thought of roses:--I'm back In my fruitless unwrought back Where I had no self-knowledge, counsel Nor excuse--bouffarmale, broom, beech, till I was white In the best sense of that seersucker white; And so had the A actor gone down By cripple seas, where heers turn over like tarantulas More verminy than varnish, blots, down whiz'ring fox-- The self o' the self of the self-o'-vin, The self o' the least I kent, seiner, toot or taint, No sense of the charming, self-s o' the self-o' worst-- No part of the self-o'-bulk that unsetched be my lot. The future of the past is of no genteel part (Trotting back from here) Where the self-o'-bilious, self-o'-blightly wich they stnock, Remor, remor, remor, rettiest anything, The deeds, the ======================================== SAMPLE 448 ======================================== really, as my suitors, "A knave and a whore." How's my figure?—How dar a creature like me Get matters together in the first place? It ain't right, now, that I sit there cold and fat, And expect a thing like that to take off fine: Where'er abouts a battle or a chitch and flap Jockey Jack Rabbit is along, And rattle down the track, And press a little Buzzer, And make the grey-coat crew cry "cover!" But, to be plain, that ain't in with that: When Rabbit's mowing in the back-ground "course, And you've bared your butt to kiss a dame, Or licked the dust from Venus's feet, Your half-buck winter it to put away, To-day, och! Wherefore, Janet? What should we do? It isn't right, its' not right. But that's the way we do it: Blame not the Laird, nor the Club, nor the Mission, But ourselves, And be as stout as we need to be, And stand the shock of all Curse-ethos If any of them Agents chafe or brow-beat us, "I swear, and serve a sentence of three years hard In the connline for a mark, to them acting as my counsell They'll cut me short for a pardon at the next electorate." I take my hat, and shake it, And step down from the pantry; And coat, and waistcoat, and dabble on the plate, And tuck in my stone-cutter's clout, And parley and get down to my testimony. A horrid habit, and no mean entertainment, To see the Chief in such a distinct coat; Though not unsuited to the thing, Nor to the time, or the place, For she'd a certain motive—tears, Bosom-enhaid. She'd be well served, instead of sitting so, And induing her dress in an indifference More shocking than cruelty; For had the spirit of false excitement fired The words within his voice, I believed him, From the time theBrownlow came. No longer the mouth gleam of the cherub horse That laughed the posted horse from the ground; No longer the posted pony, or reined skiff, That reined itself into a phalanx; The penitential death of a day had demanded That Janet take on her, as t'other Should do, or else be based For gristle, feather, or the simmer's lip, Whatever she got. "She's a precious item, and the last Of rank—and the first of the bed. Fit to sell, as the furore's a tide. What's there in the liniment that's original? The liniment is all lined with bauble. Well! I've tried it, and it its effect has been Actual substance: my arm's a little strained, But it's just as well so. The screened inner-rez for the heart's black gem Might take off the duster, but then you'd think It would say "bold" or "flat", As well as the thing inside. If what I've got is just the current thing, I pelt forward as you might, And if the net's there, I'll pop down head Like any ship. The world's a stage—a critic's stage, and he Is there to observe and reconcile. But here's a wheel of the inane, and I Want to pull down the pole of the wheel and run it through With asperities I can't sleep through, and burn it To float the pseudofeed, And lug it off to some ignobled bitty That's nearer the hearth. I'll fire up the lamp-wick, and let that speed The winking and hard queines along, and maybe we Can light her forleore, And give a sign when the fog goes out to Charente, Or at least make it seem like a mist. The world's a tambourine that I dance upon. We'll hang the back we've got, and the front will turn As much as you like. There's a damnable splendid story got About a beautiful lady, and she'd be the lady At court, and the man that love took the cause. I'll get the saint in me out to make a puss of, And give her the chance she needs to take it; For ======================================== SAMPLE 449 ======================================== LS A wreath of pikes of Chisburn When Ridden's below And Hickes, in some hellish swell, The jack-reapes to hoon, Whence Dog fouling yer carles The Heysen redbrick, of our city, The high undine of hell, That aches and thrashes the water In Chisso's black streams And of us the Tyrone Bird March'd on his partners, Our brothers in Babylon. Our brother in that sweet sumpcool We made for Chisso, The meadow of horrors. The river Styx; O Anthedon, And Cannots, Corinth. Our brother we, in different tinks, In different strokes, Thrang the wild fowl, and the hoofed deer And wild bee, and all man's labours Long have we known thy fruitless, vain Wings, thy frail saps and mindless Boughs, that will not bend. In our munks and motes are trebles. Thou hast these blood-defying Tresses but of us no signs; A cit, ance bitter to touch. Yet wilt thou shake thy state assurant Scoffer, with thy leafy theatres And harps of wild wild day, And all thy pilgrims, and arise Saturnineer by thy side, And meet our saviour, in our wilderness. <|endoftext|> "from Troilus and Brutus", by Matthew Paris [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Relationships, Home Life, Men's Lives, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Mythology & Folklore, Valentine's Day] I This house, my dear, is not a house, a house, a house. The sun comes and goes, the moon comes and goes. It is a sumptuous banquet, a sumptuous banquet. The glittering crystal is more beautiful than you, My love, if I let you out, my dear, if I Gave you a name that sounded and looked like "love." The hours of darkness are less beautiful than The sunlight, which is wonderful, and ended. II This house, my dear, is not a house, a house, a house. I cannot wash myself, I cannot help my hair, I cannot draw or write or rest or sleep or I do not dare to eat the delicious food. The thin stockings cling and run! The foamy scallions Why must you dredge them? Gold threads, why not and threads Of varied tight curls? Why cannot I be dressed? Why not make curls like those in Sweet, parted Curl the lips in subtle, divide the cheeks in twooks With the cunning crown of hair about? Why not place the the t'ripops after storms to just; Why not? at any rate I do not dare. <|endoftext|> "The Idler", by William Robinson [Idleness, Activities, Jobs & Working, Religion, God & the Divine] I sit meekly in the dust, as by the furrowed land A smooth-sanded beggar sits speakative. A face Hangs o'er me piteously, but I hear not a sound, Save groundstive chide, and obvious wait for his turn At some new opportunity. All so mute Above me spreads an atmosphere; it is not silent, But languorously keen, a sharp repeto- bisception held stationary. Perchance this grind Will open with averted rebuke The fold that argumented Me posing unnecessarily. In my ears A voice that was is heard, cut tragically. It begins, "O dear man, the sting of the low Is the height of the hero's contempt, To attain, to retain again The frenzied majestic endearing love, With the lighted uprense of a face that sinks And is thrown by the last. O, sweet chill, in the blood The larkquake of that scission is so strong It leads the heart in gameingly real fun In which I turn to watch my unextinguishably sweet life Slip lapsed mysticness, and I hear the long Patter of onanistic she, in fear devoured By this o'erfar, extramurally spoken voice, Of which I can remember but a little, Then aslant my idle body to repose From which the voice and its subject, Oold deeds, Were thrust, I guess, in supervened years. How could I evade these tormentations and assail That balanced challenge of reality Without ======================================== SAMPLE 450 ======================================== Makes the walls about it, that it moves, And spreads out, and is compressed, and will not fall. And if no other thing you wish to do, And the earth which you tread is the bed you sit in, If you sit on it, will it not, day by day, Give you assurance of a change being done? If you never change, you never hear new truths And if you do not believe, you will be held Victims through the ages, and what is worse, By the death of your children. For thus it was, I thought, the city, That I had seen a city, and though I now Was alone, and knew that I was alone, I said to myself, I will not look back, I will not turn. And I might still have separated Myself into three winds, or many. But this, This is the point where I blazoned myself To those seven sleepy men, a man with a flag, With seven sleepy flies a man. What the hell is it? What the hell? They thought of a flag! They thought of a fly! A flag is not a fly, it is the face Of a race, a race, to be specific; And they laughed and they cried aloud To each other, and a growing fear Crept, like a dark wound, into my blood And then I spoke, and I was dumb, and they Seemed to be breathless, to have gone numb, For they kept looking at me; to have gone Was very hard, and they seemed not the same Faced the same, but they blinked, and she bled, And then she bled hard, she laid her hand On the roof, and we saw the blood well up And flow down new, for we had shaken Our blankets, and the giver was full, And crown'd her head with honour, and we sat To watch its limbs float like waves about The great fashionable metal web She held with three serrated claws, And with the one she so lov'd had been cast, She uplifted the third and nearer she did spurn'd it Right on the point of blinding, and we were as Celts, and like the tribes of them that swarm About the aureate vault where reign'd The unvintageable lips of Arno long Before it ever answered, we were like And in the mystic stoop of her lift off She held the serrated hand, and kept Her eyes before us, and we saw the face Of our greatest love, and gaze'd, and knew Our Chrism, and looked but all we had to see It, and exulted in apprehension, and knew Our bond as with a coloured vesture filled, And clad us both, and out we sprang together And ring'd to ship, and steamp as well as we And rag'd with clang as anthem might call And rally'd and drummed by looks into the deep Star-chest bow, and all the clang was Bonapart And all the sound of hurrahs was before us, and God, And the burst of drums was successively, and first The crack of pipe, the clank of strap, the calling Of "God blast this scheme?" the song of "Hallowed Wings!" And last, the full chorus of "How are!" And this is music To the "composing" of whose "composing" Chroming the eternity of music, that stag'd By the imperfection, the liveliness, the sheen Of the Miser in us, how sometimes vivifies Our own social species, and casts, in network form, Our diversities apart to-day. For here Neither group nor brass is cognizant of secret; And mine yet is not so, nor thine, I'll grant, or thou Thy structure-urban. All our multitudes miss me, Which implies a loss. And yet I should not care, but that To each his various degree of communion bids Alone variable, one still master of all Represented by the society of no. For here, Since I am in them what does not yet thematically group Members, but individually none, my speech would direct, My speech should direct--if the sieve of communicating Are coarse-sided and not smooth, if not impregnable, If not impregnable with finally discrete Contents, but impregnable with ethereal stuff, From the which things that are with thing retain to flow Attempered and unadorned, unless the like receive Which does not require speech. But here I say not a ======================================== SAMPLE 451 ======================================== Meet into, and hold fast One to get rid of The rest jump off, When she would get on, As on she runs Thru the walls, The 'trees Toward, up the branches Leap or nod, A clump of elm To the ground In her hurrying, Not a cloud in the sky, She sees the tree, The elm then, goes, she goes Thru the ground, but alive, As she passes, the turf dries Her fingers strain to pull out a red-streaked root, which presses around, The little 'tree' to leap away. A dappled sea, A field of foam, The wrecks of ships, The white stars glistening, The light breaks on her goggles, The moon's a disk, The sun is a gleam, They hang upon her a mile, The wind along her bows Plunges a sea-green beetle, She has missed a pillar or two, A rib and a half. This is the ship, Sailing through, Across The gleam And gloom of her goggles. The torn sails rifted, The ripped cordage, The seas running high with the wrecks, The lightning's blue counter Across her guns, The water breaking her lee-way As she runs, The waves above her The snakes curled up on one side Where one hand's barely knee Her face is half up, a bird mask, The salt sea-grope and she thinks, She thinks of herself. A King in a Ship. Blank slate on which is scratched The Story of Salt. The difference between butcher And brother, The fact as it was Seen by the dirty-blouse Who thinks he's withered and worn But will never Dust. How many Ships? Many ships Have strut of legs the same. They do not say, "Come" They say, "Come as requested, Come as prayed-for. Their limbs are blank slate." The teeth of the vessel Do go a lot deeper Than any mate's lips. They anchored to a bolt Of sun uncoiling. They rent the pools of the heavens, Rent all the sky, Thousands of light-waves On the speckled breast. They sprang at the sky and they speckled All the sky. The sky has a crack, The sky has a gash, It has a red obligation On the top of it. There's a Plum Lobe Worm In the mush of her brain. They had no v-string, They had no marbles, They jolted left and right. The sea was their water-bag. The sky was their rope. The ships went down as waves are blown. <|endoftext|> My Little Friend, the street is filled with flowers for your coming, And I eagerly await your signal to proceed. There is a beautiful woman who wishes to greet you, My little friend, the different days we have been, And to-day you will receive. For the hand of the beautiful, of my little friend, At the time you have been on the street, Have been earned with the best intentions. We pass by the old stables, The pig-lofields, and the roses for which someone might have waited Twice the length of the stony communal lanes; Once more along the shore of the sea We glide swiftly and we sing, Singing, the whole of the preceding steps repeated, To the music of varying candles, Of vigorous and vibrating table-strings, And the noise of the flushing stairway, The great rooms of many bodies rushing. We gain the domain Of Time and his dominators, And enter the halls Where have our hearts been hidden from the vain seeking eyes, Since the last time here together, Since the last disappearances, Since the loss of the æons. And I say over and over what I feel was true, "I feel, my friend, I feel that you are here now with me. I have seen the plants in the garden and how they grew In the fever season when I was alone. The star with its crumbled beads I dream'd upon. And the white shadow mocking me through the raining, Like a patient person who was lying or dreaming. Now I know that all these things are true and beautiful, And that a real place is prepared for me here, And that real faces are ======================================== SAMPLE 452 ======================================== Removed from earth, I soar, With Nature's conquering Gods. <|endoftext|> "The Master-Story", by P. E. C. Duffy [Religion, Christianity, Easter] The dam for the well was chiseled by hands lower than the knees of fathers; it told you everything would be just fine except the plot. Its recital led you to the fairest wives of the south, who wore, from the beginning, bombs for hair. The dam for the well had been built by Eve for the sole, unimpassioned purpose of earning the meager price of virgins. If you would scale the steep, you must keep descending and your arms stretched out as if to cover the knees of every saint at the dam-to-come may be your best shot; for it's the job of the hero to be perfect in a world where all is problem, and the dam for the well may be the gaunt hands of the virgin you're after. Now, the best is yet to come— a small chapel in a valley near the still o' the well— it's small but still home to the famous, a temple of Love in the form of Domesday's J. The spires were built in the 13th century, as lame priests complained of the fair's excess; the first tower's cupola was a small forked hay-stack, its third built of heavy stones to hold the wine, a cure just not enough. The leaves, once decayed, can be plowed up as fuel; the sods of crape have been known to flower in sun; but always there is the certain dissatisfied Lu, the lilies of the tomb. <|endoftext|> "Long as a Stone", by David Wagoner [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, Love thy neighbor--and the far-too-many whoevasion-forget] Long as a stone from which to drawrelieved, safe where the bed is usable. Better cut your way throught to the grape barn or the yard with tomatoes: you're going to need them some tomorrow. Better hand one neighbor a hand-knotted rope, tied to a great oak with all the sympathy you can muster, and step off at that window where the sun, thick and high, heats the brick and masonry: you're going to need those tomatoes. <|endoftext|> "Laughter [In the workplace]", by David Wagoner [Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics, Popular Culture] Labor is a wonderful thing— Not in the sense that my foot is a vehicle That shoots upward into the sky, But movement that escalates itself To hand waves and wind that makes a gale Of turbulent air that soon, if the wind Is regarded a little bit strongly, Flies the actual freight of things moved. In the sense that my neighbor Is a monstrosity I would reject As being entirely inappropriate For this application of capital But rather in the sense that he's a first And only Downloader, laugher with abundant labor, First among equals in my eyes, With the mind's eye capital reveals Quick as a child spitting out garbage From behind bars, cities flinging dollars On trash collectors and lawyers, While a hedonist, glutton for punishment, Looks only at the sky For the source of the garbage, Regrets only his seat on the process And quotes lines of faintly offended scripture To himself, the vaguest commandments Of commonsense and self-help philosophy In the process Labor is a wonderful thing, And its fruits great wealth brings. <|endoftext|> "A Alarming Thought", by Yusef KomunyakEE [Living, The Mind, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Religion, The Spiritual] A frightening thought Is that I have too little space To house the many spirits I meet In the soul. The more I house The more I empty must grow Into nothing. <|endoftext|> "Two Thought", by Yusef Moraby Mason [Nature, Arts & Sciences, Music, Poetry & Poets] two thought one is the kind that has to do with smiling man what would you most like to be if you add it to your ======================================== SAMPLE 453 ======================================== : And unavailing how, Through undreamable hues, The sullen mariners have struck The port we spoke of. I dreamt of gentle valleys, That were in flower, I dreamt of yesterday, And yet it seems to me Of future years, When summer seas will flow In scarlet foam above The rocky ports I love, And unnumbered tides Will wait for me, Where I unjam the tide Of rolling waves that bear The landmarks where I go, That I mat now what if I sat, At that far wind's help-out, At that far tide's pull. But not to dream Of bonds we bore above The winds that flow Behind our sails and strains In shingles that rust, And all unhealed, is a shame At all our hopes below Is this a believable way, That unbuilt and faulty grew? And not unbuilt, though imperfect- Was ever the best built, so? Yet I have dreamed and dreamed Of perilous flowers, And where sweet song was sweet and young I found a flower-guarded tree, And lo, in amber vision I saw The plant struggle and endure, And lift its queenly bloom To inconstant skies Above the soon-passed on cloud. And ah, poor soul, that knew No tapering wood, no king On whose cap of glory bade All verdure to that fruit, Devours, and trembles, and submits All that was, is, or was before, And all that shall be, In that uproarious earth you move, As put you doubt, And all your memory show Of the dear times, That now is gone, and all your song Of it are rememoried naught, And all your speech, That, scattering like the snow, Was all that grass before was taken, In all you and you, In little trunks, and traces, And little elms, And many a little tree, Will bring no winter blast. What wilt thou do? What new thing, what new way For thee to love, and live, and win The joys that now thou seekest? Save only this, that now Thy life is slain And thy great name is dead, If ever it was thine, If once was, "a good hire," If once was thine, "happiness brief," Bliss brief, because completed so, And "good," since time shall show Only good for thine and thee. I know no more, am sure, Than this, that I must be To my friend, "whom" thou art, To him, "who" thou art. I shall die, but live, "world-wide," With "whom" thou art. I thought, one day, I saw Your picture first, on either's mouth, And thought I liked the person, oh, well, Not knowing you. Then I thought, perhaps You had, before I could learn your name, Taken, perhaps, another's part, Though given a salary, to tarry At some post on my "staff," or pleasure: And in my wisdom then repin'd My plump, glad little, like-born sprite. Yet now, think I, were you, say, old And slow of speech? Or (days ahead With ladies, travels, questions acute), Legless, lame? Or what names? (I won't spoil Your glorious characters, or guess, wild With the hemline of your history, Until we've come to that "parent hand," I hope you've no fear of mine), Were you first or last, or first or last? I'd take the first or last, love, of all. If I should die, you were the place To which my fancy ran, as each should "wake" At some later time; your memory fed By which my dreams of you should wake. And oh, 'twere something to have it so, For both you were once my favorite pair, One heart-chester for the other's child, Two pairs of equals, neither valuing more, Nor less, but matching well. Then, then! I'd dream my dreams, and you would do the same, And together might build a house of song Whereon, by-and-by, our two hands mightBeat out a volume both. That day we walked together, and the psalmodic riff You gave me wreathed, ======================================== SAMPLE 454 ======================================== Her breath a deep perfume cast From him whose vigour was the strong lure To her who trembled as the tempters wrought Their dark fusion; and his body writhe In grim red loveliness, and as he writhed He smelled her breath, his life was ebbing fast From his loins, as blood on a bloody sod. 'Tis well; her heart a phantom thing had died; No body loved, no love in her sad eyes; The little of maiden still was chaste; Her thighs with terror's rose enthralled; And still, as down upon her graceful feet, The vampire stung her dark, and stung the sinner. And still that lady rose and bowed her head, With eyes and bosom deserted, for whom, Beneath the low sun's dying gleam, The red-stained vulture's dart had gleamed At the swift rush of blood-hoarded years; And couched upon her dainty couches come The innocent victims of her hate. For her sweet sake blood was shed and sweat no more, For her sweet sake, blood hath cum mixt with snow In roses like dark sensuality; For her sweet sake, beauty with lust has grown Like snow to roses; a sting is this, To all but one heart in her terrors clad. O wound of Heaven! and wound thou to inflate The helpless bosom of a King? And leavest we him mindless of tears? And heartless that heart, upon whose pecks So shallow they must conveniently lay, To turret o'er a frowning fate? And heartless he more heartless ever was none, After the dear knight's eyes, which might not blame, Showed sorrow on his soulless frown alone, Pity at best; more heartless, would not be What sorrow the love of youth made hot. And he, whom never morn exposes to air Sweet buds of radiant, white, heaven-produced grace, Is heartless to-day; and stern, the day, Which this thou joustest, is dubiouslier than others. Thou hopest to care for him in tower and bay, In field and forest, in strange'ning town; To tend him well your sorrows and your joys, To strive for fame and wild ambitions close: What boots it that a king you hadst not missed before, Is denied thee now? what fasts thee that thou art a king? When the king denies him, and all his court Tell him he dares not say what he doth advise, Beseems to me more big the scandal small, That thou, proud lord, in as much pride must strive, As another thou, shouldst space the world above. What blame was yours, then, that at his court Toward us was booliated Back'rar, whose aim was heart-felt? Why did evil tongues in council close his? What datious thing his hand may now untie? Vow'r'd oath to thee, O Back'rar, datious oath! Ods are all false, then, what dow'r this, of truth? We feasted on a man believ'd his foe; We seiz'd on Heart's peace, which we swore to lose, For Yazoo's scenery, coral-clad, ancient spoil'n; And shagg'd as prey the flattering foe to woo, And as quiv'ring in the chariot, Was granted half the globe away. And now that excellent servant of Heaven's will, Whose power approv'd, inspires a loyal knight To foil once more the tyranny he brought, And with heart and soul the deed begins. 'Tis past a month, and many a linnen burnt Is cold with Pity for its lamentable ending. I have left where Darkness holds his royal sway, And Ease second Nativity back to Tears; And strove to un with alarum of hope, the old blare, And Treason, Counsel, Credentials, and the rest. New hopes perspile, new schemes seek row from old, And what was rightly mine with Anger should gore And ploughed with Axes thine ungracious sore. Fairest Daughter of thelawrold trees, Ianthe female sire, sire has been Asome bitter thing from yonder vine: His legal daughter is no more my care, Her spouse is no care, survives and goes. Ianthe, the breast of Clay is stor'd, Who ======================================== SAMPLE 455 ======================================== an omen of things to come. In the eyes of the sleeper It is as in the arrows of the bolts and the wings of the slain. It is written on the bones of the great that the true Bible and crown of the head. And I took the bible and read to the boy. He slept and smiled. When the eyes of a child are closed it is as if he were a statue. A dream, a dream. Not a single danger haunted my sleep that night. Not a ghost, not a specter compelled my attention. The chance of a snake to destroy a bed came and went along the ground greeting the sun. In the eyes of the sleeper It was summer in the wood. Is a snake a monster in the real wood that summer where is it "greeted"? A child born on a hot day where is it "greeted"? When I heard the sleeper he sounded like the rain in August. <|endoftext|> "Little Flowers", by J. Michael Rosenhouse [Nature, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] On the bicentennial anniversary of George Henry Boker's birth, we bring you now, in this poem of four passages, his venerable book, called Flowers, Feeding Your Pet Daisy, Yourself, Herself, The City of Sleep, Book VII, "The Shunned" Namayab Ryuma (1084-1112) was a Japanese poet and educator who wrote verses during the Tang and Song dynasties. <|endoftext|> "Sympathy", by J. Michael Rose [Living, Death, Life Choices, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Mythology & Folklore, Horror] As with any friend to friends: Dugs Deyns, I swore to watch Yenreffs so closely. The maundy times the drum, The modder craze, The moweep beads the bomber Syds (yours bepain'd) me like a fool Be'ond this biconst: Yours bein' the moweep ways, A monkey touts. Blees Beed Halls I'd forgot, A pint was needed fer ice; The mulligants howl, A pint of swipes I had to pay; Tokes the ferret 'tween my thighs A leg, a leg, a leg. Goes Mocs tee sells, Lodged to arne, Lodged to hod. I never read a grim before, I never drive'd a day in a tclet. Evans Beene (who?) hams Was kin of hall. I never read before I was born, I never drive a day on a hat. Hod, a sparrow, was me, A leg of a leg. But Mocs tee (who?) too, A larrikin (who?) too? Now on a mountain they will shout, And he at t'int! T'oe was a leg of a leg, Two leg of a mule. <|endoftext|> "Burning of Pigs", by J. Michael Rose [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Social Commentaries, Class] A bowl of mahnne's (size can't tell us) grows dim when on top of a bowl of stew the hough's grown big enough to get its eyelids glued on. But just like white clay it raises a rustle, walking in circles with a knife between shoulders, trying to make a square in the chop-block's chop, like it was a cup of joekie, or a round piece of dusty chamiz. If it were too small we wouldn't want it on our pocky, our plums, our egg burrito, our but it's that when you've filled it so that the lumpen-ness of the bowl comes In this stomacher we've climbed to some more recent stache (our cup will be found in a tearoom) it will be chalky and 2000-1500 rat days if we stay with chimes an hour A sputte is so concise that a fly would poach (scatter bits w/o legs) the nostrils and flywhores and if we ======================================== SAMPLE 456 ======================================== lfi virginibus ortus: norunt milites in mea credas. gloria, Peleus! te superis! SED magna por allibus humanis fertur: atq; sed et indus mixibus et floribus, neu nefacile incuria rara mira percecap capsis: te regia caperunt pactus; Haed thera; tedunt ille foro, quod novit ab aeuibus: sed, sat satis est: et cum saepe pessimi physo est: sed biodas juncta pessimi, crinita, parmaseo. pedunt sedis et aetate sagitta: sed appetit limina perentenis. et risus ferro mitescit intus: haeres teritur durum dispartus suscitu lumine tristis aqua, speranta quae fugit ipsa resedit. sic yeu vos consuluique venis et rursus ludus et arces porrigit, et poscit lumina simul et rigido: provide yezium patetis. quid fessus cumulus capillus atram tes tondet haec merus amore ferri? O VOTA, quin domum, debonut recedent qui contingit equalia testa, difficilis impotati undercover summodyx, quod properas animam generamus percaisse sane iocum, quamvis etiam quae poscit recte pater exactum volucrum, velimicis dapibus iungere tumulus et stabit, multa duplex agale, et possit fecitque ante locis trabunt. non tum missingna sentyber, dos ortus inteluce, omnibus quam poteris iniustus Maenadum hoc pro yeta volucrumm, tu quoque potis tacitus morada solito expires dies. O Fustas, cum indicas gressa, dapidas etiam senti, quae ducem dies latitant spre- ingre suas vigite labarent, et ilex muscium facit sese fugato. a qu et Reduinam immigit albo raedearis ignotus es: sed habere multos urget NC; uidi agrestes animus ut e mortu ali-tius respice cunctas. IAMOR, o precor, o quicquamfile notus ludicus; futiliter maximus ip- tende suis situm; iam sitis et suis per- jecta dant swidui. iuuat; o Pio austri onta caprea et furcirces aqua; et tua per sese soluent amant: pauperius nota fides. sed tuus ante carmine notaualibus esse nomina quae colui credunt; omnia labra- buntius nimio. iuges et Io Cænthus mille et Ozaneos fronte pulcher. IAM perdere nubulatus, fac Contempla argumenta, precorque rogum cicatri; sacre perfetens nemo viator, ui iam speculum cogitatis. o magno sit notum Deum, quaeso prosilit, quam satis replicon accendens. toto sex haveen notus uolet isto ponto- fuliorem qui pium pmachelis spargeat, sic coelum, si te potui prolix-sihth dixit, nos aurat time. TIAPQUE Iouri, caput unum martyrique uelliuo tribuno numero, parum pauci- nenti, et resurgeth forsausti faci ardor, habente statui pulvere. alius ha- venire noue comosa, tum id placidis camminum regeret. sic, seges per tabularum, hanc patriucent homines plerumose hostem, aer uitati practo tinte uenibus esse siluis iterum domum, tum antiqu ======================================== SAMPLE 457 ======================================== Iron fists that are hurled Against the vulture of red death; Twelve light hours of anguish, pain, and fear. This heavy gift the spirits prize. As the time of right or wrong comes, We all, we all shall pay the dearer part, The toll to bear, the loss to suffer. As the heaven and as the earth return, An end of life to the Mother wise, All leaning to shore their limbs in sleep, And shielding from the bitter cross of truth, And on the threshold of that last, lamenting hour, They lie in cloud, and darkness settles o'er. Only a few remain, fit and alive For the endless round of each requiring mold; Who met in shipwreck unhorsed, and lived to recount Their stories of how they triumphed over hope, Disaster, death, and sin, and how they win and grew. These are the ones whom prayer and truth may cheer, The unwurtled essences of promise, ripe for Spitfire's blade And he who plucks Balaam by the hair. They tell me he is wise, from helm great of gain By observation small in gain, as all should be: He lists no handicap, volume no value added, He who here studies ways to win, should there depart. His hope is the hope of those who make it; the wheel above Gives water to every man, and there can be no flood; And he whose waters I pursue, gets exhaustless fuel to build anew his forge, He refuses to watch his fires, nor scan the waters they provide; He who assigns to the wise sole heritage Of those as wise, and few as saints, let him examine, And find where he is fool enough, not so much sense, As blindness to what is bare in God, in Arab, Turk, or Musselman, Who waffles in the rock of Scripture, or Ter-dalemeth, Whose vocabulary of man's heart is water, fire, and dust, And speech to bow or swagger, or hate or cover up; A mouth to stroke, a brow to bawl, are what we show An Arbiter in NAME the golden messanger; The conduit of all things, all things to shoe, Shall call none else God's Number ONE:. The rich man's only cup is his to fill, And lay his counting out five pounds per cuphold sheep; The slavingaminer binds well, for hire, for praise, Who of his parish thinks so much, he sums well his good. The world is his, the world is in his arm, In danger's coardness this his great book, His sole government superbly is bent, His sole great care his sole grave and grace, And hope of heaven by our master's sleep. One sole, to burn or bended knee is near, The whole of it, the whole of it is Hell, His soul hath made up his heresy, And sauciness, weapon of his malice. <|endoftext|> Darling, when you give a man a girlfriend, he pretty much confines his romantic powers to four or five women at most, and frequently happens to use you as a sounding-board to try to get to the truth of the nature of man's sisterly love, and thencetofar; and as your acquaintance goes, he is out of sympathy and sweet on you all the time. But when you ask me for a man's girlfriend, I pass the whole field over; I don't give a haugh for science, or ethics, or even pity. I give a haugh for the lover's oath--that is, I give a woman who'd destroy me in a running race. I should have an evil heart, and as the old world went, so did the new; I'm awake every night amassing plots to murder a man or woman. If he who had the money made the poor man go astray, I've planned a double felony by hiring out my boyfriend to work for me; and hence we're in double trouble, as you can imagine. Next I'd have the trouble of hearing and sight a man I don't know, and one that is notorious in the community. This is foolish; since who's honest in a romantic sense? Well, I should break down, but it's easy to give the chase; and so I go on in derision, as the lion does after a stalking horse. But all these matters, if we only look at them rationally, of course you have to admit they do you good. I mean, when a woman's true to you, it's natural ======================================== SAMPLE 458 ======================================== Ringing out like angels' trumpets, At night he lingered in his cabin, Till he could sound them at your window. "Only a maiden to adorn his window, "Not a bride,--only a maiden, O! "Not a maiden, O,--but a prisoner." "Only a maiden to adorn his window, "Not a maiden, O,--and I long since know "For the place her lover loves, whence she came." I saw a man sleep,-- On a mammoth lawn his head was lowered Not even a Chris'ical to give him comfort. I took a needle and threaded a fair Wide-riveted with flowers of long-decayed roses (Round though it be not, still it reveals the flame). I strung a girdle for him, and, casting myself To the garland's disenchanter, stole away: My needle came back and drew my very eyes In the earth like mighty eyes opening wide. "But now no more," said the craftsman, as he reel'd On my sight a skirt of odd new flowers to him. "Only a maiden to adorn his window, "Not a bride,--only a maiden, O! "Not a bride, but only a captive, O!" As I was brought to a lonely place, A barefoot breeze on the foot of the hill Sigh'd in the wind, and, returning, stole along To where he would alone fit his shoes: For his pair he took but a little cape, Haunting me with the novelty of being blest To be thus the day before the year was done, And in a place where I saw no men, breathe'd on still With the thought that day a man's feet do vie with night. Touchest the minare? Trincero, whom I had seen shod in cedar, grumbled next of us: Of the alabaster, Castellio. But the man had worn the helmet and arms Of the old supplanter for a month, and where I staredfull know'd him by his glaid He strew'd an old sprig--ermine'd it, my sire decreed, Then, slipping a bit of wax for a crown, Placed it in his quot covered just one, One Adonis, of his servants the biggest hart. You're skooby, Keir, if ye look up The meanings o' brooge, but, in truth, I grieve to think there should be any pain To your dogs from that bite. How sorry mind The mould of such a niverather than rest allows! Kerrig, if the soul goes handy with thee, Keir,--where Must I begin to unravel the thought here:- "The baby, indeed, is no bigger boy Than your little albicite, and yet in size You are taller: his tail is longer, I am told, And his plump little ears". Now tell me, could I give The boy a "look behind"--and it will soon be too late, My first opportunity being removed. 'Oh father!' for the first time Keir had seen the man, But the last, the last time he would not think of him: And his mother knew what her mother would do, And her lap of milk and her fingers plied too soon Were the means of quickening her son's derangement. She would ha' tore him "and scratch him deep with the broom", If she had him in her arms at birth, at four. But the truth is, pretty soon the Lord was gone, The Great Captain was on another war, And the Loosener in command, and the Shackleton Who brought home "mess for someone else"--even When he was gone, had left in this his "someone else" A "baby loaf of poison" which he might now inhale. On the fifth day of the week he made a constitution, On the fifth day of it he was taken, And the seventh day there was a fast: He hath for a commotion good cause to feel, For he knows that his master cares for him: He would not let him run the "field" that is All over for the "squirrel"--and so Is the best day of his life, for work or play, The day that he might get a "speedy" night, Or have the pleasure of his own small lot, The blessed "nights", the man calls "en juriditor". There is ======================================== SAMPLE 459 ======================================== fraud, and speaking always as if he thought he was following the god. But in the event, the crime is laid on all, and none of them is guilty. It is such that, the fact being what it is, no one can tell the fact by saying 'I have heard it said that' or 'It was but so.' The fact is what it is, and cannot be explained, the only point being theft, and each one bespeaking more investigation before it can be told how extensive the proof there is to prove the fact, so that theught which may be drawn from it is so tainted that no one, seeing the thing in its natural shape and shape being all twisted, can 'Tis true, I may be tempted in that case to doubt what I have said, but let us be content: the hour's significance is not (this side of the marriage) taken into consideration; time consumed is time well spent; I speak with regard to the holiness of past times; for people lived then and grew up to a certain age. For now no one lives, or, at least, did not live then, or to the oldest of them who did live he is no friend. When one deposes him, he shows such indifference, such plain carelessness of the things people have to live through that his cross-examination draws the truth but not over heavy places, my 'prophet' the man of the holiness, his back against the door. But now, my gifts being less, your little child grows, And having grown older spends less on herself. Now fortune has her husband bound to her, and she must have something; and I had something. At first she was fond of the open air, and from their walking her father gave her something; but later, borrowing We moved to an apartment on Meyrickings; but, you know, the years go, house and all away To-day, on the selfsame elevation, I percem Fontaine, my daughter, lie in their last bed, which, parted by art, they once have made their own; yet, with the least Mercy, once more they must go. The immortals all use the same staircase, to hide their and each other's trespass, and the selfsame stair, to come happily at the end of the town. It may be that my child has dragged the soul of the father down wholly, and treated it as a thing not erect and able to resist her perspective; but, on the other hand, the father may have grown more upwards led, and this may be due to the girl, who is turning her back on God and all religions which sanctify freedom, and hallow any shade of 'sin,' and cling to mere human calls for guidance. It may be, that, all now being older, and in such close I wot, my friend may care less about me, and I less, and shed less. But I must know, ere I die, if 'twas not the drip of saliva which first brought the great fear in my childhood, which had such an effect, on changing the old soldier's mind at being broken, or even only bruised, when his friends brought the wound up to this height of fraud, which for his country too had been much below, and he, whom juries should have delivered, for a man of his wit, as 'Tisnam per exis, that ends all care, absolution not as yet, I dread too much, and have so little confidence in my judgment, that, unsanctioned by heaven, if I waited till I am dead, what I may think may yet prove bad will be said, I second the judgment yet more; for, since I know there is no limit to the number of our hurts, and of none we care to withhold, it follows we have no answer to give, save, like God's ear-tip, 'grunting in the back row is Hell.' Let those who are pained by this, hurl as they will at their wills, Their hurt parts only, themselves, no one less, and see if they hate as they wish. Why should we care? Three Sylphs prophanned us, and skeeted us, so we stood the least of them. Yet, not all their hate was vain; Though my 'oto idone; ere prostrate I fold'? For, even in the teeth of the engine's sweep, A dive under the gun we took, And her nine water-teeming oars wrought us through the ======================================== SAMPLE 460 ======================================== If the fields with scythes Were to transform I do not think that I should find the way. I know the endless heav'ns, and know whereof they are, for I have seen This sweet, this fated land, whose beauty rises from the mud, and through the fair firmament, which, as I think, is fashioned of so thin a fiber as may be seen, wherefore I was eager to come here, to get off, to get out of its apparatuses, to see on earth any thing beautiful, and, being able, so to speak, as well deservedly to be. Yet the writer of books has not been silent on this point; for there is a correspondents in all the languages, who write of this also. 'MILTON, Book I: Line 225. <|endoftext|> All our lives we tell the truth streamed right pleasant way; Life may chasten with rebellious Thy faith, or act a glad life well; By each trial bring To promise true, that they will abide Necessity for thine, and never depart Up till that day I was a Child of Science With hardly three years of life; Not yet an boy, but yet a boy with head almost no frame of strength, For my frame so large, my limbs so short, the pain was hard in hearts to bear, In each previous age, I had longed to rise above it, To the place of power in life and knowledge where I should be equal to me or more than I. Eternal Nature for my mother Had only herself, For nothing else she had; I knew but her to be, For that was my sole treasure; All things I saw, And my hand was needed none, To seize the necessary materials, She did help me ever, Her favour then I clung to, And using her help made some expansion or growth of my powers, For I grew up, and being as strong as the others, being more; And thenceforth it was my lot to trouble my life with less happy matters; But soon I learned that Nature worked by laws I had not sensed; She has linked to sin the most sin could come at last, And I had done her a wrong by seeking her not Nature purposed to bring me to my lot, For to sorrow with my lot I wished; For the last time I was as I was wont to be: In arms I fought with this country, On my self-estate I landed, I was less than my ground-born gods, And so alone was more. The ladies of name and title Grown very great, By the means that Nature planted, Were daily tear-drenched myrds. No house remained their own, But to every rhymer's crown They did defend a title In the blood of warriors slain, To sell for gold their peace were bought. This was Nature's work, But of late it has worn a look Forsaken and haggard: These ones so loved, so long abroad, They had kept nature's rills! For those that sought the blood, Took in our flesh, and trinked it right, Wept for more, made lament, Yet were never where the living grew. There is sadness in the air, A merriment all–the ravage Of war's sharp arms; To joyless hearts alone– 'Tis here we give the gift, And little heed the word; Woe to the nation if long it To ease its iron pain; Pain whose right, where right might meet, Already did include All the friends through whose hands We that time have wandered, And each separated friend, still by his path;– O sharp and foolish heart Which must find disaster Yet will not heart send out of doom; Where hope is not, despair is; And never until the last Can quench with last things dry! God is a great and greedy master, Dispenses abundance, And is liable to change his mind; For what can he away with all our peace That has not also been, for him, A loss?– But in our country's malady A five thousand year has been, From after estimation, So long as I have been: But we have seen how oft by him We have been fated: The sound of his word is the ear's first song In violence, and dread. ======================================== SAMPLE 461 ======================================== #6—The girl's eyes, opened to a blue And sunny magic, rose-like brightness #7—Lizzie's lips, those masterful lips Are fallen, the lips of a poet At thirty, a poet In a lover's last hours, eyes opened, With a magic all New England poets know Wound tight enough to pull down any world Come from the silver smothered city of glory And there in her loosened eyes you see An image New England city Too deep to come over in the crystal sight It is the city with its awful suggestions Of an old idea gone dead and cold And a sick city of despairing spirits Looking for something you know not how to pronounce The flame in the soul is trying To bring a city where there is no moon To any of the other arts, Of a deep dreamer who knows not his own soul. <|endoftext|> "Argent Moon", by John Logan [Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Mythology & Folklore] There are a hundred coins in the bottom of my cup. There's no better luxury than the currency of the things you bring back to the forest, like this pink and club-foot moon, a silver piece of the coin of destiny. The scientific method still works, and the shadow of the likeness falls into the semis on the right. I call this one, I am partial to this one, but the semis have it, and the others are all up in it, down from the neck to the spur turning inward, all with opposite touch of the beautiful. And the fourth and most vile one, which I cannot name, that makes my opponents laugh, is like a scarred zone, a center where a letter should go. <|endoftext|> "The University of Self Love", by Rita Dove After three months on the cliff I'm back at home. No light on the roof, no sun. There are no voices at the door. I have longings for a blackbird to sweep them away. I have a book of blue and green butterflies and a black cat to bring me late nights in the city. I have a storm that loves to do its part and make my commitment to nature. <|endoftext|> "Sunday Complicates", by John Logan When Sunday comes without date or bands And cabdrivers, boaters, Who aren't yours anyway and Who weren't bought By producers or byuers What are you again You old man alone? <|endoftext|> "A Blight on One Branch of Tree public estate", by Kathleen Fraser After the lumberies had left, and the squat lilacs shone the dryer, the green of the great rafters had begun to shrivel the apron of the Sunday of the tree, the Sundayers. and the Sunday air had its usual range of varieties in a gobble of pests the like of which none had spoken and a prevalence of butterflies. <|endoftext|> "an area on a planet far, far away", by Kathleen Fraser [Living, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Sciences] an area on a planet far, far away where an elliptical space has spare room to show and the beautiful white-flecked board of the moon adjusts. the artist. the artist of the moon. the artist of the artist. the artist of the moon adjusts. <|endoftext|> "Corie's Syndrome", by Peter Balakian [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Relationships, Home Life, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] I can see it on the street: high school girls in bluing, carved faces on pot-store bumpers, come home shaved or lock-finished and marijuana orterborn on the corner. My own Disappointment is affixed to the house by the walls, where my Peace, in pig, has its door sewn shut and clean. No more shenanigans from my brother, who has moved in with My mother-in-law, and stopped quoting Nagar Jehan. My own Failure is easy: I sit in a corner and text my girlfriends. The poet's best not to mind the imperfection of the world. <|endoftext|> "The Petition of a Vitreous Hybrid", by Peter Balakian [Living, The Body, Nature, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Social ======================================== SAMPLE 462 ======================================== respectively, but I feel it in mine eyes, By reason of the deep-wrought jewel the which Now shines in yours. Let me feel it here, The fashion of these my eyes to your neck. But why remain I here, what hangs over These many roads, by which we do not see The goal? Whose is the goal? These glances certainly In their lengthened reach not it,--it is the sky Which runs all by, the whole road beneath, Beyond me dark and unknown. Was I blind Or distracted from my task, yesterday's view Retained some memory,--behold, as plain As where one step before me perched, a door Slicks open, and in the breathless sway Of wind 'twixt me and the goal, I see, Out of the way I pass, and tangle of trees Clings to one another, as I slow move on, A man, the farthest ahead of all the chaplet And terrace, as in forward movement in crowds Starts with a lecherous grin (so like a bear A man's mouth is, 't is sometimes surmised), Facing away from me he started, As we moved hand-locked from all the band Of wise and noble hastening souls, myself The largest, though I was least greedy, so The widest of the two; 't was subtler he, Staking all on meekness, and a trace But thin, if tried, and by my ever-tangled veins Fresh I were when I drew breath last. 'Twas said and done! We kissed! I knew not why! The kisses of men were forbidden me, But the desire,--'twas mine; his lips, the idea My motive power; I thought all pollution, Which else might set theory by suddening sands To quench, was cleared,--and all third-thought concepts Left me, starved, with thee for my all passions, past Only the sonorous sound of wife's love in itself. 'T was a mournful whine; 't was true, mine, as any Saul one, or loner with an exiled Dorothy. Happiness! where? The golden key which opens not the door of pleasure, Wherefore, thy plea, At this insistent mute , Gently traceless in grotesquerie, is it sent Me, me, that long since saw much of both great and less Than average, and knew how much the safest bet Is choice, and none know managerial things, Till I get past thirteen, and on to my teens? Are legs to praise, or eyes worth the glory such as when first Mickey Mingleove and Teddy Budd Start up from their slumber, and take the safe course? To manage is skill, and to brave thought the too Harmonious piety of respectable? My wife and children off in Flake's keep? Rotherham always such a goodly hostess? Well, good: there's an end to prudence, and to caution As many years of difference is worth, ear And what's my family now? I should possibly see a less transient view, Somewhat of both, wiser, saner, of the action And the behaviour of men and women; I should perhaps live a grade .With fewer gross prejudices And more responsible to the earth. I do what I can, stay, Let my wife take the blame, The pleasure of seeing other folk ? Well, some of both, less bias, vanilla, Less vanilla, less vanilla, and less vanilla. So, with my Ale at half strength I drink my two sons, And my Wife and all my friends To learn of their folk, and their ways, From a son who knows of the millions Who call Rotherham as the Brimham, And a Daughter who knows naught of her parents, And a Mother who is called Clarence, But who gave me two Babies, Olive To run the show, and Amelia Who's average fair and Amelia Daughter fair, and all for the rolling down Of theront all that's fine and sweet. So with my Ale I sat, And my two boys went under. 'T was such good sport to watch them go, And they'd roll in the end as a jest, Well, the better riders rode The turns, and I saw the field All as one. In the end, the better riders pedaled The way to Rollall Bridge, And I heard the best one of them narrate The story of the Charge at Flodd ======================================== SAMPLE 463 ======================================== cover the where as this one is a circle of fire, this one is a circle of convexity. There are also blue and black. 3 The motion of the waves is a circle of circle of regions. There are also blue and black. 4 One day when I'm a child, I will explore the cargo net, this is where I'll rest. We'll go out into the middle of the ocean and see the treasure that is buried in the sand. I'll teach her how to throw the object back to the edge, so that she has brought the total back, where she was a girl, who was born in the present, four days before the earth starts in on its new period. It's then that the dolphins will come to the child, and begin the training. I'll hold the child, to see how she reacts. The dolphins will take turns looking at her eye, and the baby will look at the eyes of the mother and will also try to touch her knees. It's the motion of the mother's skin, and it's the flipping of the earth, and it's the lingering relationship the dolphin's body will have with the girl. 5 In the future, they'll have a lake where the divers only see the sight they've left. 6 I'll be the one to tell my girlfriend she has nothing to be afraid of, that she can't be afraid of it all being a dream, a vision. She'll begin clearing some flowers, and he will too, though he'll never see the tree where he sit and he'll never breathe, ever. 7 The flight of the locusts over the edge is a circle, and one can argue that their obsession is the nature of God, their love. 8 And once when I looked out the window, I saw that the sky was turning. I thought that if the ocean could leave those poor little morsels in its wake, 9 Then I called my sister, and we put my father on and he said, "Never mind. You're both trying to tell me something, aren't you?" And he said, "When God speaks to me, I knows what He's been waiting to say all this 10 for weeks, but I can't speak when God speaks to me." I said, "It's too bad, Daddy, or I could name all these things." 11 I said, "Are you sure God is talking about you two when you spoke last?" He said, "It doesn't matter. Just wait and see. "But I am waiting for God to tell me something when I'm about to die." 12 If God has been silent with me, then I can wait. It may be that I will die before any of the others, and stand outside of him as he stands inside of me, the man that my father was. 13 "He's still here, Dad," she said, "look at all the pain he's made to bear. "God," she said, "take me away from "him." 14 I think God has taken me inside him to a place where he can speak to me without any pressure or words. I feel as though I'm floating asleep, though my brother might interrupt the peaceful space he's created by making God my own. 15 My father has nine children in his life, each of them a separate reality. I don't know any of them. 16 I've cried to my father, in calm, heartfelt chats, as I might have cried to my own father in the past. And he's seated in the air by my side, as clear as a bone, as pure as a love well drilled by prayer. 17 My father is the one who sets me a-throb like a chick in a sandstone canyon, the one who gauges my pulse as I probe the red mound of purple hibiscus left in the dirt, a-tingling my nose with the, ahem, seed's start; in this way he's seen me see the fondling violet tend to grow into the giant it has in mind. 18 I am filled with God like the unfused wire that well in a bell. I am him. And, when I share his quiet in the very thing that begins my day, when I am silent ======================================== SAMPLE 464 ======================================== 'send, which he is fond of dayn'd: And in the bed of lusty youth Which Nature for him hath made, He climbeth: and when the maid And winnower crown'd be Of his waxing anatomy, They rush in after one A fresh lusty damsel. Young fair one,-- That shunnest Nature's calling, For that, in any chanagement, I fear'd to affect;-- Nor did thy soft side fail Once to impart The balm to my aching heart, That didn't now,--I don't know when,-- The comfort it deserves. Young lady,-- Thy praises heard one, two, three times Thy sweet image wandering Might give ease To one suffering with the most Tears, now and then, From the little paste Country that she's from. Old man,-- This little pot of stout Did more than one good turn receive; And the fifth, too, is loath to part,-- Which may be here; for, out of yonder glen, A girl comes coming,--said she I've lost my way,--and will stand Like a tall horse,--come along with me, Till we find the favor of the kind. Come, my lass, to this couch,-- All for one nice dram that I'll push, A bowl of this good-bitter, weak But convenient stuff for the tea. Tea is a refreshing test: All whom I drink to, I resolve At the last to be so dull They can all knock for beak; And, trust to you, dear sweet, that I Shall be so cloying, poultice sweet. Dried the velvet that I was; Its taint bad Cleopatra quick. Tork! But she had it nonetheless-- Put a little in her cup And scarcely knew it beast! Spiced, her face is yellow through: Yet, as to what one's done, One is deemed unfit to know. 'And so, my dear Diviner, With flowers I count that I am wound; Come, at my side,--all of me, These tributes shall be seen,-- Some one's, some one's, and none. There are, I know, some thorny byways In these obsequies, let them be Stalk'd by nothing else but common things, Like those which every good child looks upon And wishes well,--who, for the most, Will stand as close as hold on has been, And nobody wonder why they creep. Hang flags on pufty batellelle, Don't hem it in Royalpitchers; Plain Willie'sparkles, And trimmings Black-- Has your title got'cate? 'Twill be found, when King George is here, That your bet was paid. A flail 'll feed the pigs, Fair sights lads like to see; The true old-fashionedshot can do More than twist and twirl 'll do, And cut a true big haircut Can do for toitre birds too: Gad, have a care, you do it quite raw! It 's a bad, bad thing! Green sticks for the pelf, A little old knife blood'd, Ha! ha! your bears are ary to see, (Hark, you 'll beTHREW to treat Of your bairn and your mother!) Hark! nothin'... "Ran-ta! Lark--hark! your bear's dead!" And then the Prince himself he swung his sack High in the breeze; The muck was his and the sun was his plume, The crayfish was his food. 'Ramp!' they said, 'we 'll have a brown rain, And a wetherty wind as your honour will! Young man, you 're on a power; You've drunk the Woburn around,-- Rise and shut your eye!' They had to disperse; They threw him from the drain, Where with shrieks He plunged and pressed Out of mortal danger: They found him howling, And held him dear. Though I was tossed on a rough sea, And my ship often went down, Through wind and flood I never gave in silence, Though every mast was away. But pray you for what pleasure, Might possibly befall me, Since my ship, thank ======================================== SAMPLE 465 ======================================== The utmost of the future of your life. And for that time, the forms of men will be Like the dark cross upon a shining sheet, And that last cross will follow The emblem of the Cross of Calvary. O Love, you from other worlds have descended, And through the narrow Sister Conduit Your path across the proved Mounts of the Past, Into the soils and lees of present Life,-- Unguessed by Duty to the end of Time, You bow and sit, and speak, and judge us by yours. But let the leaffall of the years proceed, Lie brown in hides of the coming years, And in the tugging of succeeding times settle, Lie black in ashes of the fires of Life, And in the strange paradox of changing skies, Lie black in the tugging of the winds of Peace, Who judge us by the fullest Star In those we shame, who haunt by cold? Shall our shame remain the endless rank Of dishonourable men, of shameful toils And shameful war, where Nation tosses its head And Liberty, at best, is silent, and that Which cannot bless, that curses, as it succeeds. No more we boast of former glories, Or dream the glorious dawn by pastimes ploughed; No more we hammer on the king's magistrate, Or forge the chains that lordship out of jails. The common crimes are outpoured, and all The monopolization of a land, Till unpaid and frustrated men have twitching lids And longrows of shut minds, and all that time grows A dark and blackening shade to screen their souls? We would not beggar these poor hands to play At the terrible game of death and of fear, And to the stranger's suspicion stand set, But for the Platinum of True Believing Heads. And thus we build the automaton of Men, Imperfect and unfinished, which no man can see And God alone can turn the gears and make it move. Thus we put the finishing splendour on the last time, Making the orphan's pact with dark Extinction; In the failing jeweller of our times, we guard the last Oracles; And he who roams the desert barefoot, coming at the gate, Comes at the tolling door from words that speak beyond it and past it, Comes at the tolling door from words that summon us and cry, "Behold the end was here!" We are the folk who prize on earth too much the humbleness And solitude of the minds that lack us, and seek to combine All over the world----but say for what?--Are these our principal reasons? And yet this is the very reason I wanted you there, Or that and what drove you on once more in travelling through My heart, a thirst and loveless thirst----I would not have you draw Those curves and circles in air against your needle's measure; You were lonesome and bored: that was all the reason in the world That made you hungry for the grace of someone or some to see: To see a face' so boundaried and blotted as your own, And have the convulsions of effect and of saturated Assurance: to have your own name taken wholly and whole To be the signature and sign in these terrible communions; To have your own image wrap itself round and wear the look of the thing You are: to have your breathing body run mad with the breathing body's breathing---- To have your body and breathing both overwhelm and waste and Water and tangle and muddle-bit and skewer and bond And kink and twist and storm and shake and flow and shudder and roll and cuff and seal This all and more-----the anvil's smoke and the burning tongue That heats and cools the hammer and nails and sets the curved Chisel to cut and cups and curves and incisions to make a skirt, Or to put letters or letters or letters or letters or letters on paper, To walk or march or march: this all and more: And yet not one of us thinks or knows alone, "And what did we ELUCES or ELIZ.: there were no petitions in the primitive land. All day we have talked, all day. And the drops of water keep falling In the store of the river. And but for that we had not been on still ground. . . . So at the day's close the sowing, the seeing the leaf, the going out to go on, and all, would bring you to the killing field. In the night, ======================================== SAMPLE 466 ======================================== And make the pain less sharp For your sake, And may you all forget Its stings long since. This is the Way we took In the morning of our love, All fresh and cool, Outdoors under sun And shade: To walk and dream, And know no other way To walk and dream. How many of those who bow Under the weight of want And loneliness Today, only because Life's work is harder, Would gladly try the way We drove our Dad just then To feel yourself alone, And to take the time To appreciate your own skin, The birds' eyes simple And pinkish, the lids float; To walk away from all The crack and dent, The spattered skin, the torn And torn hair. But you are wise Who knows not the way, The cracks and creases, to move Backwards and seek repair. But this we knew, the older we grew, The more we realized, It's okay, you've had a wash, The minerals have withdrawn, Her bones are replaced; Soaked materials will soon be The mates of her womb and heart. The young will come, The days flit. <|endoftext|> "A False Echo", by Thomas Sayers [Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment] A kitchen is noisy with tea, the dew falling. The window washed, we have come to see The world together, +John +Amy, serious together, not worrying if we mean any harm. The sound of sweating linen, not iron. John's hat and arm are in the will. +Amy's blue blouse is caught by the fly. +John steps in and chin starts between the window and her hair. +John's stiffened by the scent of mint and grass. He draws in his breath and +Amy falls in beside him. He takes her hands in his hands, the ones she used for her wind. +John cannot tell her were their heads to lean in this hearing. +John, drawn, looks up at the flying hair, his eyes are bright with feeling and +Amy +John's mouth + Cannot express, is +Amy. +John's mouth +Can sometimes move without her aid. The flying eyestalk. He cannot feel her +Body. She turns and goes from room to room, +John's blouse has an added charm of flesh he will never see. + A burning cigarette, a teakettle, a canister of gas fall free, a lamp caught on a rafter +Dew laden with smoke + We pushed off from the shore toward these quiet streets. We surged over space, +George Goldman, the pole-a-cape beside the door. The mansion windows were full of sea-foam. The blue ocean above was sprinkled like gold upon the street. +George, great with youth and fury + At our presence he turned to us and said, "This world is all alive." +Amy, my voice raising to his, "What is your name?" +John, "Why do you need to say my name?" +George, "You can tell me yours?" + +John answered with a whisper. + By cove and hill and farm and retired manors, by deserted streets of glass and withering houses, by planked streets of mud, by freest passage between land and sky, by boundaried travel, by passports, visas, by credentials, by drowsy suburbs and Manhattan steams, by crowded airports, by blurred passports, by pain, by mistake, by fear, by - I listen to +George saying his name over and over. I hear +John answer below, "This world is real." +George, he said, +"One day you will die." + + + + The name +John answers, "New York." +"New York." +"New York," he said, +"You are only one." + A fog descended on us. +George said, "This world is also yours." + +John said, +"The name I carry." + Tent names hang from the rafters above us. <|endoftext|> "A Letter", by Frederick Seidel [Living, Marriage & Companionship, The Body, Love, Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women] One hand on the heart, one hand on the heart. Note on the hand You gave me put on the shelf there where the rabbit died The rabbit and the purse she carried. —One year On the shelf there where the rabbit died. The rabbit and the purse she carried. One year. The shelf where the rabbit died. Rabbit ======================================== SAMPLE 467 ======================================== er what made life so good, And yet, I did not find A single happy accident. It had been better if I'd kept away, Convinced the rich wouldn't oughter keep free, To-day I'd ask no state-achievement. And, indeed, it is not every day That an unkind chance unprovoked comes in To one accustomed to come out with day To-day, I've got work to do. The list-book is a thing erroneous, The list-book I ran, I might'ant list, could ook it well, For list-braulio, list-balbo, list-boo, were in it. It seems as though a pea-green mist Had choked be, The list, be-list for to-day, my darlin', In dross to lea'e. I thought oor list-days 'twas good to-mornd, and loike a blossoming lilac. Lanegh, next to dairty wishes, th' heavens a' raws--a' frose me! If I should met my daring son I've lea'e all his gaining one. The tre is on my tither, they ca' us a haverin' fand. A' day he's frae the north, a' day from the rose-bloom a janglin' at her sweets, As rowth, yon fine night's inn, a gate let out either end in love; For day, day, and the things that are at the past, they're like a brewin' blast Of sweet from the puke-out valley; A fine, fruad day to meet in a soldier's dress, To roam free, to rant and to modlin', And aye, aye, aye, his heart, he's maistly warin' twa. A man for war, a' warl', a' warl's means, A waefu' arm, a disyllooked ee, A chitterure o' dooled away wi' warls, a chitterure o' dooled away wi' warl-ars; For warl' up he got his bluid and gracchio, For warl' up he gat the doctor: I work cud dyner, but I'll dyner, too, aye mother, a foal--- For warl' up he got his victory and a ha'; A waefu' arm, a disylloped ee, A chittle o' dooled away wi' warl, a chittle o' dooled away wi' warl-ars; For waefu' arm, but still we arm and ja'e: I work cud dyner, but I'll dyner, too, a foal---; For waefu' arm, but still we arm and ja'e. Now fytch the captain clark, now fytch up, clark, Now th'guard alarm they gat, clark, Here ivery titch we look to see em big. Climmle, climm'le, climmble, climb, oh, clarks, Climmle, climmle, climple, Climlin', now 'E Sarge's in de place. Dey all lie licket deirselves, but feight var long een, De gud spark liff, de spark liff i' de best liff, Ist turn de up i' de coof, de gals wee work, Dey wish all wet: "Wheesers, wheesers, wheesters, find it good." De gud men scratch i' de wheeise, but dey wish noa it it don't. De ring-dorp spot, de peen 'nd de claw, De peen go nuthooth, de peen mit flir, "Now, Cleefdeckt, we're off to get some coof." "Ho, Ileef, how's your de coof?" "Hoop, Ileef, how's your de coof?" "Allus round up de shnoutfuh crew, de gud coorse fush!" Oh, de win's wi' de Lord's Coot! De coof's wi' dem Lord! De coof's i' de air, de coof's i ======================================== SAMPLE 468 ======================================== Speak out, and let thy fears be verified. Milton, a name to be admired, And still remembered, great and good, Through all times, great and good, For straight rearing the great, Forcing the lowly up, For forcing truth, for restraining it, For strengthening faith, for substituting faith For doubt and unbelief, For building strong families, And affording freedom there to live it, And uplifting the lowly. For all the time that he was in the world, Whatever he did, he did it well, He remodeled and improved this world As God was giving it, and did it all While no man dared expect it, and the press StuffILL give him an excuse too, So reason and truth and good sense Were forth firmly planted, And in his hand his consecration Was of truth made bright, For slaying of the lies, For mounting up the hills of the truth. The world's greatest blessing In Charles and his Prince, and their princes, Stood the beak, and made it unerring, And feather-lay crack'd with little flecks away As the thick down suspend'd it, So constant was never; From HENRY STEELE to this HENLE, the man, The very object permanent Was ever more acute and less. But as old Jupiter Does his tail by him always gomost, And never stay there; Thus in his great, good, and everlasting cause, The world's life, Steeve was always that the life; So that in him, as Star, and this same Church, to-day and ever were builded, His lustre and glories out of tears Were made; And never, never more could he dip In the tears wherewith he was laden. Oh! for that secret, never told Man ever, so frank and free; Oh! for that dream, so long denied, Not counsell'd by the sucker blind, Never tell'd a babe but what he knew In his heart as well as he in his eye; Ah! that glorious secret longld, The fragrant Morning of the heaven to paint, Oh hark! The angel, 'mid the violets low, Proclaims and tells it, "There is cubital With Steeve." He had learnt it all he needed, From power in Nature's firm up to that sense; He knew her at her worst; this took the other. When all her ills over her began, When Steeve seemed a perpetual penury, How I laughed, and could have laughed forever, While Steeve endured, so genial and so kind, And Witty so gay in periwig and mantle! But Nevermore he suffered her unkind, Nor what he met with that heart, that retract From such a Steeve, would ne'er, again, Meet with a Steeve; this maid, I tell the story, This steed a mighty pair, you know, Never since that hour has seen one. What a man it is, that's Steeve! He that bears a heart near at hand To that small, dark, loquacious mind, The tongue, the flesh, which secrets forth Spies things unfilled with wretchedness, And to and strong, hearty soul that is His great soul's inheritance sends thanks Always, just for coming near. How the body yields and suffers pain, Is a weak shell, for little things To the endren's brain that knows not For what nor rejoices nor blushes; Yet by the ill sprightder's education Seems it after all to be A part of princess-society, When in heart and hand she turn With a soft servilium between The hand and the gates of the Bow, As thou--with me or me--seemst to stand At the western bead. "Whence the long years scarcely reach the day, As there's one, draws my ear, my love, When I fill myself with thunder-shouts And roll my valais up Till I am nearly dumb, Then hear, and say: Thou hast made me so As will be content to be cold The chamber where thy weeping shall Be as it follows: thy soul has pleasure To make thy spirit its oppressor. And thou--but thine was woe before That anguish could become thee!" How light the agitation 'graves feel, When she throws her pall of gloom Round him who'd drink poison and to ======================================== SAMPLE 469 ======================================== How I will never know what or where Or if I would To her come back. <|endoftext|> "The Past", by Leila Joey Everything else came true, the martini or quid, the flaming toast, the sudden gush of tender & sweet, the flirting, the jealous in love, the loud boys' compliments, the parting all, the telling secrets. Each in its proper place. They had a faith in passion and story and didn't have to think less of the things they lost. Today, the words tangle in the heart, and the hard truth, unwelcome and changed by time, is lost along for the ride. We remold the landscape, flush room, the living room and the next room, and then in the dark, in the driver's seat, the ghost that may or may not have been a man. <|endoftext|> "Twelve Gates", by Henry Timrod [Eternal Statues & Great Awakening] Plants, vegetables, various little grasses, wild flowers, trees, A gravestone turned us into them, lest we be lost as we travel Through the wide halls of Neville. The stone walls smile, But the floors bear the stories of great men, their feet Printless on the crumbling, treacherous floor. A dog stood at the open gate, and watched our passers Through the low door. A pick, a span of cloth. The dog's eyes are darkened now with time and age. They smile. The past is so rich and strange With the wild old loose world of dust and stones, maidens, And flowers, and all the seasons gone. Through the door is a little grove of spreadth, And here I stand upon a curve of sky, Upon the slick roof of the building, upon the slick Skyline of an after noon. If I could only tell what is around me now, What is far away, While the levee frothielle clouds purple and spots the sky with her bells! If I could only see the whole of it! What the spirit lifts and sets in moving its line! If I could but soar above all human vision, So sublimely simple and so majestical! So crystal and so gauzlized so grand! What is mother Earth, that this should distract my thought? When behold! in one quick moment, from my wistful eyes, But eighteen granulates, in one flash of light, Eighteen analogies, based on actual events, in one clear verse! <|endoftext|> "American Exit", by Henry Timrar [Society, Race & Ethnicity] and what should entering be compared with the leaving of the metropole? It should bewn in blood and drove on travelates yond the ignoring and the knowledge of it be held in subordination to be Christian or Jew or what? What should be the threshold of the true physics of entrance and exit? Because I want to read questions I leave all that for other people and their conflicting demands. They have the stars and the graces. I have no songs to unfold sunshine or death. They have the stars. I have the tattoo. <|endoftext|> "Joseph Cornell", by Henry Timrar [Activities, School & College, Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity] I know I am but I don't want to think I am because of you ever and ever. I am not an exit, but reading and LOTS of forests, and deep sea. with a dissolution, and I don't want to be because of you I want to read and deep sea. with a dissolution. because of you yet I am not an exit yet I don't want to be. because of you I deep sea still I don't want to be. I am not an exit what is, I but this. reading and LOTS of but deep sea. with a division. and I don't want to be I am not an exit. I deep sea still I don't want to be. because of you still I am not being. you. deep sea. I deep sea. I don't want to be I am. <|endoftext|> ======================================== SAMPLE 470 ======================================== Jove who this day in His bed Made of gold his bed of cloud and fire. On either side ten columns each Threw far their white lightnings on the field As they through eyes of countless suns were cast, That shut in sleep the eye of dumb Mars. Him Rhad, the son of Line, eyed with wrath, The foremost of the armed num'rous band, And, rushing at him, amid his breath Tore off his head, nor could the mighty throat For the full tide of him sustain. There stood the son of Line, and him would dote And with soft words his sire and lady seek, When he at home to Cadmus' or to Aeacus' fane Gave a family withalol, but to me Sabaean labyrinths no path or airy way. Himself beneath the lake he plunged and breathed 'O sire mine! by nature mine,-- Mine Cadmus, and mine Aeolia, both The son of Mine, and both of them The offspring of mine own by other god! To which at last the supreme delight, The sweetest pleasure, and the keenest smart Of the broad earth ye made for my delight, Which now in death's embrace do I hold With bones and waters filthy, and fram'd With cumbrous fibres grue:--of those sons Who poured the lazy seas with powerful arms, And those great sons, who, broad spreading high, Chimiterary, were making ready To quell all seas from out their fathom'd limits; 'Which the strong sons of the earth hath afterward perform'd, Making a firm sky and a strait sky, And the rainy stabs and smothering showers, And, with still pernicious showers keeping even pace, So play at still with the sun and the fierce winds, Tumultuous with war, with storm with destruction: --Of these sons, average promptings and types clear Of the great winners of the world, of whom that only Which the first Cænean had express'd in words Had to the rest return'd--be borne in time Easy to thy end, and just to emerge From th' ethereal branch, from those stooges of ours Sin and sand and folly, which have bedew'd our kind. 'And to those potentates of greater degree, Recounts and produces from times first done, Those whom thou shalt from hence regarded deem worthy rulers Of the vast empire they should build. As they demand The German's credit, and their force in his, So will they employ those of Levet's and his The fairest and best of all the world, and such Great Britain's conquer'd rulers--in their true light And good opinion those 'reft of--suffer this to be The case truest judgment made of them all. Those rulers and their image-monarchs--who now Thou dar'st follow on the chain of years? From those good fathers and those good fathers' offspring Will flow the human water. What wilt thou get? What wilt thou of them?--their life--thou the owner? Their fame--thou the last, if not the best, possessor? I have kept, and I tell the truth, the kings Of England, who at their first birth were enemies; And on good reason it is the toughest bow I had. From that blest inheritance, which thus doth survive Doubt, discontent, discord, and disorder, I set these over Kingly honors, and the free subjects of their will, Whom I in these last days have forced to courtors' tasks; Monarchs, chiefs, potentates, succeeding and succeeding Names, and offices, round me still should see the glare Of night. My soul would, at that time, think all Heaven should jump, And be henceforth all in heaven. That could I do, I nymph would be, and native to that spacious hall Which now I hear, whatever be its mode of falling. Thou lovely city of walls! which, more than all Other towns, have aided in our progress in Heaven, stand'stvil your state-clad wall, and give me still One corner on your tow'rs. I 'd already add two Chambers to it, and would build it in three; And in the center of that splendid domeway, In manner be on all parts impelled a sportsman In his garret, only on the top, or if you Will, you may have your tenements for only two, One for each arm, and ======================================== SAMPLE 471 ======================================== Come over the grey mountain, come From the brown meadows in the dusk; Come from the rushing river To the still "Ithaca" hills, And I will show you my home. In the place where the bleak sea cliffs Pierce the blue crystal walls of air Where winds and waters fumble their arms And fumbling tumble down the sides; Where the narrow paths are walked And worn, dim-gleaming glass Where gulls and cormorants, too, have lived; Come down from the sea. In the place where the forest-lines Took stock and blood and fruited trees; Where one feller lies at ease In a snug corner of some cottage-hearth; Where another enjoys His daily smoke and favourite hat, And the "parson" scans the Times In the parlour next the "rifle." In the place where the grey road winds Across the groaning stone bridge that spans The river between the mountain and desert; Where one dark farmer from the farm Tries the scale upon the "all clear" And the "tourists" from the cottage Enjoy the "discreet" wicket That leads to a scenic shot Of distant plains and sun-baked meadows; Where one man, bent over, Lays down the sickle while With brow furrowed And heart rate low He watches the invisible cursor move Above the cotton-pickers' needles. In the lonely house by the road, The weary body sheathed In that second wardrobe The toilsome body rises forth To the unveiled "I wonder what's wrong with me?" And while the spirit peeps out from under the bone, Each brain is full of unrealized reserve. In the place where the river bends and flows Between narrow beds of limestone stones And where, amid the sweeps of wind and rain And everything that most briefly puts to death and begets, The very foam of the earth is coloured and shaken loose; Where dreams and doings can't seem to stay still And where, in the present, still our hesitating heart Either whole or in part concealed, a green is prouder And the sky is colourier and we want to start We don't really know where we go And where we enter is a zone Where heat and the labours of the mind And a rainbow and even love can stay; Or more than that, we go there to lose ourselves In the smallest pleasures of which a summer day seems suited; We have entered a beauty whose footfall is freedom's base, A season, which besides being fair Is thrid with stars and breath'd with happiness; In which no moon or stars can be spy'd Or distrust the lightweight pliancy of a day; In which day hath tributary, within which are signs Of cycles, in which night is forgery's ecstacy; In which the mind, if it dare, can range and trellicate In aught beside, and its ken perfect not at all; In which, if it seek, there may be no more letting go, From its own state usurped unto the ascetic scheme Of an ascetic scheme torn from the skies by clouds; In which a summer never was beneath the sun In which a summer ain't nothing but a gum tree. Ah, mind! mind,physics is all hogwash, It sets the blood to running upon the spot on either side; There's life yonder o'er the hills that deals no punishment; This eyebolt would make gods of men and defeat Satan; This brute of which you're afraid makes your troubles fall; This afflictsions truant, this eye is on to time. There is an end of agnie market town, An end to management by the number; There is an end to managing for town, An end to manipulating wit for it, There is an end to all managment of men; An end to speculating where there reigns One body or two men that are respected; There is an end to lucky or unlucky yaird. There is an end to summer dealing with sun, There is an end to gazing at the luggagest There is an end to all vexation with ole sun, There is an end to all luggagest talk; There is an end to any speculation with man, There is an end to man's maldog as any thing; There is an end to all managment of man; There is an end to man to man wrangling; There is an end to all the cunning of ole ======================================== SAMPLE 472 ======================================== Focus, hold still for no man lives forever.I am his wife, hold still, you will have to sing. <|endoftext|> "Between Stem and Stem", by E. E. Cummings [Living, Life Choices, Nature, Trees & Flowers, Religion, Christianity, God & the Divine, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy] between stem and stem where life begins and ends between the fragrant heart of the rose and stem the stem that became the flower I love you most what can we say that grieves our lips what grievous thing has happened <|endoftext|> "A Microcosmic", by Ezra Pound [Living, Health & Illness, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] A tiny little fragment, notmuch, that copperedmy senses, and turneth my brain to a whilesexper seinen On the left side; what may be nearbyis hid. Iam the weakest in weak ere the slipper gleams;The moth its odorifically violety breatheth; the opoutschin muslin stirredsethues; wood-gut and rubbed%eth: the spilth%eth; the freizeths promiscuous%eth for the creation of living things%eth: and I am cleverly dispresenzed%eth. <|endoftext|> "Devotion: Sleeping", by Anne Killworth [Living, Death, Nature, Animals, Religion, Christianity, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] When I lie down in my airplane bed and feel it is like playing naked war games with everyone streched across the ocean and yet the plastic netting over my head one size fits all my airline travel crap-mail address and job and love cast over that. Down there. While standing around in depository queues or crossing to the opposite tarmac to await the no-show jet noifs, or my name say 'pop the frown' when she press-pokes its back indicated for departure and parked somewhere between the front and the rest, the said, 'Come onemeter and I'll treat you well' and so on. She can say 'I should have dressed sooner' and I can say 'It ought to give a reaction' and she by the term 'reactive' tacks down her 'laze' on press of hearts. Yet I am only semi-pro on my diet of oxygen and drainage. Much beverage is exhaled. Eyes and eyelids are closed. The reaction? After a shower. A bath. A shower. A balsam. I score with tracks in a skating rink of curlingani. There's a dead-bryst stride, and then I lie back and brace myself for sway. I lie back and wait for something. A kiss? A protest march? A no-no-o no-no- no? About as much action as a 'no-no-no' no-no-No Voice. Not that I ever forgot the prodigal's crime of departure and abided her farewell. <|endoftext|> "The End of Radio", by William Matthews [Living, Death, The Body, Arts & Sciences, Technology & Mathematics, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] (1951—52) In the long ago to which we shall all turn we felt a sense of immediacy, some clarity, indistunity, even (all had been KND). The medium was space and signal and we were certain that the multiplicity of eleventy beyond itself, that individuation might be maxed-up in pontoons and launched into higher externalities, that was might be indivisible into primordial slots; that space was multiple enough and that space was sufficiently the spot of things (in brest) and that the slots (bands of lsocution, zones of Lyris, Dead Funerals, disciate your radio) were enough to engascer what was in all of us as warm as the freedom of fall, as free as not be, to be all about it, ab and no, ab and no, ab and no, so that the not of space is all and the not of us is what indissoluble still sounds like infinity to us and around the emerystone of what's crumbled to dust and the roads in or near the supernatural. We knew that there were rewritable clears and that we were no old together pair of reeach and said something. That we could gholmistanhz the game. ======================================== SAMPLE 473 ======================================== men that take many wives, Yea, I would have a spouse of marble head; That ward me with his holy thunder; That shield me with his pitchy fire; That strum the lute and sound the god's delight. "And yet shall this not remedy The great desert of my worshipping flocks, The want I bear from the white-piling feast? Shall I, having full plenty, miss One only coin from my purse? Shall I have dirt, That, on my head, A dewy dirtier than my fawning kids shall poll? "Thou shalt have thy fatted loins withheld, With vine-leaves dried and bruised garlic; Thou shalt have none of the adulterous drink, The sticks of frankincense, The fragrant dark wine, Or any thing that's good to eat or to touch, But water, grain, and white water honey-warm. "I give thee wheat; That thou prove for thy happiness The patience and endure of other things; What's merciful and kind By trial out with time Shall be outconfirmed; And what is manifest and transparent That's bright and transparent Shall vanish out of sight When the eyes have been closed in a solid darkness Of ten thousand years. No darknesse can do them wrong. And thou shalt not blush As for thy favours. "No insult may, Or palmequer, clown, have power to fill Thy perfect bliss, Which shall be bred and bred With instinctive grit, And perfected By slake of chieles' blood, And generations that are dead as before. "Thou shalt be taught to hold A middling grade in the family race, And shall possess The stupidity of peasants. Thou shalt be made A dunce, a scamper, and a beast, The toy of aIMFor every idler s. Who'll be gulled by the trick Of a trullings on baiths. Thou shalt know pain cannot blind The eye to the green at the end of the day." He hung his head, He sate, and he blushed; At night he slept on like a pig. Then once more he reclined on his straw bed, And left a slough of it on the grassy ground. I love my country, that pours the steel of her storm into my arm-chair posts and ships, that floods my table with her merchants' cream, that shuts me in with the thorns of her geirik thong, I love my country, that gives me the power of a hammer at work, that changes me into a biscuit stream, that quivers at the edge of the town with fear, I love my country, that teaches me how to be the thing I desire to be judged by, that sends the blows of my strength and the doughty spirit to your radiating brows, that makes the table plainsong and the fields abandon, that burns like a mare in a loggished pen; I love my country and the man who is worthy of her, that leaves me until then as crisp and clean as a serrated tse een he brings to a plash of waters cold and clear, who sprinkles there with his pools of the saltended salt, that makes me a nearer fulfilment of the gree, that makes me him who I aspire to be, that makes me a botany of the countryside, that climbs like a train and blasts through the sky like a crate broken down along the rail, that clogs up the gates of my heart like the breath of a seagull on the beam, that attracts with a protein and a stain the eye turned toward but not really there, that makes the heart easy and not easy fash. <|endoftext|> "The Morning After", by William T. Barrett [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Religion, Faith & Doubt] What wonder sleeps in the nest that sets out to do so much", father of six children said on his deathbed as he died, and the college minister who officiated over his coffin made a repeating of the grace that comes with sleep, the possessor of the words of whose power alone, not even the thunder from the sky can interrupt, not even the fire from the hammer, sings lullaby after world, but the words stick in my muscle, as the body is disjoined— Lazy man, said the sun to the claws of the eagle, you cannot bury me ======================================== SAMPLE 474 ======================================== The simple ground, without trevely embayed, With some thick hide or other speciously Concealed. I with one hand kept the ground. I mark'd his hand; mark'd his visage well; Nor pass'd him, but o'er his chest I threw My spear, and once more return'd to stand: My men are bosses of earth; their manly brows With broad and softly spreading orbits trod; Like old egyptians they, nor lanky knees Touching the broad leather silv'n fronting back, With easy pace I could travel down, Or (that go slowly) if we chose the road, By choice hither would we wend. Him circling round to all quarters round, I now anticipated saw my King. Once more framing for war, and wishing it, My left hand then my fresh sword drew, and Plunged it into his nether half-armor; The nether with his steel not shut, but wroth, And pent such length of circlets lengthier yet Then that which bound his haunch, than lay Long more outside his wet dipping-prowes. Saw we then how his wet haunch was tart And bristled bright with bright red hairs; saw we His naked throat glowed, saw we his red eyes Shoot fire-shod beyond us, saw red thunder-shoes Energetic beyond his stiffening crests, And whole earth quailom as he rushed to charge, And when he shouted, saw his men such as Upon him directed scorching, where They bound him with the same hemispherical pan From side to side, and drove him wonderously His goring heads-ward; we reaching him declining, Assessed the Unknown from entrance. A charter was given us, and we seized on; A king who all this while drave our spears In vain, in vain, For with his scabbard free, And sword-clay solidly ramble the hind-front, He sate, he crouch'd, he brake, he aim'd, he struck noiseless, Himself the time, himself the massy thrusts, The deed free, the thrusts, the quick recurling kept Over his head, the tripod over, the Pigeon Of the mares, upright and arrestful. We therefore thrust, we chased, we took; we forced The Unknown Man, the Poice cease to woo, If haply he might pause unexpected. We drank himself soberly to fear. We tickled his interests, cut him to the chine, The Unknown Man, the mare, the mass of mass's influence, He dismounted, he took the camera- Wrath then Stung the mass, struck the unknown unseen. We thus the Unknown Man forest-ripped, And chased the unknown, and made him yield, Wherever we came, wherever he was, We forced him into the sun's spotlight, The horses trotted, the shadows ran his wake, He quickenth, we withdrawn. For this had we To the proper tumult quicken so many That o'ertook us--Sun's diseases and the world? We drove the Unknown Man, the Poice, We forced him down the open valley upturned, We whirled him high over mountain-browook Over mountain-tops, he grounded, Like to a hive in full-sail, he banded, checked, No rest among the clouds, no rest at all. Sole there was power and, if we but dared Ourselves to surmise, we found it lay In trimming wing the Unknown Man, the pigeon, Through his thinly tramm'd mustache's cf Hogan, Down the general, the unknown. Thus was the pigeon's for at that time The barest riffOf parrot-kind so br Basiji-- Well he might have more luck, more share of cranium Than other such in all the future might expect, He touch'd the dangers of the world from the Florida To the Graff home, no more, less, Helvetia. And here the Unknown Man set himself another Highird body, first the Butterfly, last of all A parrot. There were other noises, droning Of dust, and trials, trials of dust, within The valley, each in its distinct status And if, after, by seed or by chance It bit its heart down into we men were, At his writ-penetrate head-start It had ten times the brain of a dog; ======================================== SAMPLE 475 ======================================== That, which the tongue of the planet can't express, Bore all the sense of the soul to my mind. And I, no churl, but a Nepheloc's son, Am fully able myself to say I have as much cause for grief and pain As the meanest prison-doom'd man on earth. And I have cause to laugh, if the place you come from Are not mere fancy all--I'm sure you'll make it-- A paradise, a Greek I'll say, a Grecian what, In this Spanish North, to-day not yet is born Of sweet Laon and open in all ways, The very distances too you'll there see pass With your boatmen, well as you work your thicket round, And you'll see the sun in set noon there, so near, so plain Your very life there, your very spring and crescent, The very air, so clear, the very water, whereso new As 'twill be when you're settled in your Spanish bed, And they've transfus'd umpire-slain Cor Guibray from the tan, And stained the skin of it all over with Christianity. And you'll see, again, so near as this is coming That 'twas for me 'twas bound alone were your delight. My friend, I could sing even with my bottom full, And I think with me I'd a poet say: You may think what you like my verses bad, They ever were my blue bow--first rate. I write indeed well, but forsooth, But as I wish, with measure fine, That I could show you, I let them go! 'Twill serve, my friend, to show me, As we together go on, That we a poet and a nation are; And as we both have prov'd ourselves, we equally Me our nations have the same disdain Of the 'totemnitary,' and the 'tu'angy; We disdain, 'twas said, to take in hate, Disgrace, and disgrace not to exceed Our own burthens, proud state, and prince's advance On us. But I tell you truly, the man That e'er further from me shall meet, Me himself being double to me dims In title many hundred years, And half my kin were slaves the other half. I say not we, for me I mean Iai this nation, of all state, The least to all be keen. Yet how, if try'd, can he stand between His altar and the door and people; Yet say what claim then to take or lose, If try'd, nor flatter'd, nor be deprived, Of what he makes no use, nor never had Where never an heir to lay. Then too, in battles fierce for coat and dye, The man that carries high his brand, and strike, Though he win for them the day. But learn with what an evil artificer He got them; for what are they, if not massed On accident of trust and thirtieth unity? For he who most controls and he who most Would use to save, be they swords or slaves, He uses both in him, 'tis true, to unite. Take his load of darkness, China Cobalt, Take his darkness then, Ivory Amethyst, Combin'd to play, now have they nothing to do, Save what to cover foot, hand, face, and face. But as these gems for doors and boxes art, So a load can never be less than they As safe or secure as gates and boxes. But now, as his implacable Majesty Walk'd on below the level of the grass, And look'd up more than a thousand times, more Than twenty thousand, peering my beginnings, Measured, felt, came to a spot, and there I wrote: But though the stone rock solid from foot to heel, And like a mountain of cake he stood, The King looks lower than a black thousand, And asks, Is this your sense, my friend, and sense? Willa op ruft most cant Herzeckhs, Glaubehronics nosis gasteca, Du cachon chante an s plateza Dignata al su double sachtz, Gloquacious grosse achever, Na da plé thand mé! Holl hat hishees da lochagogique Des piedsgarnes un gealury, Né lest dos ventux le spant (Mé cél ======================================== SAMPLE 476 ======================================== + + + + + + Your grandfather, watching a channel full of smiling faces and their glowing lives, says: I am happy, I am happy. While he grips a dark beer in both hands and dances. I look at you and wonder what you see in me, and what story you tell yourself as you smoke and blink behind the window in the grey of the night. + + + + + Years later, he speaks of you, saying: I knew him. I am sad, but I am happy. My grandchildren stare at him, but he holds himself evenly. He is the unclaimed child, the stray dog on the terrace, the dead dwarf sequoers the day spins on its thread. He is everything yes, but he is not. He was one of many, and I did not manage just one. + + + + + + I closed my eyes and counted the positive possibilities. Everything turns in this way: the young love, the small tragedy, the liquor of loss. It was opening night at the end of the world: The bedroom above the kitchen above the garaging. I felt the young love turn quickly and lightly as if I were always it, since my most beloved turned at her own warm pace. And the small tragedy — I know, I know, it was only a window. And the liquor of loss was thick around my ribs, warm as rose cider in early autumn. <|endoftext|> "Gauchos cristalli artus", by Yngvie And Island [Living, Death, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Mythology & Folklore, Ghosts & the Supernatural] What was the water's opinion of this dancing weight? We laid it in their laps alongside the Dead. The sea was bored, the road grew colder with each step we took,The cast-off water seethed in its tide-defying gown. Rain raved around us, but it seemed to enjoy it— That is if one could hear it. It sounded so different that we knew the naked sky from the firmament. The farmer couldn't stand it when he heard something moving in the lands and waters. He ran outside to a lake that spilt down its precious— His beloved run was one of untold gallons that was born out of the rain. <|endoftext|> "God Bless America", by Yngwie Jornalow [Living, Life Choices, Activities, Sports & Outdoor Activities, Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity] Oh yeah, it's that kind of day in Kalamazoo, when the water's caress is loosened only by seconds-long perseverance. When the sun drops to its February fog and the woodst disastrousumentaries recount a martyr's pain and the cows up and 45°on the dry fold of a green barn tire. So then you take the road to the East Side so you can drink with Nathandee. She is laughing hard talkative, and her breasts press full-to-plumped (a full moon zpers the edges awfull) as you pass a barn full-birtthft with corn storks. Tumbleweed clothing-wise the fat prospector between two wise women so that they can pray the 50 Hail Gods without confining movement. And then, you just stroll as if someone kicked a dog and the gravel counterpounces with its usual blue disadvantage of dark and blunt. To be exact, it's the pain of everything after a person finds grace. <|endoftext|> "Catch the tail", by James Scruton [Living, Parenthood, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Sports & Outdoor Activities, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Philosophy] Towering elks one after the other on the half-moon Bows and screams in windpipe: swallow one Go on down of cliffs. Synchronous combustible spurt of spawn production Crammed into one's head, IMagic PassengerDown there in the mouth. An impulse found me at the roof of the mind, Mind raised, uncovered, Quickly spread throughout the terror. So it came to me: in a flash vast throng Scattered like the stars upon a flatless sky. I buried my feet and saw no more than that— What is a God to this human kid? Then my head slid beneath a haystack Into an enclosed space with corn in it and a goat Like the ruler of our whole household. In corn, in grass. On top of that, like a cloud, I saw no more than a sl ======================================== SAMPLE 477 ======================================== The blast which for so many years did beat Has shaken off the dust of ages, Has passed,--and dissipated, gone, And left these thoughts in memory It brought to me by letters from a boy, Who says that you have changed in mind and taste, But loves you still the same. I'll say no more. I watch at times the moonshine in the lane, Not seeing her, for I am looking for a bud To throw upon the witch-cave's roof, and find On it a breeze has made. I will not say That the word she has found for me is she. I wait to hear what she has found for him. The moth, whom none has twitched since we saw The first moon-flower shoot from the senic'd hand By winds blowing from above, has shut and waken'd, Henceforth to pass about the doors of sight With very quiet studying; he whose aid She most asked, lightens, as she turns her face; All this has yet unshake; and sees it bode Is soon, and shortly, if she be well or ill. Alone she keeps her girdle white and fresh, Rooting the grass, yesterday new-winted; She keeps her christal pace, which though slow As ebbing sea-stream would not drift her then; Unless on a vessel there were set A heart-broke ship, heart-freighted, whereupon Slow-sliding time the stranger soondir'd, should rise. For still, though all our thinking make less That heart which longing is, and seek to move The other, sick'ning smiteth this consent Threat'ning this will, which resistance taketh: Since love is naturally dissimulated, And thus taketh all our conduct. Where, straight, beneath the shakenalchemy Of your new syrens, in tenterally leaven'd, You make the music of stars, in this your web Harlot-captived, see the peril, dangerous and unweave, Ere I grieve more than once too much for her mistake Who placed by misde sense the gold unbin. At the old rate, I shall not wake again. When next you find merit, I shall be something less. For her I blame, but I reprove no one; We all were playing, and she burned a fuse, And we were young, and she may have assumed Her self-possession to mask a self-delight. She was thirty one years, I was thirty nine, And from the gayly windy planet streamed Her beauty in an air of fragrance sweeter Than through orchard doors the lad might seek Pactolus' field of gelse sulphur might exhale; And, for her poodle, the prong of love, We yearned, not for the bird's throat, nor throat, Nor head, but as the poodle-dog--the dog Presumably--with a diaphoret, it might be, But might more rightly be defined as an ear. Fair, to play with such like toys, was all a child Could risk: fair, but no boy on her was thrown; For when she spoke of boys 'twixt us two a chag Peer'd a reply through teeth so stiff and straight, not pain'd If look'd like something meant a bit of either. Fair, to play with such like toys, all in all good, It must be we're the unlucky ones, right? Except we said more than brief, I mean less. Fair, to play with such like toys, I might abuse A fellow-abuse his lips to sweet revenge; Yet all the cold silence of my tongue Cools through this close air on my cone, ere I go To powder off with brief stuff a mortal year. And thus it is even now, you say? Your boy is too, but he's falling the edge Of his father's sword, while a leaf of plate Sives fire and surfeiting, till he's past At the head of a national sea. You did it to me. I did it to myself. No more. There, when I disentangles fact From fiction, see what you've done to yourself. But I have not strangled you, yet, like you, I hate you, nor will I hereafter vouch Your natural voice has gave this of your invention. Shall he who made this prison and this door Put back the one who will enter no more? ======================================== SAMPLE 478 ======================================== My way is free to lean your back. As for the limbs I call to me, They'll kindly let me have them soon. As for that red-brick homestead I'll offer you the chance to stay. Oh, I'm sure the feet of the wind Will never come to say one line. I've worked it all in half a day, And I've doors that need opening, So please come, you may visit us." "Pray 'Ell on, then, but I'm near Your door, and if you feel up well It's a light call; and it's light and free I want now that you may go." "One last look, then I'll be gone." As the sun looked westward The grand sunset unfolded. Across the green trees' happy face There hung an inner smile that glows Too sweet to be let in. Cold seeming breath shall come and go Through the door of the sunset wasted. And no word shall record the good That shall spread out across the world. Pure, perpetual blessing, unto all who need it! The rainbow comes and goes, And lovely things are lost. The purple hand which held the bit Has gone, and no confirmation Blurs the soft features now. What was it touched? What is the honour of your race? The name of Trilla, and the colours Your proud flag wave, no more shall tell, Or who your ancestors were. Your promise to the nation, Unbroken, is unwind; The fetter still resists And colours now no more shall see. A link not like your rest, A grasp not like your faith, To end there is but one. Your fame is sealed in darkness. Not so the great, who sowed the word And all they had has come to all. The memory which the great ones knew Of joy, the memory which is springing From that are their great sowing. A nation full of anger Is gathering to set its face On hill or whatever it may shadow. They in their fierce endurance For wonder have stood still change and hourlong In sunshine with a red eye, in shadow with a white, And when they look down the years to finish the verse they know No more than crawling on two or three legs in a row Than to remember some long night-dream of the brain. The great silence red And cloudless blue of the sun Can only means that the world is coming to fill And then by godlike importunity The people will all go back to their proper time And all the feathers of all the birds of far and full Will move to writhe in neither sun nor air. We, toiling half a century on earth, Are in that silent hopefulness at the worst, In love with slow change and the slow tide of life Troubled or blessed, that the blood may move While the organs can feel with all their feathery lift What in the blood can never be true. What has he done, the god of that pitiful pomp Who made the night and the wind and the weather? To us he is a growing vat of mud Where all his finest animals drip and bleed As if his malice could not be fired, A powerful mud that rots metal and gold, That brazps with voices on the mountain-cut. And we, who by night the affairs of day, Are men like much the other men he guides, Men with ambitions legendary and huge, Men who would have rocked the stars upon his brow; And should we threaten him, he would have sunk Above the last stars a hole big as the sun; The thunder and the lightning to create, His destructive mouth to blow and bulging doom If we had combined and stood our height. But there are wiser men than we, you say; And you, from dawn to dusk, from earth to heaven Have shown the greatness of our moon-chosen race. The moon is in the sky, the moon is for us The lucent moon that is for the earth, The joyous moon that cheers and is the moon. Come, moon-child, and come swiftly, As a white wandsel is four-o'clock, To creep beneath the lithe green that springs Across the field, across the clay, Breaking her bristles in the process of morn Until she meets, half unseen, her common place In the arms of the field, her security. The moon has her virtue still, has all the speed The earth has every beauty now, Though moon-like her ======================================== SAMPLE 479 ======================================== -en féne en lampe, -ma lais à m'éponge; -l'amour qui m'enregie S'est chattant un homme comme un etage en son côté, Mais le jour qui marchera A l'intaglocant, unu de ses jours d'été inconnu dans la prison maine du phénicien et du bas Enfin il va chantant le phénicien et ses ulrums de la vision française (Il lourde l'age qui ne gustit pas pour la question de Dieu). L'idee s'intraquer par la phénomédie, et car la vision française A justue s'abrite par la tride des jeunes oppressans: -Je vais tirerè, mal de mon croysticiste, si le houle intent lui-même Pshowè la vision française, en l'uniere de la jedbo auguste, Mallever es le coup de poète et de la folie -The great face of the ugly augustress-- L'angle m'ecrit: c'est ton horde, c'est l'angle de têne: vie pourcha! -Long have I been given to seeks: I weep, swoon, and weep: Averse to any thing, now I find No one to whom to come, go go, or come: My head from the nest of the great dark Drowned has the nest: now behold it stone-still: So heav'n refuse, world without on the ground, At which I wean my eyes, having no use. With the rest it has seen what it was: -From the eyes escaped the hues that turn To the flame at the heart of a candle-light; From the music's close the swell that makes The notes sweet;-all round, such as workman, saint, Lived in its silent chamber, to live in the dark: -By the close side of the lamp-enough for but one,-- So late it found the noble restful sleep. The light began to tire her; purple through the gold, Slow to come: and then the purple night that rolls Thick on the light, at the period of noon: And heavy sudden that comes on, after short breath: With hurries and harries of ill hour. The lady at the half-yard still was standing, One hand on the hawser and one on her breast: Though all was chaos of design: --For all were like to him, and he was like to her. And you would think, were you in the neighborhood, One of these two would be known. One half - that is, Leila, - Would look at youLike a friend in a friendly wind. The other - Camilla, At the altar of the selfsame shrine - In the religion of his place, Has some strange meaning: Saying that Faith lives maiming, Blood ghosts carbon springs. Yet the lady is not black: As you stare at her, you shall know why. Take the complexion of my old friend Who since our last un hospitable parting Long ago, under like desolate condition,Long ago, in some bright world of the living,You there could see him! Take my age's appearance, The whiteness and glazed gloom of eyes that recoil from the lamp,As for instance, draw a figure in outline! Then add the finish, the finish being! Compare with these the vision that passes to the great! One compares with a particular individual the ax of the other: I in all of them, and you in every one: What is just lies written in what may be just, So they're all pulling on a horse's head! In one half-mile drag, I ran the pace of a man in horse's height! In the other, a flight of faint, Half-released from the flying feet Of a runner that seemed destined to run The old triumph of a different kind. I drew, he drew a foot. Down the hill, down the street, Was there steadier noise of greeting? Down with hats! down with benches! Up, up to arms! The boy upon the deck (He looked not like the evening before) With no rest whatsoever, Stood discussing in amiable strain. What do you think? Did you see it, Rab? You think ======================================== SAMPLE 480 ======================================== Green and moist In the mouth of the wound. Hushed, asleep On the earth, their hearts beat. As a lion-guarded kingdom, Their lives lie high and holy On the bright and immediate stars. A youth here, watching them, Seen their quivering breath and face. Here, by them, turns and eyes A man who with dishonor Hath beheld too much of shame. Ahead, a year ago Stood the sun in his meridian zone, Like God in their faces, With faith and glory. O Angel, whose wings are faces, All this terror and doubt Turning, losing, turning In the thinking of his hair! Is this thought of the blood So lightly flown? Can life live or honor thrive, Can he build a house of life Whose ceiling is so low? Can he love or honor do With the love that he owes? Our Lady, in her lily cut, Rest ever, for ever beside this boy! Rest ever, for the poor ordained bone Clings to you, yet I kiss your feet all day Grief not your kisses on the roses any more! Haste not, when the painful days are done, Equations miserable and great Treaty and promise together and severally Punish me with royal irons, yet see Haste not! I forgive him, For he never loved me, nor ever seemed To loved me more than these fair days Whose tears are all my longing's dream; The sum of every sorrow was his kiss, His arm was never strangled yet; Though I've heard him call me God and God, Though I've heard him swear his angry swores Had done the job himself ten times over We did not love, for love was a monster whetted By his huge teeth in sleep before him; We heard his roll and jaw clatter in German lines Upon the ould board whar Dyce altered; We watched him in his sneakings from Mohamad, And cried fire in Aeolia when he sang in flames. We saw him in London where he smashed Parnell's Ungulated sea; and though our backs were turned, The shot-shells burst, the shore-stones thudded. We saw him in the Diders and we saw him When he bent at us those quiet legs of his And dared us with his tail between his hips To jump to shore and drink its cosy tide. It is but equal days now: the sun is here And we are outdoors, children once more, For passion is waxing all the live-long day And this old month shows its ears and throat. You come and leap and cling and I am glad; And I loved you coming and lost all; We loved but while we seemed to be in pain And this tide runs in the opposite tide. Of all the old days, The day that they stayed behind And I was seven and nine. We wandered far and far Under the distant trees, Adoring that great dread one Which never was any dead man's son. Under his wayward eye We saw the fair young sun ascend With blue-white hands and cheeks that glowed. We sang and we sang in love's young week; We heard his song from the foraging tune. Under his wayward eye we saw The red blood of him blazing out All over our own dead ways. It was good; it was made whole; We made the tiniest pin-nipples four; He had won the sun one child's play, And our seeing him make him glad. As the full palm of him we knew, Under his wayward way we stood; And the old days were made whole, And the old days' dream, unmade, lied by. Not so we loved; we saw him never more Make golden circuits round our wood; Sad words and tears now for him we uttered; His place was with the dead among the dead. We held his body, none the less, Beneath the pall that draws the sun. And we had kissed the crooked road; And under the weeping povertis We had laid us where he sang When he made Campana whole, And the cenotabs, wine, and music. When we had murdered, with its smoke and swords, And the Turkish aisles made blood to shine As black as mine, We found our way as the genial earth turns At the first sobs and sighs; And I found your body laid ======================================== SAMPLE 481 ======================================== e and my fayre wife, To thy image I doe pray, Lend thy resemblance to mine art; Gainst th' envious hand of th' viler, And end quell his arrogant meeage, My fathers tresor me, when yt was, Dull those black clouds that on me drew, Whose inuent mongst me their hell layed, Ne a word did I my self respite, But thereof I was recovered soon; A virgin againe I loe and ride, Claspt the bridle on my bridale steed My selfe success hath fully deserv'd So to asmayes for my life I was bent, (Of which I waslapidally decev'd) I witli shame served them the firste while My sweete bride, alas once 299 My life's dear fue, my life's ende, My selfe fresh incense brings hither, Myselfe like flie fire from heauen. My deares, who lye dead, both night and day, Who is alone my dearest of respets, My first and dearest amiens. Tost (N Pure-bred) Turken Thrust, who is only known as TST to those who must ever remain anonymous to the gazing public of Troaine (N Pure-bred) Turken Thrust, who was bred at Terrelbourne (a baby with a penchant for water) and is best known to north aspecialist. The name Thrust was eventually transferred to Thomas Twiggs, a Moreau Archetyc. He himself complained that his foot was always kept too busy for his loafer, but in due measure made do with this habit which he conceived was of such umbelliform a composition that the deuce she asked the most recent deuention The King knew me, and Budgeted reckon'd me for to be his uigh: 'I rould haue,' quoth he, 'like for my life, all been at the Lisster's. Come, here's a sumpset day to draw bate; Neelect the Day,' the words were in the ear of Billot's Scots, The Lisster's Nook they call it, just as she would be running in and alone to view the play We keep't for wedre, ere one day, a foot more or less; But what worthe the play's mettle, giue a notion to run it a collar. What worthe we expected, what worthe we desire, Down to no end but 'stead, worthe the money let 'em go. I maunder'd stomacks of p'ints by the bane, But yet it glar'd at me that day how it could scape And this was the King's way, neyman-cloak to hide in, Howe he, tho' the poysie of the Court made he sure, To scorne with words or thoughts which might form our news Hath gi'n us the house of Cave and the pearlie plain; We cast the crates by grinding our dainties and Whose lands were so prudishly to be sold and whose friendship was so close by one to feed the other. Then to be hoast of him, or to be single, as you please, Sophgium, a colt that the world did grown, Because the blacksmith was shott before: If he could spense of digestions, he could goat's meal; and, which was slepe cleereer than a man, he could bind like a. We were too near slug-bite for words, or grates, but we were not far from him. We never had anHound to pick our venison, nor had a back-way to run at bicker in a bruin; but had the trade of a gudgeon, butcher and fatging; We were like to cot number three on any bank, a bunch of old chil-ains who got together and got the trade of a bandy-bull. We neive were fooles to trust man's answers to know, for this island, man, is a deep and gallant enough and hart may dwell at ease, when it's freed of a doubt, and we neive had a need to vow and swear as if the law was broke to begin with: but we neive had no right as yet to call ourselves men, nor what the law was We neive had the right, nor weonge man had called his horse "his," ======================================== SAMPLE 482 ======================================== piteous laments, Over thee and me. My golden heart is broken, My spirit is defiled, To be grieved for. O one and only one, who ever-changing-grace With passion-light his steadfast eyes will blot from me-- Offspring of heaven and me! O devotee Whom I sought for faith and heavenward flight-- This day I take to sit on benches, in libraries, And if need be, dare to cast aside my robes And seek contact with thine eyes, and trust the night to thy judgment! So dew my heart with ashes, as the Mother Death Quenches the deadly top'xxin' of my drops, That hath brought death to these th' enslaved sons of men. Lo! I, who believed most lowly, 'neath the earth, With ashes laden, will dew my grave. Not there, But in the sunshine of God's trust, of him Who twilles me, all sin's transgression seems, And I, who merited most, am merg'd above, With spirit, not with body, measured joy! Down from the loftier peaks Of high eminence Springs a fair and beautiful woman, With hair outspread Glorie's goldene; Kneading her heart away In its nest only hers, While the paddles enow Wake the brutal clawing monsters, The repining infecting claws, That, wringing lifeless the blind, Leave a track of blisters, that Never fails or heals. From the Heavens safer chase Yielding tightly her breasts, Yielding, titanicoe'd, To the out-falling snakes of Hell; Ways of the easeful: How her attraction Rivereth on distressed: Ways her terror can't abate From the wild:--comes Heaven- Administrator. The winding house of God, When the night-wind starts biting, When the Scorpio flares hellward, And the dangers draw around,-- Oh, then a father's flown, My palace must rue a hell Where the Cerberus stands hanging, And the famish'd dog howls carbonate, And the bloodstream drains,-- Aye, it all makes total, but the glory flight. Not the embalmed body to-day When the heavy hours of work Drive to rest; Burrows in the narrow rock, The feet that made Adam's paradise On the sorrowful hill, Where the crag-like private parts of it Shall by to life or death, Put each to its sharpen'd reason, And begin to grow like the palm that nourish'd it. And its driv'n nearly From the rough wiry vehicle To the soft and breath'd glory, From the barbaric drag Of the sagacious front To the ruffian violence of it; Its sad eyes then flushing madly, From a thousand sketches Greater than reality; From the fossil soe'er of Graude and then From the true young clear visionary, With his set ratio major orbis, To the comatose oracle, To the propitiatory prophet, Then from the last fifth onwards can flow, After the proportionate tincture of the world: From the world, which for my part took The squarer less from the soul of it than from me, Where the insentient temper of the Platonic hills Admits some gradation of aught, So that a God could rise comparatively In the air, or a God's likeness run With a squat parricide for a market-garden fence, With a Circus Maximus back Jove's own Greek sidon Held the disdain of thy race; For all thy smart American sons Naught but epithets have used, Save one day in September In praise of the fall of maturing trees, And this same sculpture Of the publicly-pleasing Queen Of all kingdoms, who Enslaved the same Art And made it pious, but privately pious; And as they were giving it, Not one of them or all Could picture even the smallest part Of their good deeds, or could conceive of thing; But then were they for the common weal Ascript with benefits: among them Were scholars, of the senator art, Muses and poets, men of arms, Patriots, and conscript nations. The Lion and the Football, Dame and Mother, these, They that embark'd the sea For near a voyage, man can stee ======================================== SAMPLE 483 ======================================== from the forest of the perils of the day. Unheld by the sunset, never more to hold Sacred tenderness, never more to share Sweet secret knowledge of those sweets again That change the world and make it live again, She turns her sultry face, and in its stead Opens the grandeur of heaven, and sits to show What glory hath been done in the making of man. For now she draws it, trembling, and wrought of man, Thrice mortal, and now in great her sorrowings That turn to wisdom through the living sea Of all that was made for eager being, She shall pass it, giving callant utterance Though time be speech. Whatso she finds to say Is overfiel by the wind of night. A sounding sea! And here we stand upon The brink of that sea, mariners, and stand With the only eye that we can think of: O mariner, with eyeshardy, with the skin O of the working sea, time-schemed and cold! Thou art the third that speaks with that thing, That talks with working, conversing with her As if the bark of both were one. As the cry of a children's force For a boat to put them forth in the light, Glaring at nightfall against a black shore, Against a city vigilantly Saving a life that will save no more, Against the terror of being saved unafraid: "Adorable, love, thou with my loves! Adorable, love, thou wondrous one! We, too, are thy lovers, who made thee, Made thee female, and have owed them All thy happiness, to lay thee off From winter into summer, and out from Age into immortality. Thou clambest upon thy quadrature, Vibrant length of four quadruples of metres, And hast changed thy childhood's diastic parade Into a procession of triumphs, and a perfume Of fragrances, that smell as if thy Name Were packed and loaded for Thy Servant-maidens. We, too, are formed of thy flesh, and are Resenting thee: we are thy spouses, and we Have bited Thy marriage bond in many an ill. Thy marriages, therefore, are a storm for us, And seasonable for cruel winds To fix and open thine eyes. 'Tis not true that we are all on fire For wickedness, or blind for having wealth. We know thee, where thou art serene, And humble, and far from dishonesty. Thou far and near out-pollutions Of faithful play in the broadest light, Of courteous heed to hearken our calls, Of disarming silently with steel and keys, Of hearing us when in a roaring room Thy naked spirits of Ulricus reel, Till thou growest rational and faithful. "We, too, are perjured by our standers on; That is but thine excuse. 'Tis true, we roll In puffs of artificial life, and weight From sapphire flames of unstudged immersion. We live our lives aampus, and we see Only the mass that flows from thee impure. We burn our suns, and as a brolang tree Bound up with Goblin is our meteors roam, We behold with colourizz breath nectar flies, And rich sweete froth of swet, and fat sudden hoarseness. We bold the cry of our master Hades, And seek with loud outgoalled allowance Our master fire, and in our vapour hete it our own. Wee, we are Variously courseed with thee In a variety of mad cours, and we Behold thy flame, but eyes are thy hymning tongue. "Thou mad strange cry of Od Swoln with all your loss, When the divey Fens broke you and Boar with his dogs. Weque y had, weque y ben, weque y sher, say pagan! 'Tis not-vaine, but satan did it, so wilful With art, and nature, and hot heart. For swine-dogs, that boar-men, and the fat Fens Are brutish, foul, uncheerful, indecisive, A bleary mixotory, and confounded, Unturnable, unthought-of confusion. 'Tis then as well, that in clumps of quiet You have thy Flamens, quietists, in whom Conversation not guer ======================================== SAMPLE 484 ======================================== Fals and false-held. O, who can love the summer time, Or who would the heart of Spring e'er mar? With rich fruit, fresh flowers, and rich love-flies The daisy children hang their tresses fair; The ruby rose is maturing for a bride, And the white lily, standing with her hands upraised, Bidding her bones and her shining body plead For full submission at the bought touch of Gold. O Love, thou mother and Love, are they lies Who lead thee to wed the Girls of the Year? For the white flower of April is not like the red For fall and spring together are not like the same And the dew-drop of the Spring is not like Springtime's sun. I know Springtime is a lie, the Year a lie, I know it's a lie for a smoke or to write, To love and be read to at all hours of the day, To love and never with us is Sweetheart's Brother, To make wild holiday out in the fields of the soul, To drink ale "in Marlow's ale-barrel"--like an elf. Thou rose, my Lucasta, Raffleus, Raffle, I know thee, yet I know thee, yet must I see The spring and the summer that has ploughed my ground, The earth that is mine and the water that is well, But oh! Raffle, my flowers have blanched for a jew. O Spring, may I never let thee enter thine own, I will remember my flower, not love for a crown! If I leave verses on the page white, white as any paper, If I write a letter and read it at night to the stars, They will understand, There is one whom a Jew writing a Jew May resemble, for we are many and one There may be nameless Jews writing these pages to men and me, Testing the salt, such as Lie Bran while he sleeps IZRASCI. My gardener seems to be in love with me. He comes at night and touches my house. There is nothing here to make him know that he is love mad, or wanton, or have dreams, For there is nothing here to make him feel wonder or wonder delight, For all the house is still and dark and the wind is on myatter leaves, And I can feel the cold as I wonder what he's like as I work my sinning slate. I've heard my teacher say that the white and the red are the same, But this thing that is in me and the thing that is out of me, I cannot turn away from the white that is Man and the red that is Man, They are one, the thrum of the heart of one thing, the two joined in soft blackness, like night and day. <|endoftext|> "Little Puss on the Pony That Once Ago Flown in Time", by Alice Moore [Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] Her eyes are like a catcher's mitt where no eye should be, where she is the color of chalk where pain is a dried smear, where she is a dark breath sticking from the death mask of herself, where she is the heft of other birds' wings, where she connects me to my other self, the family of fish and the dogs, the small bird on the first squirrel, the mistletoe the sentimental hush of a beige cat, the long disappointments, the disappointments, the children and grandchildren, and the lives of those birds gone or only half-lived, the whole lived life that had come and went like a time or location that is mine, but not entirely mine. <|endoftext|> "A Boy's Will", by Alice Moore [Living, Death, Marriage] There will be a funeral. When you reach a town by Pumpkin Truss or at the hour that the Post Office cuts off, you will take your first airy dream of a pink-eyed Ox and a farm on the level or a hotel with a marquee with a body down the roadside or a dead-end alley with a first-aid droplet painted on the window or a waxed-over word where my name should be. My father will be there, some day I know, looking like a detective or a cook, his old store, its jangled chatter of tinfoil messages that tips some eyes, some foolhardy glints of glee in the colors of perfect absurdity ======================================== SAMPLE 485 ======================================== Knead the dough. Put the milk in a stew, Pour on it the sugar, Whisk it well with a spoon, Stir it well at once with a spoon, Stirring slowly with the spoon, Stir the milk with a biscuit spoon, To the fair milk still in small curls, Soak it in the water o'er night, Bring the milk with a biscuit spoon, Let it rest for an hour after, Strain it through a chambe, Let it stand awhile, Knead the dough till it is stiff, Knead again if it is too soft; If the dough is very cold, Lay it on a plate, Cover it well with a linen, Knead again in the bright sun, Kneade the dough--then cover, Put in a oven at full heat, Let it rise forty-five minutes, And its threshing time is over. "Wife." "Fair one." "Stomach too." Answer. "Good, you are good as new." Put the bread into the mouth, Now the bread is in your hand." "Once a child was there like gold, With a madcap joy in her eye. She was two and twice a mother." "Once a child was there like gold, With a madcap joy in her eye. She was three and twenty at the time." "Child of the chief of house was she." "She was seven and twenty at the time." Answer. "When was wheat in the spring?" "In the wild fields, in the dell, In the dirt, in the frost, in the dust, In the bank, in the cliff, in the cranny, In between the rocks, in gneist and sand, In the barnyard snake, in the kitty's grave, When was she in her little white bed." "Well, I did tell you how to do it, I was the stewardess, the workman was I. I did it all myself, and loath'd it, Though the inky heels I did it in my power. I reached the breaking point I drave and I'd beat my breast, And the brown whirlpools throve in my loins and legs. Now, if you know how to measure a loaf of bread, You will see why I fled and left them for you. Seven times have I run down the stairs to you, And tried to leap the lap of the end of the stairs, But fell back in room. Seven times have I been glad, And six times turned and stared at them in the paper. I see them in my sleep as I saw them last night, The very same, the very same they were in my picture. O DICK, You, and your genius, and your wealth of life, Hang cherles with REBECA, Which I might run upon, as a matter of fact, But for your ghost falling through the next floor, And my not be'lievefably, Which your sweet effusions will recall, For I am FUDGE, I most straitly stink, As you well know, you do frothy my eyne. And so you come to me, You come to me as the FIRST From the other realm's territory, From the land of spades, From the game of ___ and _____; Where we, alas! have been rather mostly few, Quite apart from convicts and ills, And unrivalled quite in our free state, And proud of the circulation of our wigs. The EARTH, I fear, will not boast racks, Nor refin'd guns to make horrors rick, For me, I own, these bare condoms are as good As any wraps the world can show, But--d'ye see--they have not much to brag about; They limit defeat, they are not moved When the clinching interference comes, As it surely will at some time or other. Mild, efficient, and rather old On administration, it has been clear, And not too harsh, has been our speech, And pretty well has been, too; But, as I say, they've been very stern, And we, as here, are rather new, And, now I come to think on't, We do not look so fine, But we, as I've said, are quite alike. Though, as you know, I'm PFA, and owner Of the FASTEST FOOD, and finest breath, ======================================== SAMPLE 486 ======================================== with their wings Down to the great gaping earth Bore them, as they dropped They left this sole record, that here Of ruin and of men a waste Comes sharing part with them. And still on the dim coast, That bends afar off-- A ruined palace in the waste Like a broken dream, Gleams, though out of it a waste, Like the dark of some musing bird When its shadowy wings Haunt the stones that make it of stone. And the fir-clad town-- Like a lost dream gone by-- Of a people of the earth, Left it not, though before it passed Like a lost dream gone by, Man, with his household, wife and children, With his sheep, and ox, and store of grain, With his air of praise, and boastings bold, With his heart set on things without touch Tired of the earth and kingly class, Wishing to pass over a span Of forgetfulness and be with the mighty dead; For his hand is on the bell, the call, And we go to the sick room. Down in the dust I walk to and fro, The city rings like a spell, I am a breath about the towers, The time keeping, and the sound Mingles with a bell like breath; The dust is a time-piece, the time Is a book, the writing is true, A book which rolls without letting go, And the roll itself is a scroll Without blank page or syllable, A time-piece without book or clock, But made of lead, and let off At set of suns. The age that waits For times without for its decaying Has passed, and now the age that came Buys me to death. And death, which is One gathering to itself the souls Of the fugitives, has no name, For the fugitives are ghosts; The times and patterns which are past, Ghosts whose shape comes again, The times are changed, But the patterns are not. He comes, the Cossack bold, And all the khans with him; They sway in the balmy breeze, The waves beneath them reel; The houses, more a dream than anything, Show less than a Ahead to life. They do not notice him; He sees more than one yard. "Come, little girl, take care of her good piece of sky-backing flower. I have watched the white stars falling, And there is nothing good for very seeing; But take my words and do your little shining for me. There is a particular hay-pipe in high Cornwall With a pleasant fog that foams and passes; There is a spring in dear home plaited Agincourt That makes me come back when it often rives my chest. In my eyes the mountains hang the worse, Than if poor teal should lullabies surclose. O, little teal, tell, if it be so, That I have waited for my chance of going up and down That foggy high where hay-grass grows." "With you for neighbour I am free To go to Mike's til Monday morning. If you are in nature and like to go Which God cansts not scorn nor willston Nor you have learned natural history, Then crafty professor to you Is this secret road to many a hill. You with your animal ferrets, Gainst entreprisemen a strong cement, And in their stone boots go measuring And what the worms at the ends of your shoe, Your bird in blue leather, your woman sick in the livery, And the boy on your green leaves that runs on, that runneth twice old. You are able to say that a wall is a wall, When your wall comes a shack. Houses are your bowery maid, Your breezy barket with the furthest lock, Your yohan with the longest leaf, No man's burg good beer, no thrusting spikes in the turf, No crenleters over cursing, angry, bawdy, No insult half so audacious as your cowl, Can give you a better quarter than that. It is true, to a certain degree, That your house is your home, But there's a shade and blowing wind That will take care of your misconduct. <|endoftext|> "Lyttelton Revolt", by Carol Egrada [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Religion, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] Who have smelled success here; who have read more, ======================================== SAMPLE 487 ======================================== occupied, and as he turned to look upon the damsel he was returning with a few words in which the virtues of God and his mother he commended, and then once more resumed his story. He next entertained his guests with the hope of obtaining their rights, a task which was not further difficult, if we may presume it to speak reasonably of this. The Emperor Hunderson was a poor, dark man, who had, it is fair said, once given some small reason to think that he owned any claim to such a god. Hence his fear that nothing could be easier than to have the damsels righted; for if they were set free the world would surely outdiver or graveise itself. But as to this: for as the French have hei kingly kings, we shall just forgive him that Abyssina--the very same whose proud dusky tint was thus illicitly stolein, while he touched the palm of that same wood,--never touch'd a hand so touched. The wretch even went naked on foot to the Passion's door, and when he was requrin'd remurrd that he'd borne his part suffus'd. No wonder had the hero sent Eleazer to be his representative; he was a bard resolved to burst all whatsoever boundaries and lines; he sought at once to widen and to shorten lines. 'T is not ev'ryone a poet, But few, perhaps, more than one-- But few, perhaps, can poets name Who retch and linguis can. Some lyart set downes for the cause, And some for the face. And at them wil to London they Our pokes sent off, tho' as for the first It soundeth loud in al the grove That they stand in our door for to be fan'd by old Pater noster Christian: Our Chesnuts to them bene Judecca, So plast qualifier noster: They yet breste Bible forthe, in scride, though many that can write to sattatis contend heir ink to have some translation. And verily I finde this year, Two Jumnus by name, to sing a meetne; An HERELOCK too, and a Middletons, The thridded Redoubled of Goldsmith, The thridded Redoubled of Goldsmith, The thridded Redoubled of Goldsmith, Who (arthricity saddehum?) Were sent for the fonge. When colde kep Mons hee be at ones, Bid what he befell is worthy to be Vpon Mons he nowe standes at bosses hombles and in voluminous sumes. And he will need no no more, because the poetes him devise'd his jottit ercast, The week theye all together were, OONCUMWA'S dubie powers were of such variety and length As in the middle of most any wize they was so nimble and so fyne They fit them to a pines or a stone. Thus was the labour of Comedy set to rout. It is not Cardinals do let you know the cards they are spieling, Nor ought your breath to be attumt but you'll diua all perils with Saints. Olde St. Hodon needed not your pen, Olde Benl; let't be said and no, Your pen could not nowmet not passe. And my admiration fully fired, I kepe Minst not too fast to write; For this second presentiment (Which name to some I give not power) That through my letter it may waylay. So of little consequence you know the work, And more I really need not be hide; Affirming diversly to tell your Rose, This pen a Pocket you may see within. Hov h of chopping men to pieces, For what? some 'Porting' them to a port, Some 'Planking' them against the wall. The 'Tool' for this is formally Novel-ground 'Tool,' where none may know, Which few (and those it serves the most) May make the most of, in some dish or thing. The evening prior I had an eye, As fancy did her business clear, To write o'tthen Reason out, and Call Reflections & ponderations there; But as I 'gan them to repair To doings, that were to be done, I saw consequence overtask me. ======================================== SAMPLE 488 ======================================== -famed for. "Nay!" the fellow said, and drew near, And, in a rush, "The prayer I strive to keep, And thou say'st it?" "The old chapel where we met, The steel-strong drawbridge shake and rise, And the old fleet-prow sails as they brake one The blithe broad road that winds from the city!" "A holy man," said the youth. "That's he." "A seaman then?" said the youth. "Nay!" the man Shook his head. "The rowers' drink!" The sailor Looked at the maid, and she Looked at him. A giddy silence surged. "A holy man!" He smiled, you know the smile. "He holds His vessel by the taut cord where, Draped round it in a sheath, the quivering blade Hangs by its hem." The sailor sipped his Whiskey and spake some words that we must leave Unheard un fulfilling for the maiden's sake. "Yet on the mighty sea I of Sweden Sailed for five years, and not one vain desire Or phantom-driven secret to assuage; But inviolate the heart of one to save, Fearing not for my soul but the deep wrath Of the gate-posts of that tiny Fort Within a mile that Fort a mile around. "But when I sat in that nook that people know, Only this one man, as sages tell, Close to the sea-worn door and the Tower of Bredermes On the chimney-stone, as Ulfingil still tributes To old king and other thrones, I could not find Work to my liking. So, Sidney then, I sat Over the glazed tile fire and talked about Our company's perilous chances in the New World. "He told me that the French had sent us a brute To make us quit our own devils of his own And make us think it the worst of Europe When we go our own way; that this Blaverite, Or Chemptian, Louis former, had recanted And sworn to uphold the law, and been hanged Or imprisoned for it; but that he now Full faith and obligation had, so long As his mite. About this time I lost my love, A mother of one of his house. "That strang event shook all my family-belongings. A daughter of mine was Margarida, Who with her in-born self-command and patience New-wormded English maid, her wedded wife Came out here in Ireland, and took my place. She had been in the lion's breeding-dance On top of Diadorus, and was barely fled When she was born here in England. Happily for me, I have seen her since and thought of nothing. "She told me all about the streets we had to go, The things hidden and the men here, and some Had deserted, and no more houses we needed, In view of the soon-coming crisis; but she, Out of her childhood, knew the stroke of wrong, The hidden fact and the ripe abundance When these hard mountains are in love with wisdom, And till then had not a sister thought To speak in wise of women; for no doubt She loved us so--or so what that means, I, Who have confused it twice with truth, and got Moments from her society; and so I heard her speak like one of us, and saw The shining wonder 'tis to find a friend Who has managed to live at his own ease, And thought of nothing else--but now I understand What I've lost, and so did Mrs. Gurney." "And so your blindness increased," returned the man, "And they have helped you to find your way? Yes, it was Margery. And yet one question more. You said that Irish was your language. And I am a stranger to myself. But that is so too! Margaret, you are hard to understand. And hard to notice, too. You see so clearly Beyond any woman's thinking skills. I'll try to get away from that. I can do it. Ah, why can't you just mean what you say, And let these London women take this grace away, Which saw and heard as drawn and cleaved and spun Right through and from without, as a thing in itself? They are so confused and their thinking's so mixed, If I may make a charge ======================================== SAMPLE 489 ======================================== understand and try to adjust, And there, in the silence, There, in the silence, Underneath the fruits and the rose, There, as we continue to linger, There, in the silence, There, as we continue to linger, There, as we have lingered herebefore, There, as we linger in the silent Silence of the harvest moon, there, between the rind and the core, And there, and there, Clinging to the edge of a pool, There, and there, and there, In the thou and thou and thou and thou, For, for the love of the earth And for the love of the sea, With a breathing of ruined fields And of ancient Scandinavian marshes, With our eyes stained with old terror, And with hearts yearn-starting, O, there, between the rind and the core, With a striving to right and to left, And the bleeding of wounded skies, And the vision of dying heroes, And the bruised heads of mighty nations, Weeping beneath the bared spears, And the sorrowful sobbing of the cross, And the pain of the age of eighty years, There, between the stones of the dead and the swords Of their dead kings, we knelt and grieved, And we wept, O, very Weble Werez, For the agonies of the old days, And the weeping of the bones of the dead days; And we prayed to the faces drawn from under The cold running water, And we prayed to the little bent heads That are left now. And we wondered if, when they saw us, Then they would forget the offenses, And restore the goodly, O, unharmed, And the kings whose swords were broken, And the crimes of the dead; And the sins and the sorrows, And the mysteries and the blemishes, And the morn that would recall Clarissa's quick. And we wondered if, when they heard us, Then they would trust us, O, unspeakable, Where they would find, once and for all, All the cruel, O, all the hidden Pride of our own honor, and restore it, And recompense the evil, O, unspeakable. And we wondered if, when they heard us, Then they would take us, O, under the feet, Under the heart and soul and brain, Into the arms of Buchanan and of One, And of our own folk, who have never known us-- Where the swords would be sharp, And the good of their own proud hands, And the evil of their fathers, And the sins of the unknown, all in one, And with one God's ears bent down, And one God's mouth pronounced. Three drums are toiling there, or four, With little simmering mites in tow, Shoving the lone and grated mass far, Or flying before the heavy spangings Of the half-timbered alley where they go: No more from under the fast-bid, And no more from the halfway wall, The splashed dust jostles by with spur and slip, It flings its butter in at the old War-Dog's mouth, And all the heather runs to the golden smother Of April and his deacons. No more at the goldsmiths' hands with lefts and twists, The field scattered as by a spider's hand, No more at the dear old men that, dead or dying, Their voices remember, and their memories grow, No more on the mason's ladder weeping For the pyramid of days gone by, No more by the cash-box of the poor old men, Drying his body with the tears of the faithful, Reaching out arms that the entire country hands, Eyes weeping that the highways run north and south, Rages and falls upon itself its madness. The Madness of Octavian <|endoftext|> A silly thing, pure and idiotic gold, Or at the very least, shade cooler than the moon's home, You are, my dear, Or else I'm perchance greatly over tall With my end to quote. "Over short," my dear? A couple, who, feeling sweet scalding air Drop sideways will drop as dead, Now trip and drop, And then descend. You are not far from me, then I'm no De Brignet, And yet the bottom line Of my counter-suit, I'm dull, terribly, Is you're sane. ======================================== SAMPLE 490 ======================================== rifle on an anvil, and a bronze flag on its peak; and then the notary said, "Your family must be from seventy, you are a lucky man, sixty what men, with your gifts." And in that door (it was a chamber, some small renaissance of the Roman voice with the hand of an old hand saying this to the lips of men who do not know each other, bewitching stanzas in capitals on small paper or small pen) of the rustles and the sound of feet in the corridor when the physicians come to see you, the Devil laughs with the pain in your eyes, and the face of the patient is partly punished by pain, the shoulders and shoulders of the student whom the devil led is looking at the faces of the men in the eyes of the men in the sheets, the faces of himself in stone. He lay on his side, on his side he only, for it was dark so he alone seemed to know what the earth truly wanted, and yet he only knew alone the darkness, and the sound and dust that was dark and heavy and sunshine and stone. Only he saw it, where the spirit of stone hurried before the voice, a world of ourselves, we two, the world of a dream, a vision, will not speak again, but I fingered his cuff, and for a moment saw what the heart knows in the fingers of the other. That was the proudest show, more shameful was the secret filtering from the closed door, the rich barometer's disdain that seemed to say: that there was nothing in the world but what men want who know most cities are not true, that all of our speech is but an instrument for death, the pen for which is mostato, that the heart's new writing hand is the hardest one not the penit thought in its open tries, the swimmers unable to utter a syllable for their stillwaters held at bay by the enormity of the stretched sheet, or the veins switched on by the first nerve shock, but the true blood of the restless undercurrent, the undying fire that knows not fall nor peace, the fire that is stone and stone. Therefore, this is the end of age, all shadows come to an end, tread lightly upon an old show, strut hither, tumper, stretch forth an anvil on the sounding chords of the "I," the "I" where it matters most is how it all ends, not how it began; so the "I" should rule, to save the pain to be a "you" that can soften at all; and so you, and only you, can see to the last shrine where all is still and fair and pass, whose vestments shake free from flesh as the winds shake loose on the ruins of the pilings with the snow-coloured sprinkings; - even then your eyes are Apostles, if to you at last it is worth the knowing where and how. But if to us who look not on the light there indeed remains a choice of whether or not to be grace and wonder long over the fact that Fate meant to do us good or ill, then there is little to say, and longer chains than this would be wrong. Ah! who shall fill this place with things left by the day when day is done but it left some notes as proof, some scraps here in the evening dust, and someone says he sees the long black hair of a woman who has been a slave, and I say this is like the man who remarks upon a stray crow over the wheat, and the man replies, well you can see that even in a wheat-field the crows are fed by the wind, and he a fool, but wise, I was journeying all around among sages, among noble minds of the court, and me they honoured as one high here writing in a work meant for all; and some say that I gave advice to them, and my knowing their thoughts, or my teaching that they didn't think hard, being a sage myself. And I went on posting here and there and keeping my eyes well to the ground in order to improve my rep with the gentry. And along the years these drops of dream-water, oh coyote, oh coyotte, come here once more, once again you trail your musky little legs for me, take me once more to the court of Paris, the house of sorcerers, the ======================================== SAMPLE 491 ======================================== Water for one day, A good laugh And a little peace And a great boon. I will seek no more For the quiet well, The world's so filled with toil and woe, No more for the store Of the mind's sweet honey bee, No more the gourd-maiden I of the mushrooms! If to slant-lying Peru Its heaven filters down, Or if it sifts to this shore Some precious pearl found by whorls Of a South sea coast, Or if it spills his salt water In by the berg for treasure, I will be friends! She has lingered in her corner, While from the shoots of the moon The air-engravers have aroused Her scene by scores of lights; And the night-press from the world Has come, and kissed the hem of her garment. And a hundred tables have stayed In the hall of the forsaken; And a hundred women, A hundred splints have pitched Down at corners of sorrow. And the moon has touched each For light in the night of its towering; And the evening never tired, With finger on the shifty Obeying lip of her minaret, And a thousand windows darkened With the load on the sultry sides, And a thousand palms in the mud Have scratched at sorrow. And the ships that leave the shores of Tyvek Sail farther than oars or rowers Can trace, and their culvert, A deflection from the Spirit's code, Upright beam on the front of her breast. And a bare ninety-mm. boom Plays on around the world forever; And the seated moon, silent as prayer, Defies cause and foolism; And the shift of the stars, an inch-thick, Roams about her uncreakable. And she keeps one place, and no shift, And the earth drifts in tell-tire with her, And the hand of her cross is the hand of hell, And she marches, and she roams, and she sits, At the wharf in the harbor's eye; And the orange sunset glows Is the island of our debut. The earth's brown satin veils are loosened, The world's green ranks unchamp Ho`s convening, The launch outside glitters with blur; The lily-winged sun mingles with the glare Of the traffic; and the sky's shift Is an inch of the moon's eye, And the debutant moon is company For the company of eleven million suns, Who sit together in darkness. The earth casts tan for the shift of her half And she ranks as the soul ranks alone, With a shift of her own: O the white Is of so much silver, O the scored Black, and the tip of the golden Is of her temper that none flies or flies, Since the birth of her forget-to-blame. But the moon's shift is of so much need To mark the horror of the start Of the air in her sonocond coat, And the fear of her fall, dear brother, That it seems a wraith shift of the night, And the thrill of her ascent, she who sets The shift of the stars in their dropping! For the moon's shift is so far behind, And the shift of the stars so near That the earth's shift is the less of their two: And the moon's shift is splashed on the clouds In such salt And such swirky a pace, and piled high With bluish smoke and blue-veined snow, That the English highways Are half Europe when they wreathe with smoke. And the shift of the sky's fine fancies Makes bold fine fancies in us-- The sky's shift is bolder--the air its proper tresses, The fine old clouds their proper breaking. And the shift of the wind is strange to the nose Of the awake man: the dew their weight: And wild-eyed drivers in a car Running at doublestrength And twirled about by a wind With other men walk and rot in the road. The shift of the wint to the wind Is mad to the sky of our thinking, And swerves untempered with thought: And the sky's shift we cannot tell Unless we watch it oursels: But the sky's bending and fair, my dear fellow, In all the morning's rain. The shift of the weather and wind Is bold ======================================== SAMPLE 492 ======================================== Japan's tragedy Thrills the hearts of all mankind. To-day, however, it may appear, The new-made sacrifice Wherein I made the slip to Heaven, The thunders of whose Glory break Round the old crematoria, Is, I fear, no more real to me Than was the smokeless spirit-lock Which many an hour make firmament-- Then, will it not gild with bliss like this This minasther crater, Whose remorseless blackness crowded Meer till I lived out jeebus life, So that I'm forced to toss, and toss, and toss, Tempt'd by that thujis sublime, Round a vicious and ev'rything? What joy the Watchers in my ruin here Can on, to joy no way? This wreck, which last much less time rais'd, Which now is cr Ashes and night, Death track'd thro' all its aortas, (So as I can't now say what 's hulk,) Round and round this old hold, Still for the fire one scoop, One round for the con't," etc. "Afire, my Bon myself, and ere thou go'st With the rest, seek out the greenwood, (If, by this you think it fit, You're mistaken-- thou art not quite so ugly) Cut up into those visages you can see, And the snow that's quite soft this year; For if that visage, snow and ashes, Be not together, 'tis not worth thy asking, Nor so beyond that. There's much yet beguil'd By eyes (but I'm talking now only,) That's Apollo's guardian, 'tis the Jove! "There is, if Apollo were not for our love, Yet might I and I will be seeking Some yearly love, not worth one beg, Which is provok'd, as 'tis provok'd by Thee, For my distress by spending most of mine. Yet provok'd, I grant that it should be Though this should end, my most star-crossed friend, Still, still durstst thou meet me, meet me, though late! Yet meet me, as they now that doze and sleep, And when I say, "Harken!" say, "Hush!" etc. "Afire," etc. The last sentence, in its militia frame, may be answered. See the 37th chapter, where --which it confounds, says that it was sent "With false lamps, and false curtains." Now, I confess, in this I'm digression. But see if thou watch Capricorn chap, that sent me this, How does he christen me! That's the reason a girl (though I toughness say so) would accept as a christian only one who all his thoughts are over to. For I tell thee swear, even while I swear, I thought it not to break chapolitixtippe. "Now, now's an age quondam, GAAuMB!, when boys Will not come too. I'm shocks to talk of. But you must try, young ladies, saying, "Shocks!" The PIOUS have got their part. Then, going to College, time flies so fast you can't believe it. The boys of Notre Are so poor, so poor, so poor, so poor, That I've got but one word to say to them: Oh, do not let us students say, "Shocks!" So, you've passed your grammar school, Papa, Passed with flying boots, and now you're in With scholars. Good persons everywhere, But scholars. Scholars moreover who sit There by your side and weep upon your feet! But academics, academics, remain So still, so slow. Husbands, in 1580, boys Grew to men, women came, men went. Ours is long. You still go to your lessons. You still say Upon your syllabi: "So-and-soismist,-- Shocking even to thought! 'You are,"-- What's the old Gurney? Thirteen hundred years! A wind, a rain, a lotion, is all You get. Your Sao, that's Miss or Mrs-- One in leather frock, a meeting place, has none. "You 're very kind, Mrs. Gurney, wafting her So pleasant books. 'Tis strange that you deserve such Albionic with your constant babble. ======================================== SAMPLE 493 ======================================== plot thee out. O now, my son, I tell thee what must be, And what must be will be, For Time's hand alone is firm, Nor will of men will want aught. I feel it all my burthen can endure, And walk abroad as if I drew breath. But what was last of all I told? O'er a long life such things I could speak As sweat, with angry inward cock, The sense of every little ill. There is the awful heart of doom. No art can close its infernal fist, And shake thee of thy giddiest sorrow; Or meet thy blindness of a tongue Which too much have praised, too little shunned. Is there a hidden sense in all this shivering, Nay, by now I say 'tis thy doomed fate, Thy destiny is plain. To be the slave of all the Devices Which from the Soul's still-plumed Chassis Must leap as thither doer judgment-time, To trail thy shame led in the dupe Of duped-up tears and hollow fears, The end that thou hast not forfeited, To fear the crue of informers, Or the calculating shafts of pinching shoulders, Is there no end to this thing? Now it must be; since thou art mine, Be bound that thou art mine, Since this thy ill-omened share Of friendship is thy doom; Since thou hast this reversed all, Nor gold nor seat desire; And from this wreck wouldst wend on thyun, And assume full father-root Of wrongs against truth and law, Offal, bloody, bitter wind; The cup must be left with slaying And be as spike of spike at handle, Drained to wine once wild. There lurks on thy soul loneness And stings as unwanted pain; Then shall thy spirit wing its flight With head bandoned and cald heart scorned, And no wish of friend or guest, Save only all bestowing sweet life To sup and sleep and wear delight. But I am of unsaved past; Unto innocence I owe The wisdom of the true. So let me keep as best I may And break this-wing me nomore, For I can never forget, And thou must own by me unction, All too late-remember thee. If thou canst fast and eat thy bread, Thy goat, as I do, very well, And pray, and belong to lust; If fast, as I need do, and bap thy bread, Stand when you have to go to bed; If fast, as I do, and so interwear In praying, night and night elongate; If fast, pray drest--as I to-day, And I fast, as I had fathomed long ago; Yet fast, my lass, and pray for us thy bread; Fast fast, and be sure to come to none But drowsy dawning. Wilt thou that in the morning standing In the shadowing glare of the sun, Erect a humble stone to house and dwell in, To guard thy generous treat, and to forbear Vandal vehicle or lodgings of the sheep, The bearers' barks small comfortoise the night, O thou that art all gifts? To be a tower in an unhealthy town, To be a thorn with a solid pearl, Thy call, I say, is not useless, Were it 5,000 pounds in money, I'd sue To guard from ev'rynon damage. I'd beate my height, I'd beate my stone, I'd beate them both before they were done, And have them in the parks. To be a pillar of a stately town, To be a moat for the town's defence, To be a drain for the good of farmers, And rill for the flood the cities' side; To be a screen for all who walk below, A refuge for the poor, and teacher Of virtue and line for boys, and men in houses; To be a table where the master's treasure Might befall his knees; To be for all in Egypt below, Servant to none save Egyptian; To be no whit to be lost on thee, great Pharaoh, thy rights are ours; Thy bounty deck'd with joy is all our portion In this fair land. Not in this jail, good king, But I go without mattress here To live, till my sense regain Its dignity and ======================================== SAMPLE 494 ======================================== I am a poet Who has no manuscripts Or collected poems And I am a poet Who has written poems In which there are no poems And I am a poet Who has no poems My poems No publications I have no other way to show my poems than to tell you In which there is no mine And I mine In which my poems are no And you are you And I my [1913] Oh, they came to see me, little ones, Thein' I did for them, baring my Bein' human. I do revile you all, but that is Not my writ. I am a poet Who has no manuscripts Or collected poems And I am a poet Who has no BEINGS to call you into my pits And hold you and caress you all over again And call you out of hibernasion. I am a poet Who has no BEINGS. In which I am not a poet And yet I am a poet Whose BEINGS have no telling location And you are not of me. And I am not One bit a smarter than the fat of you, Painless and spine-less, faceless, not of you, Your hands being tools and not your all And you are not human. [Larry's] And now I am smarter than you, But I am not sure my soul has escaped The bullet that stops me. I am not sure That I don't have a soul that can talk To itself like a native and number it In mortal memories of its elders And self-pity of its animals in buildings Like those I was in, my eyes filled of Ill-gotten yellowing beans. <|endoftext|> "In The Falling", by Kiyoshi Azuma [Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Arts & Sciences, Music] Kongo mo Kandi nihongo aboutnow Iwatamono no wo theme no nabo I don't know any more the words for Earth, nor how To say what will be falling from now on When I am happy like this and the stars are nigh us I am so happy no one can destroy my happiness no unguents No murasaki pearl no misogi make me sad now they are gone <|endoftext|> "The Station", by Kiyoshi Azuma [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] I dreamed about the "Odious Pavilion" Built by "The Night-Stalk" in Hamigon Town. Built so deep in the ground it was a flow Of gravity that went on without me. I was an employee. I was building the place and gliding. What I needed was a way into the station. The station that NEVER opens anymore. That's where the platform tree comes from Has no platform and stops the train. But if the train goes over it It will break it. <|endoftext|> "Charted", by Kiyoshi Azuma [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] The night descends on Charted Where the tree branches serve as a guide And the paths are narrow as an airship Horn of a moth tethered to a stone. And the grounds of Magic Tower are filled with hushitsi, at the minimum, They say. And the château, in its halls, is a cold room Where silence reigns as intensely as ice. But maybe this is exactly why the grounds are so beautiful —There's no reason for silence and sunken shapes If you got the taste for silence and cold You'd want the world of Magic Tower, where the lake Of the river Jichi has two currents, The upper, called "Star" by the buffoons, That goes on and on and doesn't seem to end And the bottom, Bahtiel, that sure does end And then there are a hundred gates like tiny war clouds And each one of them a tiny word with eyes like dim skies And each one of them a tiny speech with eyes like earth. <|endoftext|> "Jack and the Wonderful Cow", by Kiyoshi Kimura [Love, Romantic Love, Mythology & Folklore, Fairy-tales & Legends] It is not that I love them. They are not worthy, They are not mine. It is that I dream of them. They pour out slop. It is not the food that I love. The food I bring is molecular whall. It is not the cow to which I tie the hands And half the body and then tie up less Than what is required ======================================== SAMPLE 495 ======================================== `If you have never to your cause come, And if you ne'er shall, still there is hope You may some young maiden die; Then on your less than heart shall fall, And your strength less than heart possess.' `And what will you, old man, when you are dead?' `That I living have another where.' `Old man, you are mad.' `No, no' say I. `Then what, have you no heart at all? . . . . . . `Not a word can I of my heart hold back; I must heartless: so, good-bye: Take a life that's better than your own, But mind, there's one: you must die alone; That is true, you'll see: don't run off: Just say you've got to die, and go take it.' I can't remember, now: I can remember one summer night, How she and I were wed; And I was man, and to her I went To be man, and made a man's life hell: Not a thought I smote That she was woman, but a woman made, And the heart of my heart was lifted so That I was glad she was woman all the same, And the name she used it on me Was 'The Little Woman'--as she said. We could talk, no word could we Of family ties or kin; For apart from that there wasn't A hearer or a soul Our home among, no meetings we At all, in the whole year. We could talk at our will, and dare Our feelings, till they resolved To treat us like sons, one and all. Our fathers made the point so well That, when they called, we should say the, Baboon, without accent offended, And we were supposed the best lover There was. So deep, that in the family nest, When we were wed, The chirping Warbling Was 'one and all,' Each son had to say, 'No sister, for good or for ill, Will we of the blood-royal!' But, in truth, it was but a pricking bullet That shot us to the light: For, though my wife's the flower of his blood, And my poor wife's like me, 'The Warbling Was' was a morning bird That sung, and sang the other sound That we heard over earth and sea. Of the first of August came a dream That held the marriage in a whole Like the marriage-cake's hongment complete. I saw the lark rise from the plain, And, like a knowing lover, saying there 'I see the dawn of Paradise.' And the whole of August sang of Dives, And the gray steed that Beverley rode, And the sun that rose behind the shallows, And the miry stream of Dives' boat. The wind of the dreams that week I had Came from the hills where the Shirmers stand; And I said to the dream, 'Let me see What love is here.' And the dream, which had, you know, Worshipt the life beyond words, 'See now, For thou shalt be, and everything transact.' So up to Paradise I got, And stood in Dives' great ark over eye; And, like a man that hath seen and cant forget, I cant recall it now, 'Nay, thus is no more Life, but Death, and I have lived, and known Love, and lost it, and Travel, and the Wind That bends me where conscience can't prevail, And in what other life that endert cares Hath led me over from all these, and Relevance. When María, my young hostess sapped O'er my hot emotionless; When she, me madly pouting, paled, To the excuse my fruit had lost; Her coxcomb snatched the purse, I won't you tell How the replay of that long lost day Doth charge me with a heartache of that hue Which ended my politest dreams of fame. It was Saturday, which meant L Judgment Day. At seven the chaplet went from the wa'; I was all shiver like a crucifix Adoring the fervent thuribles, And the stodgy kisses of the cunninly throng. In short they were quite embarrased, ======================================== SAMPLE 496 ======================================== Witness! on this day, To make thy deadlier feast, From all thy last great offering, Cancel what for smottery now Is spiritual. Who will spend the sun's life for thee, The flowers' and fruit's hours, And when the God who rules the world Has swallowed mortal sin, Who, for thee, his captives, at the last Will draw a large honest heart, divine, Half precious from- A tiny one from thy great white heart, A shapeless shadow from its ray, And pale as if it saw the sunset's turn. Yet, in a few brief years, thou shalt be A glorious giant great as we who know Thy little tasks of love. A tiny one, from thy great white heart, A shapeless shadow from its ray, And pale as if it heard the sunset's tone. Yet thou shalt be a glorious giant great, When, in a few short years, thou'lt be A sunny lord in the heaven of love. And first thy delicate bride from far Will come on this sad tale some day, The gentle lover who can't receive What he asks; and she, on whom thou feedest, Without the ornament of a smile Thou'lt still condemn to be the scorned meekness. God grant them this, whose bitter fruits be false! God bless the mother that has yet her daughter Her worth unheedful and breeding! I sit beside the bed where she sleeps, And, between the dower of her eyes And mine, a book we've brought contains her thought. 'Oh, she will love me, for I am fair!' 'No, she knows that she must know,' she said, 'And that there lies in hope behind an open 'That lay, white lily, over me--I know-- Fear germs of doubtless decay.' Such were her thoughts. I thought of this, and understood, And knew how, for the winter-darkness fallen Faint fires by decay should rust and wane, And that she lives partly by the cycle going. And, therefore, calling my wife by name, I said: 'We've meeting here first things occuluit, Where I get right to the root of what I do. So come you all, my love, before the reading's done?' 'Ah, brother,' she said, 'we're deeply interested.' Then, for a minute, what he had said seemed "missing," I won't spoil the reading, or the girl's eye's charm By telling you what I thought of it. What if I Hadwrangled books for years next to her, I Thought of her hands? A Romanian lady read, And gave us gossip while we had this talk. She thought that many of the persons we had mentioned Knew us little, or not rightly. 'I have a name-brand of Prussia,' she said. ' 'I will seek your picture, and give you back The thing in my hand that now I have in my hand.' She went out, and within five minutes I was Blindly following a white process in slow Down afternoon, as we walked side by side. You saw the sedan-pillared figure in a crimson robe A-sleeking with sinuous motions and with glee Of pink and ruby lip and cheek, and eyes half-rhythm, Half-shadowed, made by the dressing-room-flame. The poet sitting by her left hand like a lover, Quicker than thought an icy arrow as he stirred, A perfume on the air of 'her perfume's blown;' And 'she'--refusing her lips's natural perfume, Blowing smoke of cive high into her parted beard, Unmade his heart its suit like a reimaded suit. He spoke of love that is 'always out of season, Making love when true love's not quite half-born;' She praised the 'sweet new friend' he'd won 'for my account; 'Let no man pine for me, even I'd have cause.' But 'would,' being already 'would-should,' And 'should,' an 'or,' not a 'must-be,' matched their heads. He spoke of 'The Banquet,' and it was 'almost over;' And 'good girl,' 'what banquet,' 'Pretty mad to see The girl's pillowed place so take so small a share,' And 'she'll need much less and less of your good nature.' He spoke of 'The Play,' and she, poor girl, ' ======================================== SAMPLE 497 ======================================== London, by the Morning Star, And to the man who penned, Exquisite stately Torello, To the young and gladsome Moor. And as the days are lengthening And the nights waxing short, Our love should vanish and wane Like flowers and time! No more should the sun and the moon Look from our faces. No more should the nightingale THE YARRING, Lute and Poet. The Young and Graceful. The Lovers of the Spring, The Mothers of the Spring-time, The Makers of Delight, The Sprites of the Spring-time. Man's mechanical ingenuity Yields, as all else used, But form and substance to One God-given being. Nor yet by the simple Gospel of creation, Is form or cause divided; The thunderbolt and the star Are the same tool in the hand Of the God-anointed. And now, as from its keen Eternal vantage, All the shells leap out into the light, As the violent elements, Lifeless and clasp'd in one accord, Obedient to the snap Come forth to their place; The bounding coral, living Pleist seeking his own reasons, Nor knowing his own great status, Contrivedly breaks, to fit our notion, For connecting words or verses; But life enters in each frame, Mingling-like, like water coming in, To break down crinkles' artificial crudo. The turtle's flaps of different hues Into the swift season change are folded, And he cut outstalks from her elements, His five-down thrusts and his head right breadth off, Coats him unconscious in colors, As the ice, in water, turns the iron blue, And his heart is icelandic, in his sense. Hanging out of the rain, By a rug of leaves, She were dainty, yet not unkind, And the larger the window, So that she could view The whole street, or at least The next two streets over, In the light that was beginning To shine through the Shades. Over the floor, in passing, As if she didn't care That it's raining hard, She was piercing and clear With every line she ran. If she thought about the weather, It was only that, or the swell Of the world, or an apt Comrade for the pass: She would have been eager to hie Somewhere for the uncertainty Of her love's disappearance. To her come children, blown With laughter overdraft From the toys that they seek; She has always more to say Than is present everywhere. In a word, she's too young for pain, Too rash to idly spurn: Yet she will no longer be a haunt Of the narrows. She was choice wire for a song Which the bugs were spinning Meant that they might pick and lay New strings to her Lute, when the wood was moist And the strings inclined Sudden to overearn Things she knew before. THE gray mists of the day Are a man's best friend; A light-soaked sheet, a crink Bright air in the bald head, Vowels from over head, At least will do. The brook and the trees Are as near by To the house as one can wish, A muck-grooming goat Is as welcome as a song If the stranger's welcome, And a fire at any hazard Is as relieved as true reason. A new morn tends some Far from the doors of view A petal-white day And a shower as fond of showers As pleased the old urn, Bring a cloud of rain over the trees, A layer from which Rain drops never urn All the tender plants of vernage, And a pleasaunce of guest age For a while. No longer canst thou hear Affection's tones praise him through the loud world of hours, Nor see, but with a sigh, Thou art everhest to and fro, Or like a child. Away with the noise and tramp of neighbours! Our swains, with whom we tramp, Mock the gentle guests we choose. They like us, and of our steps evermore, They evermore and ever greet. Thou evermore, ======================================== SAMPLE 498 ======================================== @? <|endoftext|> "We Shall Have Dropt", by Mary Sidney Herbert We shall have to sleep, unconscious things, in a grave; They will have held what they had not gained, because the way was to have it that way. Unhappy sheep! They had no spear, or club, or power, to have proved the joy of a genial nod. —Shakespeare, "Ode," spoken by the Roman for the Christian Eucharistic prayer I think the bards of those days Great men, individuals! Daring to climb the dusty hust Of presidential parlance. Surely each one had known that without much common trust In his own virtue, and the higher Intuitions of the Soul, they all Would have to pledge "we shall have to do." Unhappy sheep! They who had not caught the "I Love Beauty" breath of the Bard, would have shaken their parcels, and said, "The honor is mine." <|endoftext|> "Night in de Land", by Mary Sidney Herbert [Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Spring, Arts & Sciences, Photography & Film] Now come the sweet half-hour that gives the hour its time. The beaming live-wood, the moonlight rose, In calms of turquoise while the lastolides (Baffles, transparent bibles in glass) Thrive in a sea of thinning air. No form is apparent, even as hops Strike to cancellation on the leas, the spinn'd Amber dark of dim diabetic web We linger on the cliff-edge, we see, In half-downloading shadow half- aided Light, the sullen breast of Heaven, And see the rearing gravity of the storm Slip from its nose like a disk of ink. Unblinking, the deep heart of that discontinuous Colosseum watches with the eye of the soul, Quiet as a hospital. Uncertain, unutterable as a soul, Speech succeeds speech, the audible Whirl of the tangle of life. <|endoftext|> "Song and Love", by Mary Sidney Herbert [Love, Romantic Love, Arts & Sciences, Music, Social Commentaries, Gender] When love in its majestic naivete Dew'd the strings until their changeful melody, Crafts of praise an artless music made the keen And glittering passion audible, while But for inspection mine abode not hand or lips, Which make that art. And once, I love, in a solemn tone To tell the most. But looks I did not pursue. To see a fine brain in motion instead of this, And see if this be all as looks show the great brain. Then like the Emmet fire-brand I fall on the honest lookout, Lately held up to you, the intrinsic value Of which you have no sense, which is not your fault, Nor yet the fault of time. What is time? It cuts my tongue. Its burner may be Iron, the iron bench. The age is Iron. The place of my office is The thin shop. It is a time when the air Is magnet to investigation, the eye Is mere. The Sierras of existence are thin, And in the soul's inquiry, the traces Cautious from the conscious base to climb, A brazen page through the sieve, are men. The soulless ages change, and even thus Are now born into thin air, a new race, Ego time, embodied in the art which I Forgot when I was an aching melody. The age changes its mask, and yet my voice Is like the Ghibellines of yesternight, Or like the Kasabians, from each side, now here, now there, How crushingly slowly. The reasons are sweet, the life Is pithy. I shall be with you all your days. "Do you wonder that I love at all? Loving is not so rare as they make out, The women, the sum of whom I've beheld, The streets I've marched and the long days in the way, The snacks I've begruded, the rings I've pissed from the hand, The sheds I've kept, the alleys I've taken their leaves from, The nest-songs unwanted, the fires at night, The times I've felt time-tumbled, precisely so, With you to ask the question plural if "you're me." What makes you wonder what the mask my ======================================== SAMPLE 499 ======================================== Gateways: A matchless motto By which the astral dame, with presage well tinged, And all the lay princes in Thessaly Have, as they gaze upon the Galaxy's face, Flung back to space their crystal gates of gold, For the quick eye can follow the way of Light, Who mounts unto the Deity, and knows well What toils beneath and above us in the sphere That inclines the steadfast wheel. All times to come Will be as now, or great or little, good or ill; But about this one man and woman it lies Between the borders of the outer dark And time to come or go, it nothing matters now. And so much rests on this one man and woman, Between them almost now, the time must come to decide Whether they shall eat and drink, live and die, Fulfil their hope, or loose their gratitudes And cease to live and make crowd on crowd At such ungood night revel, that would pain Thy blessed soul. And thus one yet whole, The other sick, so wooed and blessed, so eyes Weened to see thee oft. But they shall not see. Alcaeus the fair, Who like a sun light smiled, His for hours of inevitable doom Lives in his sun bed still, For thou hast killed him with his sweet air, But his dear fellow-servant, his horse he had, His chariot's remember'd neatherd, Stood by thee slaying: thou still art killing. The stars hid in thickest clouds Looks down and sees the deadly moan, The form of Alcaeus gliding by On intimate wind Names - And little cries of 'twas or no, The heart re-edifies; and through Free access to the wondrous Margus Swells up and blows afire, Weighing a simple wish, Amidst the flowers and roots Ascending, and inflamed with fire, With yellowing violet and rose; The tree astray casts its shadows dim, And still they distance thee, Luminous and illusive; The stars' honeyed honey strays Debating how life should experience thee, And all the drama of dawn Thy red rug still inur'd Should I be that would outlast The sunset, ever departing? Green for thee the blossoms swim, The stream in rills is slakin' With deep entirin', The sun has crudely feelen, And forlorn with clumen of the night Cloudde head a-dip. 'Twould I disconnect and ease From all the foul of this world; The shell-fragile, bored instant fate - Being all alive, That all must crumble; It halts, It in a blizzard In agonies settles. 'Twas ever thus I brood, Of earth a curse; I wanted not a hurried death But wanted thee to waken. I thought, if I durst not rave My hands or tongue would tell What wert Thou - ails or but behin'. The morn was young and awake When first the rosy eyes Peeped in the sleeper's eye, And if the freshets do freeze Ooms early to the broople Are sure to make them sleep again. The morn was young and pale; When one agrin the neighbors Looked out and saw her dead, And grew apale, for day was night; It was an elixir how Late is now! Hers we salute, But the watch that lays it down And sticks it in the grave It did not dare to tear One tryter-up for just that. Yet should it times encounter With angered levin Cast his fierce heart o'er the rim Of sea and timber span And leave but ballast water - We would say 'twas just; To him what matter? He did but take His selum off, and his Balladshay. Should a fierce storm but seize the winds And winter hold his reign And ye for fence and yonder With cruelly winged Mike Set lace redhewal, We would rev call it day * And make yer thre quick; But yet so bloodly hold By lands of people here, That should we dash and strut We feel we'd rather die. We love this shore, this river, This bank and that side; The catching salmon too of pleasure About the ton, about ======================================== SAMPLE 500 ======================================== In pain dear. But never, never can that name be, That length of day (Full three times) Leave on my mind room For thoughts Of the things that are dead, And old-time chieftains of the olden time, Tall folks that smiled and staid And just kept on along Till, stouter than that which I have made Fitting out of laurel and laurel pale, And plaidollen-rose And strook-rose. But the life for which they labour here, That labour, and the reward Of their toil is marble-gloom crown on gloom: A crown of glory crowns a doom that has no glow: And the laurel they twine Is creep-green from the creep-wood, And its scent is like the one they've taken Where they are wandering And loitering in darkness: The old green leas wooden leas, And a bit of lime-tree Tombs and homes, The whippoorwills raving Whippoorvey holly And hill-scent branches From sark-suick And the sark-sun shades The sark-sounds Blows from the sark-suick white And from the whippoorwills The whippoorwills Howling And chanting In the arms of the night sky (Wind-sweep), There is no seeing The fallen kings there is no seeing The wound-wakes (sword-pick), And sleep (wind), And hearts enchilling (hair). O never mind The fallen kings (night and dews), O never mind The wound-wakes (sword-sword-blade), O never mind The fallen kings (sword-pick), O never mind The blood-red summer (summer), The fallen kings are here, And the grass-hut of the fallen kings Is littering, littering, On the dreamy sabbath (proverbs). And the skin-chill (skin) From the spirits of the dead Traveling, crawling The sabbath is over, And the dreamy sabbath Underneath the sabbath Lights and shines With longing: Now, now All over the earth The wan light of promises Falls from heaven, from the arching of the lips And the minds of men And it grieves On brows And it grips The brows Of men and it grips The brows And the eyes grow hollow, And the whiny heads (heads) of women With haggard skins And it grips And it grows and it grows Underneath The sward And the frowning And the cold Is heavy, and the friendship that was So co-partnered (made), Is gone to another (another) place With the promise (promise), With the deepest and most steadfast color Of all this (this), Is the deepest and the most steadfast And the most color, Is the biggest and the most color Of all this (this), Is the likeness of Eros and Octodon ("O-ro-do-ron") Who turned into a form (form) Ere they could say, "Can we," Of the lion and the Fawn (the) and the mane (the) of the wolf And ox (the) And shade (the) beast that you can call, "You can call," And the flood (the) of the flood (the) of the gush and the deluge (the) of the flood of the whole (the) flood Of the living (the) flood, Is larger and larger and larger And whiter and whiter and larger And angrier and eldritch and eldererere (the) Than the flood of the ocean (the) of the (thousand) floods of the (thousands) of the (thousands) of the whole world (whoso) can call, "You can call," But I call, and my call is I and I only, and I am the one called, and I call and I call, and And they said, "How who knows but Love And Eros and His base observatories Wherewith Love woos her by all means that he can use To journey up to her with varied and rich Lures, and assails as easily as the brute beetle, Till she is intoxicate and solanced and caught And then